I'm so glad that everyone seems to love my demented little brain child as much as I do. I was going to post this Sunday night, but then I discovered a minor error and, because I'm utterly paranoid and out a beta, didn't post it.
And don't pester me about updates. My schedule is as follows: Physics, Pre-Calculus, AP English, AP US History, Ceramics, and Spanish 2 with a not-so great teacher. Expect fewer updates around November, the first part of December, January, and the first part of February. That's ski team season. Which means in addition to my schedule, I'll have practices 2 days a week and, during January and February, races on Fridays.
I forgot to mention last chapter, but Stuttering Towards Ecstasy was supposed to be a really cool play on Sarah McLachlan's song, Stumbling Towards Ecstasy. Unfortunately, the song is actually called Fumbling Towards Ecstasy making Stuttering a slightly less cool play on the song title.
lost cause : I'm so sorry you had to go through that. Writing this story really has made me realize how lucky I am. Would you mind being my fact checker for this story? I've been trying to make it as accurate as possible, but I haven't been able to find a really good first hand account of how it feels to block/stutter. If you're interested email me: (and because FFN tends to hate links: straykitty9thatyahoodotcom [replace "at" with and "dot" with .)
PS. You're the main reason I'm updating this earlier.
I don't own Conceptual Physics 10th edition, (which is where the example problem was taken from) and, despite the fact that it's an awesome physics book (as far as those things go), have no desire to. I don't own Toyota either. Or FMA for that matter.
I scowl.
Ling's sports car was in the shop. His mom's Landcruiser wasn't.
"So how do you think your presentation's going to go?" Ling asks, as his sister Mei gets out at her elementary school. She's in sixth grade and can't wait for high school. Al can. You see Mei made the discovery that while she won't get to be in high school with me (she used to have a crush on me), she'll have one year with Al.
Al is exactly looking forward to the prospect of having a hyperactive freshman following him around his senior. Not that he can tell Mei that he doesn't like her. He's much too kind. And I think she gave him a cat once.
"Horribly," I mutter. Mr. Grand hates me. He really does. Not that anyone believes me. They think that just because he's a teacher that he's impartial. Which he's not. He enjoys seeing me fail. I know it. But today's the last day I have to spend in his horrible class. That so counts as a positive thought.
"Ed, what happened to thinking positive?"
"Mr. Grand."
"He doesn't hate you."
"Oh, yes, he does."
"You can't prove it, shorty."
Before I can do something, like scream at Winry, Ling interjects something.
"Mr. Grand isn't particularly fair to Ed."
I smirk at Winry.
"Are you going to ask Russell t-to the dance?" I say, changing the subject. I stutter, but I don't care. Winry and Ling have heard me do far worse. And they don't laugh at my stutter.
"Shut up!" Winry yells, glaring at me.
"Do you want me t-to ask him f-f-for you?"
"Ed, stop it!" Winry's giving me the death glare. But I'm not afraid. There's no way she could be hiding a wrench in jeans those tight.
"You sure? I bet he'llll s-sssay yes."
WHACK!
What sort of girl hides weapons in her bra?!
"I told you to stop."
"YOU—THAT WRENCH—BRA!" I am totally inarticulate.
"Yes. I had to put it somewhere and it wouldn't fit in my pocket," Winry says. She doesn't even look ashamed.
"And you couldn't have worn lllooser pants, why?" I ask. I've never seen why girls feel the need to shove themselves into clothes that are too small. What's the point? It doesn't make them look more attractive, quite the opposite in fact. It's like they think that being able to get into a size 5 is the same as actually being a size 5.
"Are you calling me fat?" Winry demands.
There is only one right answer:
"No."
Winry glares at me. As if that's going to ferret the truth out.
I say nothing.
"Oh look it's Sloth." Winry rolls down the window. "Hi Sloth!"
Sloth looks startled. Startling as well. The jean skirt is about the most normal thing she's wearing today. Teal and blue striped stockings, an off the shoulder red shirt with floaty sleeves, and high heeled brown boots more than make up for the normality of denim.
I love how Sloth dresses, if only because Winry hates it.
Sloth waves back hesitantly. Envy, her evil twin mutters something to her. She waves again and walks off. Winry rolls up the window.
"Ugg. I can't believe what she's wearing today. Those shirts are so last year and those stocking are for seven year olds."
Ling and I ignore her.
"Her lipstick makes her look like she's trying to be a movie star or something."
She's wrong. Sloth doesn't try to look like a movie star. She looks like one. But she doesn't like me. I don't like her either. Her twin scares me.
"—he looks so creepy. I swear, I've seen Sloth wear that shirt."
Right. Envy was wearing a shirt that looked like the evil green twin of Sloth's. Fitting. Considering his evil twin status and green hair.
"I'm so glad he's only in one of my classes this year. It was so creepy last year when he tried to dance with Ed."
I turn red. Winry's wrong again. Envy didn't try to dance with me. He did.
There weren't enough girls that day and some of the guys were sitting in the middle, while the rest of them, including me, tried to find partners. Envy's best friend, Roy, was in the middle. Russell was there too. Granted, he was avoiding Winry at the time. He was terrified she'd kiss him. (It was a goal for him to make it to 16 without being kissed by Winry.)
The PE teachers seemed to have something against boys sitting out due to lack of partners. Mr. Armstrong must've told the boys that they had to dance with another guy, or else. Nobody wanted to disobey him.
I remember standing a little away from everyone else, hoping that Russell would pick me, because we were friends and at least I knew him. When I saw him with some freshman I looked down. I didn't want to look like I liked him or anything. I'm not gay and since Russell looks so much like me it'd be narcissism or something equally screwed up.
Another pair of Converse toes joined mine. I stared at them. Ling didn't wear Converse. One of them tapped my foot. I looked up. It was Envy. He was blushing.
He mumbled something.
"Huh?" was my eloquent reply.
"Do you to be the girl or shall I?"
"Which ever you want," I said softly, looking down again. I'd probably end up as the girl, like I did every time the PE teachers forced me to dance with another boy. Winry claims it's because of my "feminine looks." Which is not true. Just because I have long hair and haven't gotten my growth spurt YET doesn't mean I look like a girl.
"Right, so I'll be the girl." My head snapped up. What?
"I know both positions, okay." Envy's pale face was completely red now.
"Right," I said smiling a little. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I was the guy.
"Silence," he said, then some strange word that I later learned meant short in Japanese.
The dance should have been awkward. I should have hated it. It wasn't and I didn't. Envy was a lot more accommodating to the fact that I was about a head shorter than him than most of the girls had been. And I never got the feeling that he was sneering at my height. At least not until I realized what chibi meant.
Ling expertly parked the car and waited for us to get out. He was taking Portuguese at the college and parking over there today. Winry scurried off to her architecture class while I shuffled to my Pre-Calculus class.
Pre-Calc went fine, until Mr. Grumman called on me for the answer to the warm-up. It's that math is difficult for me. Quite the opposite, really. What is difficult is trying to explain that I meant to say six instead of seven. I know the answer, I just can't say. And everyone thinks I'm stupid because of it.
"No. I meant ss-ss-sssssss-ss—
"Sixteen?"
Dammit.
Grumman's normally much better about my stutter. Maybe he's impatient today.
"Ss-ss-ss—
"Jean what'd you get?"
I resist the urge to slam my head into the desk. It won't help matters. It'll just convince everyone that I'm mentally unstable as well as dumb.
I finish the homework early and turn it in before the bell rings. It's nothing much. Just a review of logarithms. Really simple if you remember the laws.
I slowly walk down the stairs and around the corner to my French class. I hate it. The French are stupid. I also can't spell in that language. Granted, English doesn't exactly have the best spelling, with all the silent e's, however there are no silent l-l-e-s's. It's also a fairly useless language because the French tend to ignore you unless your accent is perfect. Which mine isn't. I think a Canadian accent would be more useful in France than high school French.
The French teacher also likes cats. And according to the other students, has a horrible accent. Not that I can tell or anything. I barely understand a word she says anyway.
I also did the wrong set of words and consequently fail the spelling test. Not that the homework would help or anything. If there's one thing that I'm absolutely sure of, besides the fact that Sloth doesn't like me, it's that I will never be able to spell in French.
I spend the rest of the period wondering exactly how bad my Humanities presentation could go. Not exactly the most productive train of thought, but it beats conjugating French verbs.
Physics is fine. I rock at all things science. That and today's just a day to work on stuff. Like the 25 exercise questions that are due this Friday. They're pretty easy. Just simple questions like: A friend says that, as long as a car is at rest, no forces at on it. What do you if you're in the mood to correct the statement of your friend?
After scribbling down my answer (Gravity is force and since the car isn't floating…), I glance over at Ling. Instead of working on the problems he's started doodling. A heart. Around the initials LY + WR.
I return to physics. It's either that or be forced to listen to him go on and on about Winry's features. He's not even fazed by the fact that she keeps a WRENCH in her BRA. That has to count as a form of insanity. Right up there with jumping on Oprah's sofa.
AP History is close to nightmaric.
We're doing another group project.
Which is fine because it's just me, Russell, and Winry. Not the best group dynamics when you consider Winry and Russell's conflicting motives of kissing and not being kissed. But at least it's predictable. Then Sloth came over.
"Can I be in a group with you," she drawls out, low and pleasant. I envy her speech. She makes it sound so easy. Never have I heard her trip over a word or mispronounce anything. Yet she doesn't seem to care that I stutter. She, who speaks so easily, doesn't mind when I do the exact opposite. This doesn't mean she likes me. No matter what Winry says, Sloth does not like me.
Winry is about to find some clever way to refuse her. She's never liked Sloth very much. I think it might have something to do with Winry asking Sloth what eyebrow template she used to pluck her eyebrows with. Sloth refused, hotly denying that her eyebrows were anything but natural.
"Sure, take a seat," Russell says surprising us all. Even Sloth raised her eyebrows.
There's no place for her to sit. We're arranged in a semi-circle, Winry and I being closest to the opening.
Instead of leaving like any other girl (aside from Winry, but she would've have asked in the first place), Sloth walks over and sits on Russell's desk. He's shocked. Most girls tend to avoid getting close to Russell. I think the combination of Winry and her WRENCH and Russell's Touch Me And Die Painfully vibes/looks tend to scare them off.
Winry looks like she wants to kill something.
Sloth refuses to notice.
"That's not what I h—
Sloth "accidentally" puts her hand over Russell's and smirks at Winry before apologizing. I knew she'd never forget that eyebrow comment. Russell shuts up. He can take a hint. That or he's too surprised at having non-Winry female attention to do anything about it. It's been years, so the shock alone might do it.
If it wasn't for the fact that Winry would never stick her hand down her shirt in front of Russell, Sloth would have a concussion by now.
I think Sloth knows that.
She looks far too smug not to.
Mr. Hughes finally reveals what the project we're going to be spending the next two weeks on, but not before he shows us an overhead of his daughter. The whole class groans.
When he reveals the project they groan loader.
We have to sell a colony.
Which we already did in eighth grade. I think I even still have the brochure saved somewhere on my hard drive. Maybe we'll get the same colony. That'd make it easy. It's not cheating if I already did the work.
Still it's a presentation; and even though I won't have to say much, it's still public speaking. Not as bad as Humanities is going to be, but nothing else really compares to the sheer horror that Humanities can be. Five whole minutes of "speaking." Or I could just refuse to do it and get a zero. A zero's not that much different from the F I know Grand will give me.
"Okay, so you four are a group?" Hughes asks, looking at us all. Sloth is the only one with the presence of mind to nod. I'm too busy freaking out about Humanities. Winry too busy concentrating on not grabbing that wrench. Russell's too shocked. He's still getting over the fact that his Don't Come Near Me aura is ineffective around Sloth. You'd never believe that some one as warm and cuddly as Fletcher could be related to Russell. Russell likes to say you'd never believe someone as sane and nice as Al could be related to me. He's wrong of course.
"Right," Hughes continues, not discouraged at all. "You're going to be selling the Pennsylvania colony. Brotherly love, eh?"
The animosity is stifling.
I stand and stare at the door to DOOM!!! It's beige and inherently evil.
"It's not going to open if you just stare at it," Ling says, appearing behind me without a sound. I jump.
"Don't ss-ss-sneak up on me llllike that!" I exclaim weakly. I hate my stutter.
"Are you nervous?" Ling asks trying the door. It's locked. I nod. More people gather around the door.
"I heard that he's in a good mood today," one person whispers.
"Before or after 3rd period?"
"After, but I think 4th might have—
Silence. I refuse to look up. Mr. Grand parts the small gathering of students easily. He's a rival for Mr. Armstrong, bulk-wise. I still haven't decided which is worse. Armstrong in all his muscley glory or Mr. B. Grand asking me questions designed to make me stutter. And no, we do not know his first name. I assume it's bastard, but no one else agrees.
"Enter."
His voice sounds like DOOM.
His room looks like DOOM.
His face looks like DOOM.
Mr. Grand is DOOM.
We all file meekly into the classroom and sit in our assigned seats. I, of course, have been forced to occupy the seat closest to Mr. Grand's (DOOM!!!) desk. It's in the front row. The lone redeeming feature it possesses, is the fact that Ling sits next to me. Aside from that, it's hell.
After Mr. B. Grand takes roll he announces the order in which we present.
"Edward Elric…"
I stare at him in disbelief. He can't be serious. He must be joking. I can't be going first out of everyone. He seriously has to be kidding me.
Kidding probably doesn't even exist in his vocabulary. Neither does nice.
I'm so screwed.
Okay. We're going to review anti-stuttering techniques, I tell myself frantically.
Breathe out before beginning a word. That one's easy.
Don't speed up. Harder. I just want to get it over with.
Calm down. Impossible.
Don't get nervous. Too late.
Commit suicide. Damn, Ling took my pencil.
"Mr. Elric when do you plan on presenting? Now or next week?" Mr. Grand crunches on the word week. The class titters slightly. I gulp. I have a choice? One look at his face tells me the answer had better be now.
"Now." My voice is small, scared, and pathetic.
I'm going to fail.
I walk up in front of the class. Everyone is watching me. Some whisper to each other. Harmless stuff I'm sure, but I can't help but think they're talking about me, Edward Elric, the stuttering wonder. Can't even say his own last name. What freak. Can't say that word either. His mom's a public speaker, I'll bet she can't believe him.
Damn it. Think positive.
I'm not dead yet.
Is it possible to die of fear?
What about embarrassment?
What if I just pass out?
I stare at my note cards.
"A crime against humanity differs from a war crime in that a war crime is only committed during a war, whereas a crime against humanity doesn't necessarily happen during a war. International lllllllaw defines it as massive scale atrocities committed against a body of people."
I can't believe I said that word. Maybe today is going to be different. Maybe I won't stutter anymore.
"An often used example of a crime against humanity would be the Holocaust. That's where crimes against humanity are first mentioned, in the Nuremberg T-t-trials. The international world was appalled at what had happened in their own backyard. They created the," I pause to take a breath. I can't not say 'the London Charter of the International Military Tribunal.' That's its proper name and I'll get points taken off if I don't say it. Double because it has an l. That's Grand's special way of discouraging word substitution.
"Llllllllondon Charter of the International Military T-t-tribunal. It defines a crime against humanity as the deportation, extermination, enslavement, murder and other heinous acts against a civilian population. Which is exactly what the Nazis did."
Someone drops a pencil and whispers something to their friend. Who giggles.
They're not listening to me.
"As sis-sis-sssiss-ssseen in the Nuremberg Trials, the excuse—
Somebody sneezes. Mr. Grand coughs, and looks at his watch, impatient.
Fine, I'll hurry up.
Hurrying only makes it worse.
But no one's paying attention.
Better make it quick then.
"My sss-ss—sss—sss-ss-s—s—
I'm gasping for air now. It's happened. I've blocked. I meant to say 'the excuse that my commanding officers told me to do it doesn't work'. That's what I needed to say, but somehow superiors popped into my head. I made a point of writing commanding officers even though the source said superiors. This is why.
"Ssss—ss-ss—ss-ss-ssss—
My throat tightens. I can't get the word out.
I clap my hands and try again. It's the only thing that helps when the stuttering gets this bad.
"Saa—suu
"Don't applaud yourself, Mr. Elric," Mr. Grand drawls. "You have not earned it."
"Ss-ss—
The s's come between gasps for breath. I've never hyperventilated before and I don't know what it feels like.
I'm not making sounds anymore. I'm just fighting for breath.
"Mr. Elric, you can leave now and go get a drink of water. You will receive another F though."
I bolt for the door.
Bastard.
'Another f'.
I walk over to the drinking fountain and hold down the silver button. I'm still trying to regain my breath and I frantically gulp down the water, as if it's going to help.
I choke. Someone pats me, hard, on the back. Once I'm done choking, I turn around, prepared to stutter my thanks. Instead I stare.
It's Envy.
"You alright?" he asks. His pale face is beet red and his green hair is damp with sweat. He's dressed in the school PE uniform. White-gold (more commonly know as beige) shirt and bright blue shorts. He has bright pink and black knee socks. Probably Sloth's, I think.
My heart's racing.
Because I just failed my presentation.
I groan.
"Edo?" His own personal nickname for me. I'm sure it's some Japanese or Italian way of mocking my height. He does sound worried though. He's never been anything but nice to me. Still, it's rather disconcerting to have someone stop threatening some freshman and wave cheerfully at you.
"I fff-fff-ffff…" I let the f trail off and wait for him to finish the world. Everyone else eventually does. Even Mom.
"At least you don't have PE with Armstrong. Again," he says, sliding down the wall into a seated position. I join him. Mr. Grand doesn't want me back and I don't want to go back. Too bad I didn't think to grab my backpack.
"I have hu-hu-hu—
I'm hiccupping now. He reaches over and gently rubs my back. I tense. Why is he doing this?
"It's okay. It helps Sloth," he murmurs dragging me closer. I don't know why I let him. He maneuvers me until I'm in between his legs with his knees resting on my sides. I blush at the position. I'm not gay. Envy just looks like a girl. This isn't sexual. Girls give each other back rubs all the time. This is the same thing, right?
"Shhh, shhh, shhh," Envy says rubbing my back lightly. I calm down. It's impossible not to. And I like having my back rubbed. It's my one weakness.
"Now what were you going to say?" Envy asks, his voice low and soothing. It sounds like Sloth's, I realize. Which makes sense, seeing as they're twins.
"I have Humanities with Grant."
"Ah," Envy says. "Are you going to stay in there or take the speech class?"
Why does everybody know about the damn speech class?
Voices cut short any possible replies.
"I think he went this way."
"Let's check here first."
I frown. What are those people taking about?
"I, Mr. Armstrong, shall track down—
Envy.
"Shit, shit, shit," he mutters moving to get up. I rise too. His hands ghosts across my butt before dancing up my backside. I shiver. It's not particularly unpleasant. But I'm deprived. I practice self-denial. I don't have urges. I'm asexual. He looks like a girl!
"Well, I really enjoyed talking with you, Chibi, but I have to run," Envy says leaning forward and just staring, before twitching slightly and sprinting off.
I can't believe I just let him call me short.
Never mind the backrub. Which was very good. I wonder if Sloth taught him. I stare at my watch. 50 minutes until the end of the period. I have nothing to do. Part of me wants to go see what Envy's class is doing in PE. It's a small part and easy to squash. I don't have urges, remember. Besides, they were probably just doing a perimeter or something.
I ended up just sitting on a bench thinking. I must have dozed off in there because the sound of the bell woke me. After beating back the mass of escaping students, I grabbed my backpack. Mr. Grand didn't even notice me. He was too busy talking to some girl who looked like she was on the verge of tears.
I hurried off to ceramics.
Ceramics class passed far too quickly. Before I knew it, the clean up bell had rung and everyone started hurrying about. I stared at my latest creation: a demented hollow shrub that had a handle on it. It was supposed to be a mug.
I carefully wrapped my shrub-mug in plastic-wrap and stored it away in the cupboard. It was Ling's turn to clean the tables, so I sat down and waited for the bell to ring. It seemed to last forever.
"I'm here t-t-t-t-t-to sss-sss-ss—
"Ah, Mr. Elric, right this way," the kindly woman says leading me towards the councilors office. Normally I'd be annoyed that someone finished for me or cut me off, but I don't mind today. It's honestly less painful.
I follow the woman down the hall. She gestures to one of the empty chairs outside of the room labeled "K—Pe".
"Mr. Elric's here for his appointment," the woman says, peering into the room. I have no idea what she does. She doesn't do attendance or tardies or off-campus slips. I think she just schedules appointments and keeps track of schedules. I don't even know her name.
"Send him in," my councilor, Ms. J. Douglas, says. The woman opens the door wider and I walk in.
It's a small room that tries hard too be comfortable. Fake plants scattered about various surfaces and the walls are painted light green. Ms. J. Douglas's desk is covered with a thin layer of paperwork and surrounded by pictures of her family.
"So, Edward," she says, turning away from her computer screen to look at me. "What do you want to talk about?"
I shift from foot to foot.
"Sit down, please."
I set my backpack on the floor and sit gingerly in the chair.
"Mrs. Curtis's speech class is open," I say, making the 'sp' as sharp and p-like as possible. I don't have as much trouble with words like 'speech' and 'should', especially if I make the actual s sound short. It's one of my many tricks to avoid or at least minimize my stutter. It just doesn't always work.
"Ah, yes," Ms. Douglas says. "Fifth period, right?"
I nod.
"That's when you have Humanities." It's not a question. I nod anyway.
"Do you want to switch periods, I believe Mr. Grand—
"No!"
Ms. Douglas looks at me sharply.
"No?" she repeats.
"I want out of Humanities."
"What other English class might you be interested in taking? There's an English 11 class open, but I don't think that you'd like that." She pauses, and consults her computer before facing me. "We could try AP English. It's only offered—
"Yes."
"Okay, that means you'll have to be in second period Physics with Mr. Knox That's okay, right?"
I nod.
"So you're dropping French?"
I nod. I hate that class.
"And you don't want to take another language during seventh period or in zero period?"
I shake my head. Speech counts as my language, so I don't have to take three years of French or Spanish to graduate.
"There's some nice Spanish classes open sixth period."
I shake my head again. Ms. Douglas seems determined to drag this out as long as possible. It's almost like she wants me to stutter. Maybe she's in cahoots with Grand or something. But that's not possible. She's new to Lakeview High and Grand isn't exactly the epitome of congeniality.
"You sure?"
I nod.
"You know, AP English might not be best. You'll have to catch up on most of the work."
I say nothing.
"There's a lot of extra reading."
I refuse to speak.
"What I'm trying to say, Edward, is that it might be best for you just to stay in Humanities. I don't think you should go into English 11, but maybe AP English would be too challenging for you. You're barely averaging a C in Mr. Grand's class and I don't see how taking AP English would be wise at this point."
The bitch.
I can't believe her.
Grand so put her up to this. There's no other explanation for this. I'm normally excellent at English. Up until now I've gotten nothing but A's.
"I'm just not good at presentations," I say, carefully weeding out the stutter-words.
"There's still going to be presentations in AP English. In fact, there's probably more there than in Humanities."
But the teacher can't be worse than Grand. It's not possible.
"Mr. Grand hates me," I state.
"Nonsense," Ms. Douglas declares.
"He gives me eh—bad grades on presentations," I say, narrowly avoiding saying 'F'. I don't want to stutter now.
"Maybe you should just try harder."
That's a stupid idea.
"I can't."
"Of course you can."
Oh, no I can't. Dumb bitch.
"No, I can't."
"I'm sure you can."
"He hates me."
"That's ridiculous."
"He knows I can't speak."
"You're speaking right now."
I lose patience.
"I st-st-st-st-ssss-sss-sss-sss—
I block.
"Yes?"
"I st-s-stu-sttu-sttttt-ssst—
"Yes?"
She's becoming more irritated.
Of course, she's new here and I don't think she believes all the stories about me. Lucky me, stuck with the rogue counselor who's probably a scientologist nutcase who doesn't believe in psychology or stuttering.
"I st-st-st-st-st—
"What are you trying to say?" Ms. Douglas asks, clearly losing it. "If you have a disease like Tourette's I'm sure that you would be in Special Education. You were doing fine a moment before, what happened?"
I glare at her. Can't she see I'm trying? I can't stop it. In fact, I want to scream. There's a reason I'm in Speech. It's in my files. It should be obvious. The lump at the back of my throat grows warm. I'm going to cry soon. I hate this!
Yet I keep trying.
Stupid.
"I st-st-st-st-st—
"Yes? Would you mind speaking normally?"
How did such an insensitive woman become a counselor?
"I st-st-st-st—
"Yes—
"I think what Mr. Elric has been trying to inform you of, is his speech disfluency," Sloth Peccato drawls. She's silhouetted by the light in the hallway; an outline leaned up against the open door. Ms. Douglas shrinks back.
I smile gratefully. Sloth, in addition to being untouchable, unnerving, and unshakable, is the youngest daughter of Dante Peccato. Dante Peccato is one of the most formidable women in existence. Catherine the Great pales in comparison. Elizabeth I has a mild temper and sweet nature when contrasted with Dante. Isabel of Spain's treatment of the Jews, Moors, and alleged witches is mild compared to what Dante put the last school board through when they attempted to drop the Speech program.
People tend to avoid crossing Dante and her children, since the school board almost voted against the boys' cheerleading squad (Wrath's apparent passion).
So it's really no wonder Ms. Douglas is unnerved.
"What?" she sputters out.
I wish Sloth would say something like 'You heard me, bitch' or 'Dante will know about this', but she doesn't. Instead she drawls out another smooth phrase, laden with large words.
"I believe that Mr. Elric was attempting to inform of his speech disfluency, more commonly know as a stutter." Sloth remains in the doorway. I think she knows she's most imposing there. After all, she must be an expert in staging. She's only been in drama all her life.
"That's none of your business," Ms. Douglas snaps. "You're interrupting a private meeting between Edward and I."
"The door was open and you weren't letting him finish his sentence," Sloth states speaking faster.
"You have no business being here," Ms. Douglas informs her.
"I have an appointment," Sloth declares, looking like a storm cloud. Most people start groveling about now, I reflect.
"For what?" Ms. Douglas demands.
"My schedule," Sloth replies darkly.
"Then wait outside," Ms. Douglas replies harshly.
"I was," Sloth says before turning out of view. There's a slight thump as she lands in the chair.
Silence.
Ms. Douglas pointedly closes the door.
"Do you stutter?" Ms. Douglas asks, returning to her seat.
I nod.
Ms. Douglas slumps.
I want out.
"You really want to do AP English?"
I nod.
I also want to switch counselors.
"You may go," Ms. J. Douglas says. I bolted out the door and nearly run into Sloth. She steadies me. She's almost a head taller than me.
"Gonna be okay?" she asks, looking worried. I attempt a smile and nod.
"Thanks," I whisper before she walks into the room. She smiles and squeezes my hand gently.
I blush.
Because I don't get positive female attention often. Because she's more than rather pretty. She's gorgeous and has never thrown a wrench at me. Her hair's pretty.
Envy's ass is nicer.
That thought ruins everything.
Because I'm not gay. Or bi. Or straight. I'm asexual, remember? I don't have urges and if I did, which I don't, I wouldn't act on them, because I practice self-denial.
Besides, if Sloth really liked me, she'd have kissed me instead of holding my hand. She's daring, bold, and fearless. Hand-holding and cuddling don't go with that.
Therefore she doesn't like me.
Envy does.
These thoughts can't be normal.
Maybe I'm going insane.
Please review. See chapter 1 for the form. Also, if you want me to update faster, it's best NOT to leave a review saying "write more" or "update!!!" An easy way to encourage me would be to share a relevant story or something.