GREAT TEACHER LE CRUESET
FRENCH CLASS
Yzak grumbled internally, shifting in his seat from time to time. You could almost count: two seconds, shift, two seconds, shift, two seconds, shift, two seconds, shift, two seconds, sh…
'What the hell is up with that opera freak!' he thought to himself. It was almost two, class was supposed to start at a quarter to two, and dismissal was still about an hour and a half away. Very frustrating, indeed.
And just for fun, we'll just add in the five fan girls and gang of gay fan boys scattered around the room and huddled together (not necessarily in reverse respect) eyeing him and whispering to themselves or looking at him like he's a super hot chick, or just admiring his pretty-boy looks.
Trust his girlfriend (yes, he's got a woman) AND his godsister to run off to Latin or whatever and leave him to the whim of his mother, who is in fact a very nice lady unless you cross her, because of which he was beginning to get suicidal.
"Mon Cherie… Mon ami… mon ami cherieeeeeeee!"
A single tiny tear fell from the electric cold eyes of the straight Yzak Joule.
"Bonjour! Mon Cherie!"
A number of the straight girls sighed like the blind bats they were. Yzak rolled his eyes considerately in reply. His mind was already drifting off…
A bang brought him back down, face to face ten seconds into his dirty little fantasy (all boys are horny, didn't you know?), staring deep into the cheek of his French teacher Mister, sorry, Monsieur Raul Cruz, who was currently adjusting his fringe and staring coldly at him out of the corner of his… ah… what IS his eye colour?
Anyway!
"So… Monsieur Jhoule! Did you doo ze homework?"
"Yes, I did, actually. It's been decomposing on your table for the last 45 minutes or so."
"Manners, Jhoule, or you know-"
The bell rang, students ran out for fear of losing their ability of mobility as a result of getting involved in the brawl/fight/catfight (in Raul's case)/duel/whatever between the Silver Duelist and Phantom of The Opera/ Porn Freak (I can explain) that was very much downloading.
Joule/Jhoule got up from his chair very slowly, all the time looking at POTOPF straight in the iris (notice it is the iris, not the pupil, hah), dragging the chair out, slinging his bag over his shoulder, dragging the chair back in very, VERY slowly, making it produce a sound more painful to the cochlea than the one where stupid children don't cut their nails and go to school and try to draw with their nails instead of with conventional chalk on a 50-something year-old chalkboard.
Whew.
Joule/Jhoule proceeded to walk past him extremely composed, and out the door. Raul Cruz watched as his opponent walked out with a clearly evident win. As soon as the last smirk had faded and there was no sign left of any pretty boy with a silver pageboy haircut, he sank to the floor, crying profusely. So weak and hapless was he that he couldn't even control one student by himself.
I should have been a journalist… I shouldn't have rejected that modeling contract... I shouldn't have joined the teachers' academy… I should have stayed away from Natarle…
Outside the languages classrooms, in the corridor, a young boy walked smugly towards the lockers. A pathetic howl of some sort sounded from the far end. He didn't want to admit it, that boy, but he had to. Raul Cruz was freaky, and he was darn lucky to get off like that…
Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his brain, he broke off into a run like a refugee run away from a concentration camp. If you know what I mean…
FROM FREEDOMVALENTINE:
Less than a year it has indeed been. I really apologise for the lame-ness of it all, this story meaning… I'm really looking out for contributions of ideas. I am hereby expected to get a freaking A1 for Biology and if I don't everybody's going to force me to seppuku. Again, if you know what I mean. So... yeah...
By the way, the title is a play on GTO and all, yes.