AN: Sorry I can't update everyday guys. People are telling me to update but I didn't expect people to actually read the story. But you did. And thank you so much. This chapters'really short, sorry.
The bell finally rang, and Dean threw his backpack over his shoulder, and went off to Art. Dean had no idea why he took Art; he wasn't an artsy kind of guy. He guessed that it would be an easy A. After all, teachers don't give students Fs on artwork, it'd be a pretty dick move to go up to some kid and tell them that their painting wasn't as good as the kid's next to them. But then again, Dean didn't even need an A, or even a C. His grades didn't matter to his 'parent', they didn't matter to him, and he sure as hell wasn't trying to get into Harvard. Dean walked through the hallway, craning his neck to see if Sam had a class in this area.
He reached room 103 without any sight of his brother, and begrudgingly opened the door. Again, Dean sat in the back. Looking around, he could easily tell why each of the people in the room were there. A few guys looked like they were there for them same reason as Dean, and needed to up their grades to stay in sports. Then there were the snazzier gentlemen, who were clearly there for the ladies. Some loners, who looked like they were actually there for the art, but would paint everything in grayscale. There was the teacher, standing up front in an ugly sweater, even though it was way past Christmas, who was there because she needed the minimum-wage job of teaching the future generations the difference between red and blue. And then there was the girl who plopped down in the seat next to Dean, with a melt-your-eyeballs smile and a 48-pack of colored pencils. She looked talkative. He didn't do talkative. Dean would have preferred to sit alone, but if anyone sat down next to him, he was hoping for a pretty, quiet girl, with big boobs. But instead, he got this pretty girl, with average boobs, who turned to him and said;
"Hi, new partner, my name is Joanna Beth Harvelle, but you can call me Jo! Not like, J-O-E, just J-O. What's your name?"
Damn. She expected him to respond. Dean wasn't sure what to do. Should he just turn his back like he would usually do? Or should he try to make friend in the hopes that John wouldn't make them wouldn't pack up and leave within the next week. His eyes swept across the classroom, glancing at all the other humans that he wanted nothing to do with. He looked back at Jo, who was staring at him, patiently waiting for an answer. She seemed like the lesser evil.
"Dean. My name is Dean." It felt so weird to say that to another person, with the expectation of forming a bond. Dean had never made many acquaintances.
"Cool, like James Dean. Cool."
Jo finished unpacking her bag as the teacher went up to the board. She introduced herself as Mrs. Madden. Then she turned around. The arm of her ugly sweater reached up, dry erase marker in hand, and pressed the tip to the whiteboard. She then walked across to the other side of the board, dragging the pen against the surface until she reached the other side. Mrs. Madden turned around, capped the pen, and looked at the class expectantly.
"Can anyone tell me what this is?"
Some kid raised her hand. "A line?"
"No."
"A really long dot?"
"No."
"A point moving through space?"
"No."
Nobody had an answer. So they just sat there. Jo pulled out her notebook and began to doodle. Dean fell asleep. He was jolted awake when the bell rang. As students began to stand up, Mrs. Madden stopped them.
"The bell doesn't dismiss you. Can anyone tell me what I drew on the board?"
No one even tried.
Mrs. Madden sighed. "I drew potential. This line has potential. Just like every single one of you."
Dean almost groaned aloud as he stalked out of the room. You get a real good sense of the teachers on the first day.
His third period was right across the hall, so Dean decided to stay outside for a minute. Being the first to walk into a classroom draws attention to you. Dean blends, Sam blends, no inquiries into their lives are made.
After a few kids file in, Dean ducks through the door and takes a seat in the middle of the his calculus class, leaning back in his chair and waiting for the next bell to ring. One by one, teens tediously make their way through the door and to a seat.
As the bell rings, a 60-something year old balding man slowly makes his way to the front of the classroom. His checkered bowtie makes him look like a genius, albeit one that seems as though he could have a heart attack at any minute, and Deans' wondering where his life could have gone so wrong as to end up teaching advanced mathematics to indifferent delinquents. The teacher (Mr. Arnold) begins to talk, but Dean finds that he has the voice of a walrus; deep and droning, the thing that puts you to sleep in a minute. So Dean instead focuses on leaning as far back into his chair as he can without cracking his head open, testing the very limits of society.
10 minutes into the lecture Mr. Arnold was explaining why hand-held calculators were the work of the devil. Suddenly the door slams open and a boy runs in. This snaps Dean out of his daydream as he falls to the floor, his chair tipping over. The boy shuts the door behind him and speed-walks to the back of the room, choosing an empty seat. Dean gets up and glances at Mr. Arnold, who's holding the edge of his desk like he's about to keel over.