"Meghan?"
I watch my teacher's lips move to form my name, but I don't pay attention.
I can tell she yells it, but I just yawn. Where will it get her? Nowhere.
She slams a hand down on my table and I look up, barely glancing at her before continuing drawing.
I've been held back three times. Seventh grade is definitely not my year.
As a 16-year-old in seventh grade, I've gotten a lot of fame for it. Both good and bad.
I sigh as I remember last week's debacle.
A stupid eighth-grader had decided that he was king of the school, instead of me, the rightful ruler.
He didn't challenge me, oh no, I did.
I admit, he was pretty taken aback when I had shown up during lunch demanding he withdraw.
He took the moment and seized it.
He was also probably shocked that I could even talk, knowing my disability.
The disability he thinks I have is actually my superpower.
How? you may ask.
Simple.
I pretend I can't hear well.
Truthfully, I can't, but I rely on my keen sense of knowing the situation, knowing my opponents, and most importantly, reading lips.
A lot of people think I'm pathetic and weak, but I'm not.
Well, maybe I am. But I try not to show it.
I don't look at my teacher for another hour and a half, and I can feel the vibrations of the bell when class ends.
I stand up, collect my materials and leave the classroom that I've run since the beginning of seventh grade.
Another student waits at the door.
"Mark," I mutter underneath my breath. I've gotten pretty good at doing it so that no one else hears me, even though I technically can't tell if they have or not.
Mark looks me up and down and gives a shake of his head.
He's about as old as me, only 15, but I am still the rightful Queen of the school.
"Miss Smith wants you," he mouths.
I know of course that he actually said it, but I still say "mouths" because it makes the most sense to me.
I dip my head in acknowledgment and turn around to face the teacher.
I've never loved Miss Smith. From her name to her grades, she's an unjust and unfair teacher.
"Yes, Miss Smith?" I ask sweetly, tilting my head to one side for effect.
She glares at me and curls back her lip in distaste.
"You're failing my class again," she mouths.
I glare back at her.
"You're making me fail."
She looks down at her paperwork and clicks her tongue. At least, I think she does.
"You have so much potential," she starts back up again, "but so little time to harness it."
I roll my eyes. We've been keeping this charade up too long.
"Just get to the point," I snap.
She clicks her tongue again and pushes a book over to me.
"A Keeper Immortal?" I ask, reading the cover of the book. It looks thick, too long for me to read.
"If you read this front and back and write a perfect summary of the book, I'll give you a passing grade."
I widen my eyes as I flip through the pages. The print is so small! Why does the print have to be so small?
"Do we have a deal, Miss Carta?" she must have said, for when I look up, she's offering her hand to me.
I give her a puzzled expression and she repeats her question.
I nod, wanting to get out of seventh grade as soon as possible.
We shake hands and I leave the room, my nose already in the book.