I had just settled into my chair, clad in a sleek top-button blue satin shirt and black jeans. My tousled brown hair added a touch of effortless style to my appearance. As our science class began, I couldn't help but admire Ms. Cortney. Despite recently going through a divorce, the 43-year-old was always warm and approachable, no matter the circumstances. In fact, just last week, she even gave us the freedom to eat lunch in the classroom and be as obnoxious as we wanted, as long as we left the room clean afterwards.
Today however, Ruby Cortney appeared to be in a more composed state. It was evident to everyone that she had endured a few or more days of sleepless nights, evident in the traces of tears on her face and dark circles under her eyes which she tried to cover up with eyeshadow. Her voice was strained, hinting at the possibility of another emotional breakdown. She attempted to stifle her sniffles and regain control by closing her eyes and taking deep breaths, determined not to make a spectacle of herself.
"Please, people. I want you to behave yourselves today," she said, while writing todays lesson on the whiteboard. Heather elbowed me in the rib. I hated science class. Not because of the disgusting vile explicit imagery it shows us, but because I get stuck with the richest, meanest vixen next to me. "I recently caught my husband... Ch-ch-cheating on me! And..." *breath* *gulp* "He was the one! I knew he was the one!" Ms. Cortney had another breakdown. Right in front of all of us.
I could feel her pain. I knew what she was going through. Because I lived it. I empathized with her pain, having personally experienced a similar situation. My parents never officially tied the knot, although my father had been married once before to a beautiful elegant wolf he affectionately called "Kissy" due to her love for kisses. They had a son together, my older step-brother Rob Meeterson, who was born on the same day, month, and ten years earlier than me. Unfortunately, I never had the chance to meet him, but from the stories I've heard about him, he seemed like a kind and respectable individual like me. As of now, he resides in Omaha, Nebraska.
Anyway, my father and Kissy shared a deep bond. They were inseparable. Always by each other's side. However, as with most fairy tales, their story did not have a happy ending. My father struggled with alcohol, often leaving Kissy to care for their bundle of joy while he went out partying with his friends. Sadly, their marriage crumbled after only a year I was born due to his reckless behavior. As much as he tried to hide it, I could see the toll it took on him. He was hurting, but refused to show it.
"Anthony. Do you mind getting my laptop?" Heather asked me suddenly so sweetly.
"What?" I fixed my posture to be sitting up straight.
"I said could you please get my laptop."
I did. Not knowing I made the biggest mistake of my life, kindly going to the laptop cart to get her laptop. When I came back and sat down, I could feel something poking me. It felt like a needle. Maybe a knife. Ms. Cortney was still sobbing a little. It felt like a small needle. I sat up, looked behind, and down to see the few thumbtacks scattered on my seat. Heather and a few other people giggled. Heather found it most amusing as she suddenly bursted out laughing.
I was becoming increasingly aggravated. My hand reached behind me, only to discover the bottom end of a thumbtack. The tack had punctured my right cheek. I couldn't believe it - I had a thumbtack lodged in my ass. Meanwhile, Heather continued to erupt in laughter, repeatedly pounding her fist on the table. With a deep breath, I carefully removed the offending object. As I collected the thumbtacks scattered across my seat, I made a point to dump them onto Heather's table.
"Real funny, Heather," I growled at her.
"I didn't mean to. It was a dare! Honest," Heather held up her left paw as if she were being sworn into office. She used her other paw to pick up the thumbtacks and put them on Ashley Clair's desk next to her.
"Yeah, Anthony. It was just a joke," Ashley strifed a giggle. She had a look of pure enjoyment on her face. Then she taunted me. "Aw, is the wittle puppy gunna cwy?"
"At least I don't sound like a toddler," I told her with the straightest face. I didn't blink. I had enough.
"Is that a challenge?" Ashley suddenly got serious. Her voice was sharp and near threatening.
"You heard me, Ms. Richie Bitchie."
Everyone got quiet. Ms. Cortney was still sobbing softly while staring at her phone screen.
Ashley's eyes widen. She looked offended.
"I bet that hurt," I said.
"Fuck you!" she snapped.
"No you. Why are you even harassing me?"
"Fuck you!"
"Fuck you is not a reason."
"Fuck you! Just fuck you, Anthony. You no good rotten dick, poor, homosexual, gay, constant masturbating, dick-licking Jell-O for brain motherfucker!" Ashley shouted. Some students turned to face us as if we were going to fight.
"Ashley!" Ms. Cortney stood up from her desk. She motioned for her and me to walk to the front of the room. She brought us aside away from the rest of the class and calmly tried to assess the situation.
"What is going on?" She demanded.
I told her that she and Heather had put thumbtacks on my seat when I got up to get Heather's laptop from the cart. Ashley glared at me with her arms folded. She looked like a five year old about to have a temper tantrum. Ms. Cortney shook her head in disbelief.
And that is how Ashley and Heather ended up being sent to the library for the rest of the period to study. I was now stuck sitting next to Tommy, who somewhat was a friend of mine. We would often play online games together on our Game Station consoles. Games like War Field and Nascar. Tommy was a pro at War Field. You couldn't imagine how many times people accused and reported him for hacking. I on the other hand was a more of a pro at Nascar. I consider myself being the Richard Petty of the game.
I started playing at the young age of 8. It was then my love for racing games ignited when I received "Nascar '12" for my old Game Station 3 for Christmas in 2013. From that moment on, I was hooked. Everyday. I would play against my dad. There were times where he would beat me, but I would always make a comeback sometime later. As time passed, my skills improved and I eventually became a top contender, competing against other skilled players online. I often got yelled and cursed at by adults playing the game. I didn't care. I remained unfazed. I just let them rage. I let their frustration roll off my shoulders. My focus was soley on dominating the game.
When playing War Field, either with Tommy or by myself; despite it's popularity. I approached the game as a casual player, never feeling the need to exert excessive effort or invest significant funds like how most people do when they play it. While some may break a sweat in the heat of battle, I approached War Field like any other game, not placing too much importance. Not placing too much on obtaining rare operator skins or blueprints. In fact, my grand total investment in the game amounted to a modest $120, allowing me to acquire two operator skins and five blueprints.
Tommy on the other hand probably has put in over $300. Based on all the operator skins and gun blueprints, he would be considered locked and loaded for real warfare.
"Class, please do silent studying based on your career choice," Ms. Cortney told us.
I looked deep into my textbook I had propped open next to me, reading everything I needed to know about physical therapy. I had purchased a book on Furzon that explained everything I needed to know and interesting facts. Like did you know in Swedan; physical therapists are called "sjukgymnasts." I chuckled to myself just thinking about it. Being a wolf leaving for an appointment there. "Bye, honey. I'm going to my sjukgymnast appointment." I sounded like a silly foreigner.
Tommy, on the other hand, was engrossed in a textbook about the human anatomy. He was following in his father's footsteps. He wanted to be a surgeon like his father, Dr. Peter D. Lopper, who was the top number one recommended surgeon in all of Maine. With a busy schedule, Dr. Lopper treated appropriately five patients per week, fifteen per month, and seventeen per year.
Did I have hope for Tommy in becoming a surgeon? Somewhat. However, it would require him to focus solely on studying and reading materials related to the medical field, rather than indulging in crime novels like those written by James Mobray every day. In my opinion, I believe Tommy may be better suited for a career as a nurse. The high-pressure environment of a surgeon may be too much for him to handle. Personally, I wouldn't feel comfortable with him performing surgery on me. I'm sure many others would agree.