"Mr. Morningstar?"
It was a Thursday. Sam wasn't even supposed to be in this building today.
But here he was, knocking on the door of his mythology professor's classroom. On a Thursday.
To Sam, Thursday's were usually his me-day. His free days. The days he slept until noon and then went to his obscure 2 pm creative writing class. And that was it.
But here he was. It was barely 9 am, and he was fucking walking into this room with God-knows what intentions.
What were they again?
Oh, right.
He'd spent most of his night prior thinking about, and reading over each note; not doing homework or anything like that. No, he was simply reading over each and every word, desperately trying to find hints or riddles or something.
Anything.
Finally. Fucking finally. He'd stumbled upon something of use. In the last note, she'd said:
'It's not like you ever notice me during class. Even if you did...It wouldn't be good for either of us, Sam.'
He never noticed her in class.
It wouldn't be good for either of them.
Sam read the line's over and over again, trying to figure out who the hell this could be.
And then it all dawned on him.
Becky Edlund.
She was that girl in class that everyone was scared of. She was this crazy smart girl, completely and utterly insane, complete with weird obsessions and college level high school courses. She'd skipped freshman through junior year, so she was only sixteen.
That would explain why it wouldn't be good for either of them.
...And for the other part...he really hadn't noticed her much in class. She was always there, sure, but that didn't change the fact that everyone really just kind of ignored her.
She was just kind of...there. Sure she was a nerdy girl...But Sam had absolutely no interest in her. He couldn't say that she didn't fit the bill.
And he hated it.
So, here he was. Standing in the doorway to this classroom.
"Sam?" Mr. Morningstar looked up, eyes widening just the faintest bit. He looked surprised to see him.
Sam surprised himself by being here. "Yeah, hey. Uh. Look, I know I'm not supposed to be here right now and I don't even have class today, but I need to talk to you." Sam explained, walking into the room and over to his professor's desk, leaning over it slightly. He balanced on his palms, biting down on his lower lip as his eyes scanned over his teacher.
He was middle aged...probably. He had one of those looks where he could be twenty-five or forty-seven. It was frustrating to say the least. He had short-ish blond hair, bright...really bright blue eyes, a strong jaw, and just the faintest bit of coarse stubble littering his cheeks. Sam could appreciate the little skin tag he had below his left eye.
Not that Sam found him attractive or anything.
Mr. M was quiet for a few moments, but eventually nodded. "What is it?" He asked, sounding a little...nervous? Apprehensive, maybe. Concerned. Something like that.
"I need to drop this class."
"What?" Mr. M's blue eye's flickered upwards, looking up through his lashes. He looked worried.
"Yeah...I have to drop this course. It's not your teaching or anything like that." Sam explained, not wanting him to think that.
"Why?" His teacher may have said that a little too quickly.
"Uh...Is it really that big of a deal? A bunch of other people dropped it."
"Sam," Mr. M looked down, took off his glasses and sighed. "Do you realize what potential you have? You really seemed to be enjoying this class. I just don't understand why you want to quit."
Sam was quiet for a while, thinking. "It's not important...I, uh, I'm not...getting along...with one of my classmates. It's nothing."
Mr. M looked...relieved. His shoulders fell, seeming to relax.
"Who?" He'd asked, leaning forward a bit. He looked amused.
"No one."
Bitch face ensued.
"I really don't wanna name any names…"
Continued, exaggerated bitch face ensued. So, Sam finally gave in.
"Becky Edlund."
Mr. M snorted.
"Really? What'd Ms. Edlund do this time? Oh, let me guess. Did she show you her band-aid collection? Oh, no no no. I know. She has a scrapbook filled with pictures of you, doesn't she?"
Sam was slightly taken aback by this. He'd never seen Mr. M act this way before, and he'd been taking his class for a while now. He never joked like this, was never anything but a serious asshole.
Sam discovered that he liked to see Mr. M smile.
And laugh.
"Yeah...Uhm. No. Nothing like that...I'd just rather not talk about it." He rubbed the back of his neck nervously, feeling himself start to blush.
His teacher rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair. "Whelp, I can't let you drop this class. You've got too much potential, Sammy. And, hey. You're the reason I'm still teaching this course, you know? You actually do your work. Which is strange, considering you never pay attention to me during class."
Sam was silent, just staring down at Mr. M for a few long moments.
"I…"
The professor's expression completely turned, now looking a little horrified.
Just a little bit.
Before Sam could speak, he saw students beginning to funnel into the classroom.
He bolted out as quickly as he could, never looking back.
Not even when Mr. M called his name.
The way he scampered out of the building reminded several students of a wounded giraffe.
He made it back to his dorm in record time, slamming the door and quickly pulling out the shoebox underneath his bed, reading over every single goddamn one of the notes.
No.
No.
This...This couldn't be happening. It wasn't…
No.
Sam slept it off. Slept...Slept is a very obtuse word. It was more of just laying in his dorm, staring up at the ceiling. He thought up every possible reason why it couldn't be...him.
Morning came too soon.
He managed to not think about it for a good twenty seconds.
He'd skipped his creative writing class yesterday due to too-good-cursive induced trauma.
He'd probably be skipping his two classes today.
He most certainly did.
The weekend came easily, filled with horrible...gay...thoughts about…
Sam couldn't bring himself to finish the thought.
He didn't go to mythology on Monday.
Tuesday came.
He went to his history class.
Sam was scared.
Wednesday was next.
Sam went to class.
Mr. M didn't.