Shoutouts!
Kid Blink's Dreamer: Yeah, no shit.
Unknown-Dreams: Spaz...Anyway, hell YEAH we need Sprace action!
...Unfortunately, it'll take a while. That is, if there is any at all...
Slightly: Pffffft...There will be.
Shut up, Slightly.
Racetrack's POV
"Mister Higgins, please don't make such a ruckus!" Miss Larkson shrieked. I rolled my eyes. She could be so…stupid at times. You'd think I'd just dropped a nuclear bomb, as opposed to a pencil. Shakes gave me an apologetic look.
"Tell me later," I muttered. As much as I despised my math teacher, I couldn't afford to disrupt her class any more today. She'd blow the coop. So, I sat through the rest of math, making unidentifiable scribbles that would make Van Gogh jealous. (Cough) The bell finally rang, and I dashed out of the classroom, ignoring Larkson's glares, and headed for second period, which was English. Instead of heading straight for English, however, I took a detour that brought me to the deserted courtyard our school has been blessed with.
"What do you mean, beat him?" I demanded, though I knew perfectly well what that meant. No matter how much Spot Conlon pisses me off, I'd never wish that on him.
"I mean, his mother hit him every night. Nobody ever knew until she pulled out the baseball bat. A neighbor came over to drop off some mail delivered to the wrong house. He saw her through the storm door and burst in on them. Spot's living with foster parents now," Shakespeare said sadly, using her wings to balance on her toes on a picnic table. I sat down. Hard.
"Are you serious?" I breathed. She nodded.
"Why else do you think he's so bitter?" she replied. I looked up, and in my imagination, I could see a five-year-old Spot, bruised and bloody, crying on the swingset.