And You Can't Tell Anyone (Track Twelve: III) 2, chapter 7
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"The windows," Mike hissed. They ran over and whipped up the blinds. Frantically, Wren pushed out the windows. They were too small. There was no way they could fit out. Wren whirled around as the door opened.
Miss Jacobs entered. She was physically the typical elderly teacher, but her fashion sense was an odd twist to the stereotype. Her iron grey hair was pulled back into a high pony-tail, something that looked more appropriate on a thirteen year old, rather than a sixty something spinster. Her clothes were normal; for a high school student. Ripped jeans, and a flaring sleeve, hot pink shirt were today's attire. She was the type of person who you loved as a teacher, or hated her for being so wacky. Though Wren's housemates were of the second group, Wren was secretly of the former.
After her came Mirabelle, an irritating freshman. She was as rich as one could be, and as equally two-faced. It was common knowledge her money, not her brains was the reason she was passing her courses. When the last kid tried to beat the crap out of her (as Wren was sure Mirabelle deserved), the "attacker" had been taken to court and consequently never seen again. Mirabelle's connections were a force to be reckoned with.
Right behind, came Tré. His gleeful grin faded when he realized that Wren and Mike were standing chastely beside each other and not atop one another as he had expected.
"See!" Mirabelle exclaimed, "There they are! Like I said."
Wren had decided long ago that while Miss Jacobs was strange, she was definitely not stupid. Proving her point, Wren was sure she saw something close to exasperation flicker on the teacher's face. "I may be old, Mirabelle, but I am most certainly not blind." Wren was glad to see someone who was not afraid to put the little upstart back in her place. Miss Jacobs turned her attention to back to Wren and Mike. "Now, you two, could you explain yourselves?"
"We were in here for a very good reason, that reason being... uh," Mike stammered off.
"To get help with Chemistry." Wren supplied.
"With the lights off?" Mirabelle sneered.
"We were using the projector." Mike mock sneered back.
Miss Jacobs looked a bit confused, but not angry. "We? If I remember, you," she indicated the bassist, "are not in my class until next semester."
"I'm helping him. I've been tutoring him for it." Wren explained quickly. "I wanted to find some of last year's notes to check mine. We figured since no one was around, we would just pop in here and not bother anyone."
Miss Jacobs smiled, "It's so good to see students who actually care about their grades. Feel free to come in here whenever you want at this time."
Wren resisted a powerful desire to stick out her tongue at Tré and Mirabelle.
Take that you tattle tales! It says something for being a person that teachers can trust. She took my side and no yours. Nyah nyah nyah. Er, ahem, getting back to maturity now....
Mirabelle's expression was akin to some who had just stepped a big pile of dog shit. With a little "Hermff," she strode out of the room, nose in the air.
Miss Jacobs put a beady eye on Tré. "Mike, Wren, would you excuse us? Mr. Wright and I have some talking to do."
Extra-gallantly, Mike bowed to the teacher. "No prob. We were actually just leaving."
Wren could not resist whispering to Tré as they passed, "Ha ha." He screwed up his face and was about to say something, but Miss Jacobs interrupted.
"Not you, Frank. You stay here."
Tré sighed, rolling his eyes as he sat down in a desk.
Only after they were back at Wren's locker, did they give into laughter.
"That was the greatest backfire ever," Wren shook her head at the irony.
"He's not going to be happy about this. Tré gets a little competitive. But, to be honest, I could really care less."
"Speaking of competition, we better get this stuff out of here. I don't want to get--" She paused as something dawned on her. "Mike, we've got a problem."
"Wha---Oh. We're Suspects Number One aren't we?"
"Exactly."
He shrugged as he leaned against the locker. "Well, we'll just get it home, and then destroy the evidence. Actually, Tré and Billie Joe will destroy it for us. No problem at all."
*
He looks so cute when he's in trouble. I was hoping that she would have chickened out and ran. He's noble that way, would have found a way for her to escape and then stay himself to take the blame. No wonder we're supposed to be together. It'll happen eventually. If I have anything to say about it.
*
Stupid stoner losers. Who do they think they are? Making me look bad. I know they were up to something. I've got to prove that they are. After all, I have a reputation to uphold. I am never wrong.
Miss Jacobs entered. She was physically the typical elderly teacher, but her fashion sense was an odd twist to the stereotype. Her iron grey hair was pulled back into a high pony-tail, something that looked more appropriate on a thirteen year old, rather than a sixty something spinster. Her clothes were normal; for a high school student. Ripped jeans, and a flaring sleeve, hot pink shirt were today's attire. She was the type of person who you loved as a teacher, or hated her for being so wacky. Though Wren's housemates were of the second group, Wren was secretly of the former.
After her came Mirabelle, an irritating freshman. She was as rich as one could be, and as equally two-faced. It was common knowledge her money, not her brains was the reason she was passing her courses. When the last kid tried to beat the crap out of her (as Wren was sure Mirabelle deserved), the "attacker" had been taken to court and consequently never seen again. Mirabelle's connections were a force to be reckoned with.
Right behind, came Tré. His gleeful grin faded when he realized that Wren and Mike were standing chastely beside each other and not atop one another as he had expected.
"See!" Mirabelle exclaimed, "There they are! Like I said."
Wren had decided long ago that while Miss Jacobs was strange, she was definitely not stupid. Proving her point, Wren was sure she saw something close to exasperation flicker on the teacher's face. "I may be old, Mirabelle, but I am most certainly not blind." Wren was glad to see someone who was not afraid to put the little upstart back in her place. Miss Jacobs turned her attention to back to Wren and Mike. "Now, you two, could you explain yourselves?"
"We were in here for a very good reason, that reason being... uh," Mike stammered off.
"To get help with Chemistry." Wren supplied.
"With the lights off?" Mirabelle sneered.
"We were using the projector." Mike mock sneered back.
Miss Jacobs looked a bit confused, but not angry. "We? If I remember, you," she indicated the bassist, "are not in my class until next semester."
"I'm helping him. I've been tutoring him for it." Wren explained quickly. "I wanted to find some of last year's notes to check mine. We figured since no one was around, we would just pop in here and not bother anyone."
Miss Jacobs smiled, "It's so good to see students who actually care about their grades. Feel free to come in here whenever you want at this time."
Wren resisted a powerful desire to stick out her tongue at Tré and Mirabelle.
Take that you tattle tales! It says something for being a person that teachers can trust. She took my side and no yours. Nyah nyah nyah. Er, ahem, getting back to maturity now....
Mirabelle's expression was akin to some who had just stepped a big pile of dog shit. With a little "Hermff," she strode out of the room, nose in the air.
Miss Jacobs put a beady eye on Tré. "Mike, Wren, would you excuse us? Mr. Wright and I have some talking to do."
Extra-gallantly, Mike bowed to the teacher. "No prob. We were actually just leaving."
Wren could not resist whispering to Tré as they passed, "Ha ha." He screwed up his face and was about to say something, but Miss Jacobs interrupted.
"Not you, Frank. You stay here."
Tré sighed, rolling his eyes as he sat down in a desk.
Only after they were back at Wren's locker, did they give into laughter.
"That was the greatest backfire ever," Wren shook her head at the irony.
"He's not going to be happy about this. Tré gets a little competitive. But, to be honest, I could really care less."
"Speaking of competition, we better get this stuff out of here. I don't want to get--" She paused as something dawned on her. "Mike, we've got a problem."
"Wha---Oh. We're Suspects Number One aren't we?"
"Exactly."
He shrugged as he leaned against the locker. "Well, we'll just get it home, and then destroy the evidence. Actually, Tré and Billie Joe will destroy it for us. No problem at all."
*
He looks so cute when he's in trouble. I was hoping that she would have chickened out and ran. He's noble that way, would have found a way for her to escape and then stay himself to take the blame. No wonder we're supposed to be together. It'll happen eventually. If I have anything to say about it.
*
Stupid stoner losers. Who do they think they are? Making me look bad. I know they were up to something. I've got to prove that they are. After all, I have a reputation to uphold. I am never wrong.
