I snap the cap off my pen and, as quick as I can, snap it back. My focus is maintaining an even rhythm, so I ignore my English teacher as he tells us his life story, something about Princeton and accounting and finding his dream in teacher.
My pencil bag is lying within my desk, the pen tips just peeking out. I tilt my head, my nose making a soft “hm” sound, in realization and rebellion. It’s time for a change.
You’re so uptight, you know that right?
God, you never have fun.
Why are you such a goody two-shoes?
I look up at my teacher to make sure he doesn’t see me, and then around the class. Most people are staring into space and fidgeting, while the rest are either texting each other. No one’s actually paying attention.
I read what everyone else had written inside my desk. It’s an old desk, with one leg just a bit shorter than the others, and a crack running along the surface. Scissors have scratched the surface, crayons colored random squares and triangles, and pens writing the typical messages: “Hi!” or “I’m bored.”
Not daring to breathe, I pull out my Sharpie, and quickly brush three lines together to form the letter “K.” I look around the class to see if anyone’s staring at me, but no one is. I date it “May ’10” and cap the Sharpie again. My writing is simple and boring, the letters fitting in with the dozens of other initials and dates. But still I giggle to myself.