"Good work, Beckalynn. Another exemplary performance! I know many students who would benefit from your example."
I gave Mr. Keira a curt nod of acknowledgement, eyes drifting dismissively from his. The crisp, neat folds of paper shifted uneasily in my hands, despite the clear one-hundred percent marked at the top in red ink. The teacher appeared not to have noticed my lack of expression at his words, smiling before moving on to the next row of students sitting anxiously at the edge of their seats. I knew from seven months of experience that my fellow classmates were not the most devoted of scholars, nor did they particularly seem to care about their grades - with the exception of a nervous tension as the scores were distributed - so I was not surprised to hear numerous grunts and dejected sighs as Mr. Keira calmly strode back to his desk with a disapproving glance around the room, stopping, of course, with me and the few others who did relatively well.
I slid the history exam into my backpack, obscuring the scored numbers from any unwanted scrutiny. It wasn't that I was ashamed of my accomplishment - I didn't think anything about it, really - I had just learned that leaving a well-earned score out for everyone to see earned some scorn on my part, which would only worsen my standing in high-school's pecking order. If I didn't gloat or provoke anyone people tended to leave me alone. Which, considering that I was plagued with social awkwardness and had no desire to initiate a conversation, was for the best.
I absentmindedly leafed through the bright-colored textbook, frowning thoughtfully at the enlarged images and senseless highlights. I knew that the attempts to make the book look more 'friendly' was certainly just to hack the prices higher for something that certainly contained significantly less information, though that didn't pacify my leaking restlessness as I skimmed over the text. But as I stared distastefully at a uselessly large picture of the painting of Abraham Lincoln, my boredom longed for real books - the ones with leather-bound covers, stained yellow pages, and uneven, fading words. As the daughter of a historian, they had been parting their knowledge to me since I was old enough to listen, so much that it felt odd reading something so fleetingly covered. Shrugging despondently, my index finger traced along a picture of The Great Library of Alexandria, with a few notes and bolded points adorning the edge of the page. Skimming to the corner of the portrait, I stopped at the curving letters written in my elaborate red ink. Libraries are like classrooms, with teachers willing to share and students who only need to listen, scrawled my writing. My father had told me that, long ago, when he first led me into his study, my tiny face scrunched up in awe at the room lined the to the wall with scrolls and decaying parchment. My father's library was littered with old editions and half-finished documentaries, dust bunnies, and the lingering smell of old candle wax, leaving the haunted dimly-lit feel of an old room, but I had spent so many years there that the ever-present ghosts of the past, whispering to me through the yellowed, forgotten pages, brought a comforting contentment to me. After all, every teacher only wants a willing student, just as every book longs for an eager ear.
I sighed, taking a piece of notebook paper and absently sketching a battle that my father and I had reviewed the night before. It was a hypothetical situation, one which he mapped out as a game of sorts. An old war hero, as he liked to call himself, my father enjoyed teaching me about his glory days - and the not so glorious ones, whom he informed me were much more important. Telling me the number of soldiers, allies, degree of weaponry for each side, and the layout of the battlefield, he left it to me to choose the best course of action. I bit tentatively at my lip. Side Blue, the nation I was told to win for, had significantly less soldiers and weapons, carrying only a small amount more provisions than that of Side Red. That made me frown, but my father always said that the soldiers only mean as much as the tactician that leads them - just because of my father's unfair advantages were in place in order to challenge me, didn't mean I was out of the game. I knew that there was only so much one could do not knowing what his opponent would be doing, so I carefully thought out what I knew about my father, who would be responding to either my retreat or ambush later that day. He knew I was more of an offensive player – impulsive habits, more so than others, die hard – and would be more inclined to invade with half of my troops to destroy supplies and take captives than retreat, which would only be prolonging the battle, as I had complained to him one day. But...In a steep, sloping ravine covered in towering rocks, it wouldn't have been difficult to hide an army, especially one of only one-hundred and fifty. Maybe it would be time to change tactics. Eagerly, I scribbled my orders on the scratch-lined paper, informing myself that I was to draw my forces into the defensive that night.
Placing the reminder into the plain red folder labeled 'Math', I glanced at the clock and saw, a little disappointingly, that only ten minutes had passed. Shrugging inwardly, I discreetly put away my things and pretended to read my History textbook while drawing stick-figures on the pages. My good grades in this class were probably due more to the guilt of a love for reading the subject than for attention span – considering that my math grade was pathetic, along with about every other class. It's not that I was stupid when it came to Chemistry, or that I was one of those people who had difficulties learning foreign languages - it just wasn't interesting. Too troublesome. Why bother putting effort into something you're not going to use later? From the first time I had been taught about the wars of the worlds, the motives and mistakes of a nation, I saw my future in my father's old, wooden desk, writing out essays and documenting legends. Going to school was only a temporary occupation.
As muffled whispers and spitballs flew about the room, I drifted to sleep on top of my makeshift pillow, ignorant of the drastic turn my life would soon take – for the better, or for the worse.