One.
He'd never been to high school. He'd only been to high school on TV. And the fact that the buildings on a real campus weren't just false fronts, and there was no director and no cameramen behind him, and the students streaming past weren't extras, had him a bit nervous. Except that "a bit" was an understatement.
Kristoff Ivanovitch, better known as Chris Ivers, and even better known as Dutchy, the character he'd played for the past six years, took a deep breath and stared with trepidation at the main school building. Okay, he told himself. You're an actor. Pretend you know what you're doing.
He paused to straighten up and to adjust the weight of the bag on his shoulders, but was abruptly jostled from behind. He started to react, then stopped; instead of him telling the jostler to watch where he was going, the kid barely paused as he streamed past to yell, "What the hell you stopping in the middle of the sidewalk for?!"
Well, that was a slap in the face. He wasn't used to be brushed off like that. But then, he reminded himself, he also wasn't used to being in real life. He started walking again and thought to himself, Enter, downstage center. Our hero looks confident in his new surrounding. He will walk in, and meet his new best friend. There will be wacky hijinks., it will be settled by the end of the episode.
If only. He walked into the school, and was faced with an open lobby, a cafeteria off to one side, a staircase, several hallways, and a great, teeming mass of high school students. He was supposed to go to the main office, wherever that was, but there was nothing helpful to direct him towards it. Well, aside from the students. He had almost worked up the courage to ask someone where the main office was when a bell sounded, and the chaos became even more chaotic, and no one nearby was moving slowly enough for him to approach. He stared in dismay, and demanded of himself, Where the hell is this stage-fright coming from? And with that in mind, stepped into the traffic and caught the nearest person's arm.
"Um, excuse me?"
Well, that didn't sound as confident as he'd hoped.
"...Yeah?" The person sounded distinctly annoyed. He was about the same height as Chris, with intensely blue eyes and an ugly blue sweatshirt.
"Um, where's the main—" he started, but the second bell rang and the kid wandered off, late for class. Chris sighed in frustration, tossed his head to get his hair out of his eyes, and approached one of the other students, who seemed less concerned about being on time to class. He reminded himself that there was no reason for him to be nervous; people got nervous meeting him. Not the other way around.
Except that this wasn't a set. This was a real school. Where no one cared who he was. His mind tossed that idea right out, of course someone would care. He'd been a star for the last six years. It had only been a month since the last episode of his show had aired. So he told himself that he really shouldn't be nervous, there was no reason for him to be nervous to talk to normal people, so he said with a little more confidence, "Excuse me?"
"What?" the kid asked, turning around to see who was bothering him.
"I was wondering if you could tell me where the—"
"Hey!" the kid interrupted. "You're... That guy, right?"
Chris straightened up a little. "Chris Ivers," he said, offering his hand. "I was on Game On for awhile."
"Oh, yeah." The kid nodded. "I watched that when I was, like, ten."
He didn't actually wince. Well, he might have. That wasn't exactly the reaction he'd been hoping for. "Oh," he managed to say.
"Yeah, whatever happened to you?"
"I stayed on the show." He was no longer thrilled to be in the conversation, and was looking for a way to escape now.
"Uh, whatever happened to the show?"
Chris scowled. "It was canceled."
"Oh, that sucks. When?"
"Um. Last month."
"Oh." The kid paused, then started laughing, and actually pointing. It was like something out of one of the sketches Chris used to perform in. "You mean you were still on...?"
"Yes."
The kid just dissolved into laughter, muttered something about "dork!" and walked away, still amused.
That had definitely not been a heartening experience. And he still didn't know where the office was. He didn't like feeling out of place like this, he didn't like feeling unsure, and he really didn't like being surrounded by people who didn't recognize him. That was the toughest part to deal with.
It was almost hard to believe that seven years ago, he'd been totally unknown. Then had come the fateful audition, his three years as America's Darling on Game On!, a critically acclaimed children's variety show, and then three years as... well, a slightly older version of America's Darling, one who'd gone through puberty but wasn't quite old enough to be a real heart throb yet. And just as he should have been entering genuine teen idol territory, the show had been canceled.
Just like that. Word came down from the network that the last two seasons had been weak (largely, he knew, because he was the only original cast member left and he just couldn't carry the show alone, he wasn't that talented) and the format just wasn't popular anymore. The mood of the country swung back towards plain sitcoms and while he could probably have landed a part in one, he wanted to sing. Well, and dance, but dancing had never been his strong point. Singing was his true passion, followed by acting, and he really wasn't sure he was a good enough straight actor to get a part without the singing.
And besides, his timing was rotten. If he'd left the show to look for something bigger, he'd have been fine; but no. The show was canceled, and as he really had been the one holding it up, he looked pathetic for clinging to the sinking ship. And so, with cancellation, here he was. In a normal high school, as a normal student.
He really, really wasn't sure he could deal with that.
Chris was snapped from his reverie by a brusque voice saying, "Hall pass, please?" He looked around, suddenly realizing that while he had been staring at nothing, lost in thought, the rest of the students in the hall had sauntered off, either to class, or at least to someplace where they wouldn't get caught. And now the hall monitor—always heartless and evil in sketches, all Chris was familiar with—was standing next to him, holding out a hand for the expected pass.
"Uh," Chris said. "I don't have one—that is—it's my first day, and they said to go to the office but I haven't been able to find it."
"Well, you should have asked someone," the hall monitor answered curtly.
Chris nodded weakly. That was like some sort of awful punchline. "Sorry," he mumbled unconvincingly.
"That way," the hall monitor said, and pointed farther down the hall. "First right, can't miss it."
He nodded, and made his escape in the direction the hall monitor had pointed, and the monitor left to harass someone else. But true to his word, the office was large, and labeled, and impossible to miss. He paused to collect himself, threw on his best charming smile, shifted his bag to his other shoulder, and sauntered into the office confidently.
The office was spacious, with a large curved island-style desk that was home to several secretaries, and doors to offices opening off from the three other walls. A line of chairs sat against the wall he'd just come in through, with a few nervous looking students sitting in them—people who were either late, or already in trouble, he reasoned. Only one of them looked calm, almost to the point of boredom, and something about him seemed oddly familiar.
Chris didn't pay much attention, though. He walked to the nearest secretary, a frumpy middle aged woman with short, permed hair, and draped his arm on the desk and leaned forward a little. "Excuse me," he said cheerfully. "I'm new here, and I'm afraid I'm late to class, but I'm not quite sure where to go."
She looked up from the computer she'd been fiddling at, annoyed, then her expression changed abruptly. She smiled back. "Well, well, well," she half-giggled. "You're Chris Ivers, aren't you? I used to watch your show with my daughter every week, we just love you."
That was the kind of reaction he was used to, and this was familiar ground. He smiled back. "Thank you, Mrs.," he paused to glance at the name plate on her desk, "Jenkins. That means a lot to me, the show would never have worked without our amazing fans."
There was a vaguely disgusted noise from one of the students in the back, which Chris ignored. Mrs. Jenkins actually blushed a little.
"Well," she said again. "We're just happy you chose our school, Chris." She laughed. "Now, let's get your schedule worked out, shall we?"
"That would be great."
Same disgusted noise from the back. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw the same student he'd noticed before roll his eyes, then turned back to the secretary, who flipped through a few folders on her desk, and finally pulled out a sheath of papers and laid them on the counter. "Now, it looks like you've been placed in basic algebra and biology, right?"
"Yeah," he answered. He hated math and science. He also hated that he'd placed so low in his entrance testing, because he should have been at least a sophomore, and instead was only a freshman. Being older than everyone else in his class, he was certain, wouldn't help make his life any easier. He was already, by default, far more mature from his years of experience.
"And you've got freshman English and US history; for electives we're looking at Advanced Theater and Chorus, of course." She smiled at him.
"Naturally." He shrugged with what was, obviously, very false modesty.
"Well, usually freshmen can't get into Advanced Theater, but of course they'd have made an exception for someone so experienced." He started to respond to that, but she continued, "And here's your locker and homeroom assignments, and a map of campus to help you get around. Though I'm sure anyone would be happy to help you out."
"Of course, uh, thanks."
"But for today, we've got you a bit of a tour guide. Oh, this is too cute, Richard?" she called.
At the back of the room, the previously disgusted student got to his feet. He was a few years older and a bit taller than Chris, with curly brown hair and glasses. Chris studied him for a second, wondering why he'd looked familiar, and it clicked just as Mrs. Jenkins was about to introduce them.
"Chris, this is—"
"Richard Greensmith, right?" he interrupted.
Richard nodded. "Welcome back to real life," he answered flatly.
"Now, Richard," Mrs. Jenkins scolded. "Richard has very kindly agreed to give you a tour of the campus this morning. We asked him specially—we thought you two might get along well."
"I'm sure we will," Chris replied easily, ignoring the fact that Richard looked like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Chris shot another curious look at his guide; he hadn't seen Rich in five years.
Rich's show had been cancelled almost five years ago.
"Now, why don't you two scoot; Chris, you can stop by later if you have any questions," Mrs. Jenkins finished.
"Thanks, Mrs. J," he said cheerfully. Richard rolled his eyes again and led the way out of the office.
They stepped back into the hallway, letting the door close behind them, and Rich stopped abruptly enough that Chris nearly walked into him. "Look," Rich said as they started walking again, without turning around to address his companion, "let's make this as short and painless as possible. I don't want to reminisce. I don't talk about fame. You shouldn't either, because you'll get your ass kicked. And after we're done here, don't talk to me. Okay?"
Chris stopped walking again, and stared as Richard kept going, then hurried to catch up. "What?" he asked.
"You heard me."
"Oooh, aren't we bitter about early cancellation?" Chris asked snidely.
"You say that like you weren't yanked off the air for sucking."
"Lasted longer than you did."
"Because your show stole our best writers and our choreographer, and I said I don't want to talk about it."
"Stole? They begged to get off the sinking ship."
Richard stopped walking, turned around and glared. "Seriously, you're gonna get your ass kicked. But it can either be by me or by someone else, so just shut the hell up."
"What is your problem?" Chris demanded.
"You!" Richard answered.
"You don't even know me!"
"Yes, I do. Because you're me, five years ago, except more obnoxious and blond."
"Hey—"
"Let me guess; no idea how the hell to talk to normal people, desperate for
attention, and fucking arrogant."
"I am not—"
"Yes you are."
Chris made a face at Richard's back. He was right, but on the other hand, Chris felt that there was a fine line between being proud of his truly extraordinary accomplishments and being egotistical. But, he supposed, it was possible someone who didn't know him would assume he was just full of himself.
"But—" he objected.
"Just shut up."
"Look, if I go back to the office, they can ask someone else to help me—"
"No. You can't." He slowed down for a second and sighed a little. "Look, it's like this. We're both former child stars, right?"
"I am not a former—"
"Shut up. For now just assume your career is over for a few months while you're in high school, and god knows mine is. But there are people who actually remember me, and a lot of people know who you are, and the school newspaper is desperate for shots of us together. And so are all the local stations. And I spent the last five years trying to get people to leave me alone, and I don't exactly appreciate you being here, let alone having to do this."
"So why'd you agree, then?"
"Because it would have been rude not to. And since I don't want any stories about being a bitter, careerless hack, I can't afford to be rude to you."
"You're being rude now," Chris half-sulked.
"Yes, but that's different, it's between you and me and not in the public. But in the public, I've still got to smile and nod and act like I love everyone. And by the way, so do you, which will suck when you look really snotty to everyone else at school, which is why you're gonna get your ass kicked."
"...what?"
"Oh, look. The library," Rich said off handedly, and pointed.
"Thanks. What did you just say?"
"Just try not to attract attention to yourself, and try not to talk about your show, and for God's sake, don't... Don't act like you did in the office."
"What was wrong with the way I acted in the office?"
"You simpered. And acted like a celebrity. Which really will just piss off everyone you meet who isn't a forty-something mother, or an eight year old girl, and you'll be back to getting your ass kicked."
"What is this fixation you have with me getting my ass kicked?" Chris demanded.
"You'll have the fixation too, if you don't learn to blend in," Richard answered. "Mostly you'll have it from hiding in the library until two hours after school ends and everyone who wants to beat you to a bloody pulp is either busy smoking up or in a practice somewhere."
"I really don't think I'm in that much danger, thanks."
Richard smirked. "Your funeral." He nodded up at the stair case they were approaching. "The English classes are all on the top floor, freshmen English is the third or fourth door down."
"Uh, thanks."
"C'mon, history is in the other wing of the building." He turned a corner instead of taking the stairs and Chris followed, still confused, but able to tell that Richard was just plain done with talking about... Everything that wasn't part of the tour.
......
Chris was in the back of the cafeteria, poking at the lump of something that vaguely resembled food, very much alone. His shoulders were slumped in defeat; he hadn't felt this dejected since... Ever. His will had been worn down already, and it was only lunchtime.
The first period and a half had been the tour with Rich, which hadn't been so bad, though not uplifting. His second period class was math, and he'd missed the first half of class and was utterly lost. The strange looks he got from his classmates didn't help; some of them seemed to recognize him, but no one approached him. He was the new kid, after all. No one bothered with the new kid.
He was used to having an almost one on one tutoring session instead of a normal class; he'd been the youngest (and then, as the original cast members left, the oldest) kid around, and as a result was literally in a class by himself. It wasn't that he was stupid, just that he didn't grasp math quickly, and the teacher was unwilling to slow down the whole thing for one student. He took notes, but didn't know what they said, and eventually left in a daze when class ended.
Next was history. History wasn't such a bad subject; they were studying the Civil War, and it wasn't like he didn't know who won. The problem hadn't been the subject material, in that case, it had been the teacher. Who had insisted on having him introduce himself and gushed about his show, which had been both refreshing and incredibly embarrassing. He'd have enjoyed it more, but the students in the class were giving him odd looks that were mostly disdain or disgust, not admiration. He was beginning to have a vague idea why Richard had told him not to talk about being famous. And then the teacher had called on him. Repeatedly. Whether his hand was raised or not. And he was pretty good at history, but hadn't done any of the reading, because it was his first day. What she expected from him, he had no idea, but he'd given up on that class entirely by the time the bell rang.
Then there had been chorus.
Chris didn't want to think about chorus.
He'd started off relieved; he could pick up on music much faster than math or history, and knew for a fact that he was talented. Unfortunately, everyone else knew he was talented too, and instead of liking that, people resented it. Resented him. A lot. So aside from the glares, not so subtle insults, and actually having been shoved off the risers by one of the other boys (he had no idea how to react to that, but was glad he knew how to do a stage fall, because he landed without getting hurt), he also had a slight problem blending in. He was used to singing in front of an audience, which meant projecting—belting, even—and taking his volume down to a level where it fit the rest of the chorus's was hard. Especially because the other male singers didn't sing so much as they mumbled tonally. And furthermore, the director was nearly incompetent, and it really required all of his willpower to not tell her off.
As the bell rang, he'd paused to grab his backpack, and when he straightened up, the same kid who'd shoved him off the risers was standing in front of him, glaring. He froze for a second, then threw the annoyance off breezily, and smiled; that was what he defaulted to when he didn't know what to do. The kid made a noise of disgust.
"The country got sick of watching you, huh?" he smirked.
Chris didn't answer, just turned away but the kid dogged his steps.
"You were a cute enough kid, but you grew outta that. Too bad you don't have any real talent." And then walked off.
Which was probably for the best, because Chris really could only take so much and if the kid had said another word... He'd either have started screaming or crying, and he really wasn't sure which. He refused to believe that he had no talent, but... He had been canceled.
His parents had tried to give him some perspective about that. The show was canceled, not him, but... But really, he was the show in a lot of ways. He was the only original cast member left, he'd been in that same studio, on that same soundstage, from the time he was nine until he'd turned fifteen and had grown up there. The last two seasons had been his. And the critics had loved him, but hated the writing, the dance numbers, and the other cast members. Apparently, so had everyone else.
They were yanked off the air and reruns were pulled from their usual slots. He was fifteen and washed up. Which wasn't something he could really look at with a greater perspective because... Because he had nothing else.
He gave up on the... Chicken? Beef? He couldn't tell what it was, which meant he probably shouldn't eat it. And he was sick of sitting alone, and really sick of the sideways glances he was getting from people around him, and hearing his name muttered as people walked away. Fed up, he shoved his tray aside, stood, and walked out. There had to be a better way to spend a period.
He wandered the hallway aimlessly, hoping to find somewhere he could sit, alone, and think, and not be stared at. He paused in front of a set of somewhat familiar double doors; the library Rich had pointed out to him earlier, and after only a second of hesitation let himself in. It wasn't entirely devoid of students, but was close to empty. No more than a handful sat at the small desks or wandered the stacks. He dragged one of the chairs towards an unoccupied corner, dropped his bag, and sat.
......
Richard didn't really like giving up his lunch period to work on class projects, but it was the only free period he had that overlapped with his partner's. And really, he was lucky to be working with Alejandro, who was number one in the junior class—rumor said he'd actually gotten a 1600 on the PSATs, but Rich wasn't going to ask—and he was taking Senior Government a year early, because... He was taking everything a year early. He could have graduated a year early if he chose, but didn't want to; after all, there were always more AP classes to take. And a senior year full of them looked good on a transcript.
He and Alex (who resented his name being shorted, but got tired of no one being able to pronounce it correctly outside of Spanish class, and even that was a struggle) were wading through a handful of primary documents; things written about the Constitution. Their presentation was supposed to be twenty minutes long, and at the moment, they had ten of material, tops. But Alex practically lived in the library and had found piles of books and microfiche articles in no time at all, so now what remained was wading through it all and putting their project together.
He tapped his pencil against the table and tried to concentrate, which was hard. This wasn't his area of expertise, and he was bored. But the only thing that seemed to be distracting Alex was his pencil tapping. Alex reached out and stopped his hand without looking away from his book.
"Do you actually understand any of this?" Richard asked.
"Yes."
"This sucks."
Alex looked up from his book, and sighed. "Look. You can go; I'll just... Do this. I'll give you note cards tomorrow, okay?" He went back to reading.
"No," Richard sighed. "No, I'm not gonna make you do all the work. That happens to you a lot, huh?"
"Yes."
"Here, I'll... Photocopy this to get quotes from tonight, okay?"
"Sure."
He hesitated. "Do you wanna... Like... Meet after school? Or call me tonight to talk about it? Or something?"
Alex looked up again, and actually smiled a little. "Sure, that would be great."
"I just can't concentrate in here, too quiet," Richard apologized. He scrawled his number on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Alex, who pocketed it and went back to reading. "So, I'll talk to you later...?"
"Yeah, of course. Hey, thanks for not making me do it all."
"Why do you let people make you do it all?"
Alex looked vaguely amused. "I'm supposed to let other people bring my grades down?" he asked.
Richard laughed. "Good point. Okay, well... Yeah, good luck with the reading and all. Later." He picked up the few books he'd glanced at to make copies and started to walk away to the machine in the corner.
And almost stopped, startled.
Chris Ivers was sitting, slumped over a chair next to the machine and looked like he was on the verge of death. Or possibly tears. Richard hesitated; he did have to make copies (these books being too ancient to check out) but he didn't really want to deal with Chris again. But at the same time...
He did feel kind of bad for the kid. He'd gone through the same thing. So he walked over to the machine, opened the copier, and shot Chris a look. Chris looked up at him, then away.
"So," Richard finally said, laying down the book and closing the top of the machine. "Sucks to be canceled, huh?"
Chris gave him an almost unreadable look; somewhere between totally dejected and gathering pride. But there was a pretty wide range between those two, so it was hard to tell. He didn't say anything, so Richard shrugged and began to make his copies. The two of them avoided looking at each other for the next few minutes, and after slipping the copies into his bag, started to walk off.
Chris finally decided to talk to him.
"You'd know how much being canceled sucks," he called. "Didn't it give you a nervous breakdown?"
Richard froze, then clenched his fist and kept walking.
He really didn't like Chris.
......
Advanced Theater was his last class of the day, and his last hope for making his first day at school even vaguely salvageable. Theater was his strong point. Theater he could do.
He was less than thrilled to see that Richard was also in the class, already sitting on the stage and talking to a few other people. He was a few minutes early, so he just sat quietly in one of the audience seats until the bell rang, watching and listening to people. The teacher walked in as the bell was ringing and people slid off the stage to sit in the audience seats—leaving three open spaces on either side of Chris—and the teacher leaned against the stage, a mug of coffee in one hand, and a small black beret on his head.
"Okay, darlings," he began, and Chris barely had time to wonder, darlings? before the teacher continued, "we're supposed to have a new addition to our class today." The teacher gestured for him to stand up, which Chris did, glancing around nervously. Not that anyone would have noticed the nerves; he was a good actor, after all. "Well, introduce yourself, hon."
Chris threw on his best, crowd winning smile, and declared in an airy voice, "Hey. I'm Chris Ivers. I used to act a little." And he chuckled, on the assumption that people would have a similar reaction.
All he got were blank, bored, or vaguely hostile looks.
So he shrugged a little and moved on, because after all, not all crowds were receptive. "Well, anyway. I'm really looking forward to this, I think theater will probably be my favorite class."
And as he sat back down, someone in one of the other rows coughed, or rather, 'coughed.' It sounded suspiciously like, "Ahemsuckupcough." Ignoring the sound, Chris looked up expectantly at the teacher, sure that he could save this part of his day.
"And I'm Bernard Thompson, but all of my theater kiddies just call me Bernie. We're like one big, happy family in this class, right, kiddies?" He got a round of not entirely enthusiastic nods. "All right, then, let's get started, lovelies. Any suggestions from the peanut gallery what we should begin with?"
An indistinct voice to Chris's left called out, "Freeze!" and the teacher nodded. He pointed towards two students—Richard and another boy—and declared, "You two get the ball rolling, hmmm? Now, we need a relationship and a setting."
"High school!" someone yelled, as someone else yelled, "New kid!"
Chris sank down in his seat a little. That didn't bode too well. And Richard looked none too pleased as he stood and hopped onto the stage, followed by his partner. They stood awkwardly for a moment, then the other student stood up straight and declared, "Well, gee. This sure is a lovely school you peasants attend."
Richard grimaced for just a second, then burst into a grin and answered in a thick cockney accent, "Well, good, squire, we're glad it pleases, squire!"
The audience snickered, more from the accent than anything else. Chris was just glad that the peasants comment had been deflected into something else. But Richard's partner froze for just a second, not expecting the flippant answer, and responded, "So long as I must have my education among paupers, I suppose it'll do. Though I don't see why I should attend—I used to go to school a little."
A few students cracked up at that, and Chris's face went blank. Like he hadn't heard the parody of himself, like he wasn't even in a class; he could have been staring out a window or waiting in line at the bank. But Richard didn't miss a beat. He turned away from his partner, raising his arm in horror, and yelled, "Oh, you wound me, Squire!"
"FREEZE!" one of the other boys yelled, and made his way onto the stage, tagged Richard, and took over his pose. Swiftly, he turned around, bringing his arm down in an angry gesture, his face haughty. "Damn you, I can't work under these conditions! Look at this—look at this!" He mimed picking something up. "My coffee has no sugar in it, damn it! How am I supposed to go on with no coffee!"
"I'm sorry!" the other kid yelped. "I didn't mean to disturb your genius, I'll go get it—"
"It's too late now! I'm already distraught! And where is my cheese danish? How can they expect me to act without my lucky, pre-show danish?!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but they need you on the set and—"
"Well, I can't go on, can I?! CAN I?!"
"No, sir!"
"I'll be in my trailer!"
"FREEZE!"
Chris continued to watch mindlessly as the scene closed and was replaced with another, but they barely seemed to differ. He didn't know what he'd done to piss off everyone, but all he saw was one parody of his life as a star after another. His blank face didn't change, but his emotions bounced back and forth between devastation and humiliation, to pure anger.
It was in an angry snap that he heard himself yell freeze, a half-thought-out situation in mind. He knew he shouldn't do anything; he knew he should just sit and ignore everything, that reacting to the not at all subtle mockery would just make things worse. But he also wasn't used to letting other people walk all over him; maybe he was spoiled, but he hadn't deserved this.
The girl waiting for him on stage was doubled over, fake crying, and the boy he replaced had been comforting her. So he ignored the smug looks from his classmates and said in a syrupy voice, "Oh, don't cry, Rose. Everything will be all right. I'm sure the new competition won't make you feel inferior. Why, you're talented enough to get cast without even going down on the producer."
He glanced over at the teacher, who'd been politely oblivious, and suddenly was paying a lot more attention. He also glanced at Richard, who had his head in one of his hands, and looked... Well, unhappy, but it was hard to tell more than that, given his face was hidden.
And she responded, "Well, you'd be the best judge of that. I hear that's your real talent." She paused for a single beat. "I mean, getting people cast, of course. You're a great agent."
"Well, I've had six years of experience more than most people." He looked out at the class as he said it, his voice flat. "And I didn't even need to go to school for it."
"After all, education would just ruin an artist of your talent. You wouldn't want too many thoughts in that pretty head of yours, confusing you all the time."
"Well, what kind of agent would need to think when his client looks like a two-bit whore? Anyone would want to hire her. You've got a great future."
She started to answer but was cut off with, "OKAY, kiddies, that's enough freeze for now!" from the teacher.
Chris returned to his seat. He spent the rest of the period not talking, not listening, and not participating. His last hope was gone. High school sucked.