A/N: Sorry. It's short and it's been a long time. I'll try to have more out soon. Thanks to everyone who reads. Extra thanks to everyone who reviews. :Hugs:
The sun scintillated through the dingy windows of the school the very next day. Marty Normick had not yet been dead 24 hours, and for the most part, the teachers rambled on about school as usual. Anyone who wanted to see the guidance counselor was more than welcome to jump out of their seat at any time, but nobody really did. What do guidance counselors know anyway?
Tom Hanson scribbled his name (Tommy) on his desk. Ran his pencil over it several times, darkening the letters, but it still wasn't enough, so he took out his pocket knife and etched them in. They wouldn't forget Tommy McQuaid at this school, for Tommy McQuaid would forever be immortalized in this desk.
"Mr. McQuaid?" Mrs. Darkbloom was stiff and rigid in her movements, stalking over to her student's desk, her face pinched, her mouth turned downwards in a disapproving frown. Tommy didn't look up. Where Tom would drop the knife immediately, Tommy wouldn't even hear the words fall from the old hag's mouth. "Mr. McQuaid!" Mrs. Darkbloom snapped this time, and half of the class woke up, sitting straight and still in their seats. Tom's toes curled and popped, Tommy's hand continued to move, and their eyes, undeterred, remained on their art. "Oh, for heaven's sake."
Sometimes, it was really hard being two people.
"Tommy McQuaid!" came her final bellow and Tommy finally acknowledged her, bringing the knife to a slow halt, cautiously shutting and pocketing it, and raising his eyes with the kind of unobliging patience only a delinquent could have.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"Yes," Mrs. Darkbloom corrected, her eyes narrowed, her arms crossed.
Tommy thought for a moment, gave the slightest of slight nods, and repeated, "Yeah."
"The appropriate word is yes, Mr. McQuaid," the exasperated teacher sighed. "Give me the weapon."
"'S not a weapon," Tommy replied, leaning back in his chair. He propped his feet casually on the desk, much to the distaste of the already infuriated instructor. "It's a knife."
"A knife is a weapon, Mr. McQuaid."
"Only if you use it as a weapon. Otherwise it's a tool." Tommy pulled out a stick of gum. It was easier to look and act tough with something rolling around in his mouth.
"No gum in my classroom, Mr. McQuaid. I'll be confiscating that along with your tool."
Tommy snorted. "Mrs. D., I'm flattered. But you're all the way on the other side of the hill."
Uproarious laughter ensued; giggles, chuckles, hearty belly laughs. The sound of students getting a one up on a teacher. Mrs. Darkbloom tried her best to shush them, threatening hours upon hours of detention and Saturday school, her attention taken off of the problem long enough for him to shove the gum in his mouth.
"Spit it out!" she commanded, whirling around. But Tommy just grinned. "How did you even get in this class?"
"I'm a genius," Tommy said matter-of-factly. "That don't mean I'm well-behaved."
"Doesn't!"
Tommy blinked, cocked his head to the side, studied the red-faced woman for moment. "Yeah, like I said. It don't."
At first he was confused. It didn't feel like there was an earthquake, but her entire body was shaking, from her feet to her head and everything in between. She looked as if she were about to explode and this caused the right side of his mouth to rise in a smirk - The Fury of Mrs. Darkbloom. It would be Tommy McQuaid's debut novel. They never thought a delinquent could write a book until he came along.
"Get out of my class." Her voice was low and firm, and Tom Hanson thought for a moment before slowly rising to his feet. Tommy McQuaid thought for a moment before jamming the knife into the desk with a cheeky grin.
"Get out of my class," Tommy mocked, his voice high-pitched, and his head fell to the side of his neck, slack, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Just for a moment, before he straightened, and with a smile, said, "Yeah, yeah, I'm a goin', Mrs. D."
It was more of a strut than a walk as Tommy McQuaid exited the room, slamming the door behind him, gum still in his mouth.
The class was silent for a moment.
"He smoke drugs," Brian Battersby said, his voice tinged with disgust. He shoved his glasses back onto his face with his index finger, shifted in his seat. "How is he in advanced English?"
"He smoke drugs? How are you in advanced English?" Cassandra Epstein spat. Marty Normick had been dead for almost a day. She had eaten lunch alone yesterday.
It only got worse from here.