I don't own The Breakfast Club

Enjoy!

As the hours of the school day droned on, John Bender was glad that he had finally reached the last class of the day. Ditching his classes had been tempting but the idea that he would be punished for it back home was something that he didn't want to face, considering last night's events. Instinctively, his hand made its way to his left arm and rubbed the spot where it had seared over the weekend. He winced at the slight pain that had ran up his arm and to his brain but he dared not show any emotion. The pain was horrid enough that it had caused him to scream to the point where he had tears streaking down his face which, to his surprise, he thought that he was never able to do again.

Now that he was in shops class, this class had proven to be both cathartic and therapeutic to him. He was able to used his form of imagination to build what he wanted, escape from reality, and let out his inner anger on a nail that needed to be put in its place with a hammer. Hitting a nail with a hammer allowed him to take out his frustrations of his life. One time, he had hit the nail hard enough that it caused the base of the wood to spilt. John and awaited for the teacher to yell at him for wasting materials but, to John's surprise, the teacher had been both patient and impressed. Patient because these forms of accidents happen all the time and impressed of the fact that such force had caused the nail to spilt to wood in half. At the teacher's recommendations, John didn't banter with him but only stared at the teacher's reaction and the fact that he wasn't yelled at for what he had done.

From then on, John had never bothered to become close to anyone in his class, let alone the teacher who wanted to be good friends with everyone that attended his class. Then again, John could see that the teacher was not friends with anyone. There was this one kid in particular whom the teacher seemed to dislike. John had seen the worst forms of craftsmanship that other students had made, but this one kid always seemed to get the worst criticism. John craned his neck and looked over three desks in front of him where that blond kid was sitting at.

There was nervousness around him, especially how he was twirling that pencil around his fingers. John shrugged his shoulders and turned his eyes over to the teacher who was reiterating his lecture about the importance of lamps.

Who the hell cares? John wanted to say as they teacher went into detail about the technicalities. The point of them is to produce light, big deal. This project about lamp-making had been a three week project and today was the day that they were going to see if their lamps actually worked. However, there was always a catch in this class. If the lamp successfully turned on, the students would get an A. If it didn't, an F was given.

"Come and get your lamps," the teacher was to the class as the students got up from their seats and headed to their personal lockers in the classroom.

John walked past the students that tried to get by him, receiving angry glares in the process but he didn't care about their 'elite feelings.' They weren't the center of the world and life wasn't a pot of honey. Oh how much these kids had to learn what was out there and how tough it was to get through the things that he did. He carefully help his project in his hands and walked back to his desk.

Once everyone was situated, the teacher stood in front of the classroom and looked at the work that everyone had done. He gave approving looks at some of the well crafted lamps and disapproving looks at some that looked strange. Was that lamp supposed to be an elephant? He squinted as he looked at one lamp that he couldn't decipher what the design of it was. "And now," the teacher suddenly said, "you can turn on the lamps."

John took a hold of the chain and dragged it down. As he did so, a click was heard and the lightbulb brightly illuminated from within the lamp. All of that hard work had paid off. At least this was one class that he enjoyed and wished that he could stay in for the remaining six hours of school. Lamps illuminated throughout the classroom, though there was one lamp in particular that didn't shine at all. John looked over at that badly designed elephant and shook his head. How hard was it to make a damn lamp? The teacher had even specific instructions and this kid had managed to screw it up.

John noticed that look of disapproval on the teacher's face and the shake of his head. "That's another F for you Johnson," the teacher said to the student. If that were John, he would have flipped his middle finger to the teacher and not given a second thought about the consequences. However, this kid only nodded his head and remained silent. He sure was one of those goody-two shoes that parents adored. "Wimp," he whispered to himself and shook his head. This kid was partially letting adults walk over him and did what he was told. John didn't know what it was like to be in that kid's position and he didn't want to. He already felt caged in his own life and he didn't want to feel the same in another.

The school bell suddenly rang and the students picked up their items and exited out of the classroom. John walked to his locker and stuffed his lamp inside. Maybe he could take this home and use it in his room for a bit of light in the night. That is, if his father didn't feel the need to barge in and throw it on the ground like he had done with John's other projects. Having put so much effort in those destroyed projects had upset John at first but he didn't expect anything different from his father. Afterwards, he had grown immune to the sounds of wood crashing against the floor and seeing splinters of it littered around the house. Guess the same was going to happen to this lamp.

Giving the lamp one last look, John slammed his locker shut and left it inside. Why face the wrath of a drunk man when it was perfectly fine in here? As John turned around, he caught sight of that blond kid whom the teacher called out in class. He watched as the kid slowly shut his locker and kept his face hidden from the rest of his peers. His emotions may have been hidden in the eyes of others, but John clearly saw that he was crying.