Ch3: Even More Classes and Lunch

World History was interesting, as always. It was easily Gilbert's favorite class, as he loved to learn new facts about history. One of his favorite pastimes was to read historical fiction, specially the ones involving wars and revolutions, not that anyone knew about it. 'Books' and 'Gilbert Beilschmidt' never went in the same sentence together. Ever. It would cause a panic. Also, he had no friends. Of course no one would know anything about what he liked to do in his spare time . . . which wouldn't exactly be smart, in retrospect.

And the teacher was OK. Sure, Mr. Laurinatis, like the rest, did not like him, but hey, at least the guy did his best to treat him fair. He tolerated him, for the most part. Ish. It was a decent amount of tolerance – even if it was a tense, stiffening silence type of tolerance. The man was a pushover, and his gentle nature made him seem weak (which for some reason pissed Gilbert off) but damn, at least the guy tried.

Gilbert did not feel attacked in class, a far cry from how he always felt.

A ripped piece of notebook paper made its way to Gilbert's desk. Making sure that the teacher wasn't looking his way (Laurinatis had the eyes of a freaking hawk) he opened the crinkled note.

go dai DeMon

. . . OK, Gilbert did not feel attacked for the most part. The students were a whole different matter.

And dang, that was horrible grammar right there. It was painful to the eyes.

Gilbert entertained the idea of how this person's blasphemous grammar was the true demon, trying his best to ignore how tight his throat had become. . .

Demon. That wretched word...

Dang, he had sand in his eyes! Fuck!

OoooOoooO

Economy class was a bore. And annoying. Alfred Fucking Jones kept throwing spitballs at the back of his head. Stupid assigned seats. Also, Gilbert had no freaking idea what the heck he was doing in this class. Graphs? Dafuq? Why does this thingy increase when that other thing did that? Wouldn't it be the opposite? And what was that other line's name? And was it him, or did this nonsense make no sense? At all?

"Good job, Alfred! Highest grade in the class!"

. . . Yeah. It was him.

. . .

. . .

Goddam those spitballs!

Soggy spitballs bounced off the top of his head for the rest of the class. For 39 fucking minutes.

Say nothing, do nothing...

OoooOoooO

Chemistry passed by without anything eventful happening, other than the fact that someone set their lab table on fire. Gilbert was not blamed for the incident, as he had decided to fall asleep in class while that happened. That, and because he sat at the table furthest away from the crime scene, at the back of the class, with Alice Kirkland doodling boredly beside him acting as a key witness.

Not that Alice Kirkland as a witness held much weight. The British punk also had quite the record herself. Gilbert wouldn't even count her as an acquaintance, as they barely ever spoke, but she seemed the only one in this entire school that could tolerate his presence long enough to sit in silence in front of him during Chemistry Lab Days.

Everyone was partnered in groups of five or six. Theirs was the only group of two.

It was a sad sight, but a nice break for Gilbert altogether. The teacher ignored him and Alice, not even sparing them a glance. They were at the very back, so people couldn't point fingers and laugh at them. The teacher would yell at them if they did so. But only because that would mean that they would be poking fun at the Stupid Freak and at the Punk of Isolation instead of paying attention to the class at hand.

It was a nice break. A nice break that came only once or twice a month, sometimes every two.

Alice Kirkland was the only person in the world who's able to claim to have seen the loud and obnoxious albino be calm and quiet. Likewise, Gilbert held the record of not having a single British swear word thrown at him for a certain period of time.

"Now, class, please turn in your homework along with your lab sheets!" the teacher announced from the forefront of the class.

Gilbert bit his lip. His lab was nonexistent and his homework assignment was more than half-way done, but wasn't sure whether or not he had the right answers.

He decided not to turn it in. The teacher would think that he was stupid, like everyone kept saying. Besides, if he turned homework in, the poor teacher would probably have a heart attack.

He sucked at Chemistry. He liked exploding things and he supposed chemical formulas were OK, but stoichiometry or whatever that crap was called was a complete drag.

OoooOoooOooo

French II. How Gilbert got into this class was way beyond him.

He couldn't speak it for the life of him – that damn accent – and don't even let him get started on that blasted passé composé! It didn't help that the teacher used to be the Latin teacher. Latin was a dead language, so obviously, they shouldn't be taught the same freaking way. All they did in French was translate translate translate, just like what the Latin students claimed to do in Latin I, II, and III.

Latin was a dead language. No one will go around speaking it, like French!

Dead and Living languages apart, he had many reasons to hate this class:

1) He was wired for speaking German

2) Teacher sucked

3) He sucked even more

4) It reminded him of that fucking Frenchman

5) Those accents were the bane of his existence – they went both ways, for Gott's sake! Should've taken Spanish. Or some other language that lacked accents.

6) He couldn't pronounce the damned words

And 7) it was right before lunch, and after gym (which he skipped most of the time)

Luuuuunch. When was this thing over again? Gilbert snuck a glance at the clock.

Almost there. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1... 1.5... 1... 1.75... Oh, that stupid clo-

The bell rang.

Major reason he was failing the class was because he spent it staring at the clock.

He had the last lunch of the day; of course he wouldn't be paying proper attention!

Not that they learned anything useful with this method of teaching anyways. Gilbert felt too embarrassed to shout out for help in French, because he was too damn well sure that the French or French-Canadian or French-African cop passing by would be too preoccupied either deciphering Gilbert's failed-accented cries for help or laughing his French ass off instead of saving him from the imagined murderer hailing from whatever nationality the imagined cop came from.

For all the cop knew, Gilbert could be screaming for more toilet paper instead of being brutally murdered on the streets of la Rochelle.

He could see it now, at the front page of every newspaper in town;

'Albino Teen Brutally Murdered While Screaming For More Toilet Paper'

OoooOoooO

Lunch. Everyone loved lunch.

Everyone except Gilbert, that is.

Every day, Gilbert would get shoved to the very end of the growing lunch line, got whatever mystery meat or maybe some of the this-does-not-look-like-mashed-potatoes mashed potatoes, a normal-looking fruit that may or may not house less than delicious inhabitants, and a small carton of milk that was actually the only thing safe to consume – spoiled milk was easy to spot; it tasted rancid! (It sucked being the very last. You get what no one wants) and after all that, he was then left to make his way to whatever lone table available, trying hard to dodge people set on bumping into him, trying to spill his own lunch all over himself in front of the whole cafeteria. Yeah, it has happened before.

But, yeah, after all that, Gilbert always ended up eating his food (or poking the food with increased weariness) completely alone in his usual corner. (Unless that corner got occupied. Usually by the football team. On purpose. Of which a certain Alfred F. Jones was star captain of).

Gilbert sat down, and proceeded to poke the... paddy? Sausage thing? Flat meatball o' doom? Was that beef? It was covered in flaky black stuff. It looked like burnt beef. Gilbert cut a small piece with his plastic knife and stabbed it with his plastic fork. Bringing it up slowly to his mouth – he found that it smelled like gravy – he gave a small prayer... it didn't smell that bad... he ate it.

It tasted like chicken. Raw chicken. With a crunchy layer of charcoal.

Gilbert pushed the lunch tray away from him, looking a little green. He was pretty sure that anything that looked like burnt beef and tasted like raw chicken could be classified as a hazardous substance. And... well, Gilbert thought he got an apple. Who knew that it was actually an orange?

...Yep. Definitely skipping lunch today. Again.

Uh-oh. Bulky athletic figures coming his way ahoy. Gilbert looked around the cafeteria. It was crowded. It was loud. It was a maze of long grey tables. Maybe he could slip through the crowd unnoticed? His eyes zeroed in on Mr. Edelstein's patrolling figure. Gilbert looked at the teacher. Then at the intimidating students. Back at the teacher. What were the chances of Mr. Edelstein letting him leave the cafeteria? Or prancing around said cafeteria in hopes of losing the bullies?

He ignored the small wave of panic building up in him. He felt helpless. Cornered. Gilbert thought of his flute. Must. Not. Panic.

The group of Hulks suddenly changed directions, backing away almost instantly.

Whaaaa...?

A muscled arm encompassed in a thick sleeve made its way around his shoulder, trapping him. He froze.

"How about we go for walk, da?"

Gilbert felt like fainting.

He much preferred the not-green Hulks...