Fortune favors the bold until she doesn't.
The first week has passed, still in the kind of sleepy calm that is typical of first weeks, when the pleasant warmth of summer is still in the air and even the teachers are not in much of a mood to teach.
The dim hum of the classroom filled the air as I sat back in my chair, trying my best to ignore the disaster unfolding beside me. Alex, bless his heart, was staring intently at his notepad, his hand moving in dramatic flourishes as he scribbled furiously. Literature class was supposed to be about analyzing the greats, but today it seemed to be more about Alex's budding career as a tortured poet.
"Be honest, Shay," Alex said, his voice dropping to a serious tone, one that clearly belonged in a sappy romance novel. "Do you think this line captures her essence?"
he cleared his throat, then read aloud, giving every word a melodramatic twist.
"'Your eyes are like twin moons, pulling the tides of my soul.'"
I stared at him for a moment. What was I supposed to say to that? I couldn't decide if he was trying to summon the great poets of old or simply asking for humiliation.
"Her essence?" I said, unable to stop myself from leaning forward slightly. "No. But it does capture the essence of bad decisions."
Alex's face twisted in mock offense.
He glared at me with that exaggerated pout he used when he thought I was being too harsh.
I glanced at the paper he handed me with the grace of a man about to be forced into reading a torture device disguised as love poetry. As I flipped it over, something caught my eye. My first thought was that it was a glitter bomb—a little too sparkly for my taste—but then I realized it was the actual letter.
"Why is there glitter on this?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. I'm pretty sure my deadpan expression was at its peak, but Alex didn't seem to notice. "Please tell me you didn't bedazzle your confession letter."
Alex's face lit up with the proudest grin I'd ever seen. "It's called effort, Shay."
I stared at the page again, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. There were words, sure, but they looked more like the aftermath of a toddler getting into the craft supplies.
It's called a cry for help, I thought to myself, but didn't say aloud. Instead, I leaned back, careful not to spill my coffee as I fought back the urge to laugh at the sheer audacity.
Alex crossed his arms, the pout deepening. "Come on, be serious. I've put a lot of thought into this."
I almost snorted. "If I'm being serious, the only thing this line captures is... how deep you're in trouble. And I think your next step should be a counseling session."
He threw me a glare, but I could tell he wasn't really mad. If anything, he seemed entertained by my cruelty.
"Well, it's not like you have any better ideas," he shot back.
"True," I admitted, shrugging. "But I'd rather not have my artistic efforts compared to glitter-infused tragedies." I sighed, pretending to be more concerned than I actually was.
Alex's smirk faltered, but only for a second. He was already thinking of his next over-the-top dramatic line. Maybe I was the one who should be worried. With the way Alex was going, I was pretty sure he'd have plenty of time for poetry, but cooking wouldn't be his priority.
Alex continued to fawn over his own words, completely oblivious to the disaster unfolding on the desk. As he gestured dramatically with his paper, the corner of it flicked up, sending a shower of glitter onto my desk. The tiny, iridescent specks caught the light like miniature stars—except they were now scattered across my carefully organized workspace.
My eyes narrowed. "What the actual fuck?"
I stared at the glitter now scattered across my desk—on my papers, my pens, and—when I looked down in horror—on my hands.
I sighed, the kind of deep, resigned sigh that suggested I'd been here before. "I'll be back. I need to wash my hands. There's glitter everywhere."
Alex, still lost in his poetic world, didn't even look up. "You're overreacting, Shay. It's just a little bit of—"
"I don't care if it's a little bit," I interrupted, glaring at the mess. "I don't want glitter on my hands for the next three days."
I stood up, already irritated, and made my way to the nearest sink with slow, unhurried (alarming) steps. Scrubbing at the glitter, I could already feel the annoyance building. Glitter was like bad decisions—it stuck with you, no matter how hard you tried to get rid of it.
About five minutes later, I approached the classroom with quick (thunderous) steps and carefully closed (slammed) the door behind me.
"What's wrong with you?" asked Alex.
"What do you mean, my dear Alex?" I said using my trademark dangerously sweet tone then let it drop to a cold snarl. "What's wrong with me is that I'm covered in glitter, and I swear to whatever gods might still be listening, I'll end this friendship if I find more of it on my desk."
Alex looked at me, unfazed as always, but I could see a tiny glint of mischief in his eyes. "Oh, come on, Shay, it's just glitter. It's not like it's the end of the world."
"The end of the world would be easier to handle than the eternity of sparkles on my desk," I muttered, sitting back down and glaring at my now-bedazzled papers. I ran my hand through my hair, only to end up with a shiny residue of glitter that I could already feel clinging to my scalp.
Alex leaned over, peering at my desk with a grin. "It's kind of pretty, though, right?"
I gave him a look that could have melted steel. "I'm about to throw you out the window, Alex, and if you leave a trail of glitter behind you, I swear I'll make you clean up every speck."
"Oh, don't be dramatic," Alex said with a laugh, completely unfazed by the threat. "You've got a little sparkle on you. It suits you, anyway."
"Yeah?" I said with the kind of tone that would have made a first-year student run for the hills, fearing they were about to be ritually sacrificed in some kind of pagan ritual.
Before Alex could blink, I grabbed the glitter jar with all the subtlety of a bear ransacking a picnic, and without hesitation, I upended it over his head. The glitter rained down like some cursed confetti, sticking to his hair, his shoulders, and most tragically, his smug grin.
Alex froze for a second, his face going from amused to genuinely confused. "Wait, what—"
"You were so sure it suited me," I said, my lips curling into a dark smile, "so I thought I'd share the love."
Alex reached up and gingerly touched his hair, his fingers coming away coated in a fine dusting of sparkles. His eyes narrowed in disbelief, then flicked back to me. "You seriously just... put all of it in my hair?"
"Yep," I said, savoring every second of his horror. "You said it suited me. I just thought it would suit you better."
He opened his mouth, no doubt preparing a dramatic rebuttal, but then looked down at his hands—now also glitter-covered—and sighed. "You really know how to ruin a guy's day, don't you?"
"Just returning the favor," I shrugged, leaning back in my chair.
Alex slowly began to brush the glitter out of his hair, but the sparkle remained stubbornly, like some kind of magical curse. "This is never coming out, is it?" he muttered.
I leaned forward, crossing my arms and giving him a smug smile. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe next time you'll think twice before making my space look like a craft store exploded."
We both headed to the washroom, the glitter still gleaming in our hair like some cosmic accident. Alex's steps were slow and deliberate, like he was hoping the sparkle would just disappear by sheer willpower. But I knew better.
We stepped into the cramped, fluorescent-lit bathroom, and I immediately turned on the tap. I grabbed some paper towels, dampened them, and began scrubbing at my hands with the kind of intensity usually reserved for cleaning bloodstains. But, of course, that was futile.
I'd scrubbed for five minutes straight before I looked up and saw Alex, still standing under the harsh lights, trying to shake the glitter out of his hair.
"Do you see this?" he said, gesturing wildly at his reflection. His hair looked like a disco ball had exploded on his head. There was no escaping it.
I couldn't help but laugh at the sight. "It's like you fell into a glitter pit."
"I feel like I did," he said, sighing deeply. "I've got it in places I didn't know I could have it. I'll be finding glitter in my ears for the next month."
I walked over to him, squinting at his hair. "Honestly, you could pass for a high-budget Christmas tree ornament."
He shot me a deadpan look. "Thanks, Shay. Really. I'm sure that was exactly the image I was going for."
I grabbed a handful of paper towels and began dabbing at his head, attempting to remove some of the glitter. But with every attempt, it only seemed to shift around. The sparkle seemed to multiply rather than disappear. It was hopeless. The more we tried to clean up, the worse it got.
"You know," I muttered, "I think we're just going to have to own it. We're sparkling now. It's our new look."
Alex looked at me, his face a mix of exasperation and acceptance. "I hate you so much right now, Shay."
We exited the washroom, both of us still shimmering like we'd been dipped in a bottle of cheap, holiday-themed craft supplies. As we walked down the hallway, I could feel the eyes of other students on us, probably wondering if we'd been part of some elaborate glitter accident.
"Just remember," I said, my voice dripping with sweet revenge, "this is your fault."
Alex shot me a look of mock menace. "Next time, I'm using glue and feathers."
"Can't wait," I said, grinning all the way down the hallway.
After that, my favorite teacher made the announcement that delighted the class: the dreaded pairing up for the drawing assignment. Because I was sitting in an art class, the only class that could have driven me out of my universe.
When I heard my name followed by that one, devilish word that had the uncanny ability to make everything feel miserable, my remaining will to live evaporated. As the seconds passed, I started to understand what had just been said, and the thought of throwing myself out the window—headfirst just to be sure—no longer felt so dramatic.
Meanwhile, the teacher droned on with the announcements of doom like some ominous background music to a Z-rated horror flick. I sat there, defeated, contemplating how badly I wanted to punch the inventor of the school system in the face. Why couldn't I just be paired with Alex?
And then, as if I weren't already on the edge, the teacher revealed the task: "You'll choose your own subject, but remember, both drawings must come together to form one cohesive piece." I could practically hear my brain scream "nope" as my head collided with the smooth surface of the desk.
Alex, turning toward me, likely intending to offer some form of encouragement, faltered when he saw the dark aura radiating off me. The pep talk died on his lips. Instead, he tried a different tactic.
"If it helps, I'll buy you something to eat after class," he offered, his voice laced with concern. But I was too busy trying to figure out how to escape. Maybe I could fake being sick?
Alex repeated himself, and after a moment of hesitation, I lifted my head, finally willing to make eye contact.
"Yeah," I muttered, and he shot me an encouraging smile before heading off to find his partner.
I glanced around at the faces of the poor souls who seemed unreasonably happy about the prospect of doodling the afternoon away. Unlucky bastards. And now, one of those bastards was about to sit across from me. The unfortunate soul who would be forced to endure my tortured existence for the next hour.
The unlucky bastard sat down opposite me. He smiled, the kind of soft, polite smile you give when you're trying to be kind but also a bit embarrassed.
"Er... hi," he said, a touch of unease in his voice. That was Misfortune Mose, all right.
I raised an eyebrow
"Hello," I replied, my tone flat. To further cement my utter lack of interest in cooperating, I folded my arms across my chest.
Mose looked at me, probably wondering if I was about to break out into a dramatic rant, but then his gaze shifted, and that's when he saw it: the faint sparkle of glitter on my arms. His eyes widened ever so slightly as he glanced at me—then the desk—and finally my hair.
He didn't ask. He just looked at me with disgustingly sympathetic eyes. He didn't say a word, but it was clear he had already made up a dramatic backstory in his head.
Mose, ever the eager beaver, took it upon himself to gather the necessary materials for us both—paper, pencils, chalk, and even a piece of wood to which he attached his paper. The amount of effort he was putting into this assignment made me wonder if he was secretly trying to earn a gold star for being overly diligent.
"So, what shall be our theme?" he asked, looking at me with that hopeful, earnest expression that screamed 'I'm going to make this work, even if it kills me'.
I glanced up at him, sighed dramatically, and let my gaze drift back to the window. "Dunno," I mumbled, hoping the universe would find me a good excuse to skip this assignment.
"What would you like to draw?" he pressed, still grinning like a puppy who hadn't been told no in years.
"Honestly?" I said, "Nothing."
I let out another sigh, this time more resigned. "It's going to be difficult..." he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. "How about we both just do some random sketches and then figure it out?"
"'Kay," I shrugged, not really caring either way.
Mose immediately dove into his drawing, his pencil moving with purpose. Meanwhile, I spent the first ten minutes of class staring out the window, watching the clouds lazily drift by, while occasionally doodling stick figures with absurdly large heads. It was therapeutic, in a 'why am I here' kind of way.
"So..." Mose began suddenly, breaking my trance.
"What?" I looked up at him, mildly annoyed at the interruption.
"I think I'm ready," he announced, beaming with pride.
"Uh-huh," I hummed, too distracted by the view outside to give him the attention he was craving.
"Don't you want to see it?" he asked, his voice laced with confusion.
I sighed deeply, not really in the mood to be polite but hoping that if I glanced at his "masterpiece," he would leave me in peace for a while. I stood up, walked over to his desk, and leaned over his shoulder.
On the paper, I discovered some small sketches. There was a still life that he had cut in half with a thick line, marking the two separate sheets, and some landscapes similarly cut in half. I stuck to the first one, as it seemed the simplest.
"Let it be this one," I muttered.
He stared at me, baffled. "Wait, what about your ideas?"
I pushed the paper in his direction, offering him the slightest smile that barely concealed my indifference.
He grunted in response. "All right, still life it is."
Just as we were about to settle into our new artistic destiny, the teacher chimed in, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the classroom.
"All right, youngsters, is everyone agreed on the theme?" he asked, looking like he was already regretting his decision to teach.
When the class gave their unanimous nod, the teacher's grin stretched wider, and I could almost see him imagining a world where we were all actually interested in our drawings.
"Then, for the rest of the lesson, start the real work," he instructed, clearly underestimating the amount of effort I was willing to invest. "And finish the drawings at home."
The next few minutes were a blur of sketching armpit hairs on stick figures as I considered the hopelessness of the situation. Then the bell rang.
Praise be, there is a God!
I practically shot out of my seat, nearly knocking over my chair in the process. The moment I was free, I made a beeline for Alex.
"Let's eat," I said with a far too enthusiastic grin, as though my entire existence hinged on this one moment of freedom.
"Okay," he nodded, seemingly unfazed by my sudden burst of energy. And just like that, we were off—escaping the hell that was our art class, and heading straight for the only thing that could make my day remotely bearable: food.
"I see you've been paired up with Mose," Alex remarked casually, glancing over at me. "I hear he's good at drawing, so you'll manage just fine."
I sighed in concern.
Alex let out a mirthless chuckle at my misery, then added with a shrug, "Don't worry about the rumors, it's all just gossip, you know."
"Yeah," I muttered.
We headed downstairs, and I veered off toward the bathrooms, attempting to wash the glitter off my hands again. As I approached the door, I took a quick sideways glance down the corridor.
Mose was hastily moving toward the stairs, and I almost thought he'd forgotten something upstairs. But that idea was immediately shot down when a group of football players rounded the corner behind him, clearly after him.
Poor Mose, as if his day wasn't already bad enough, seemed to be trapped. The other half of the team had appeared on the stairs, effectively cornering him. One of the guys was about to shove him against the wall when the bathroom door swung open, hitting Brushhead square in the face. He crumpled to the floor with a thud.
"Oh, sorry!" I apologized feigning concern, "I didn't see you. Are you all right?"
I extended my hand to help him up, but he swatted it away, scrambling to his feet.
"Want trouble, mate?" the team captain growled, his massive frame towering over me like a storm cloud ready to strike.
"No, not at all," I said quickly, backing off. "I was just coming out of the bathroom! It was an accident!"
"Get out of the way," Brushhead snarled, shoving me aside as if I were nothing but a minor inconvenience. But by the time he turned back, Mose had disappeared.
"Where'd the nerd go?" Brushhead barked, looking around with a reddening face, frustrated by the sudden disappearance.
"I saw him run upstairs," I said quietly
Brushhead didn't bother processing who had spoken, his focus only on the information he craved. Without a word, he charged up the stairs, the rest of the team following like a pack of eager dogs.
I exhaled, turning to find Alex seated on one of the benches, holding out two slices of pizza for me. A grin spread across my face as the thought of food replaced all my irritation. I made my way toward him eagerly.
From behind the coffee machine, Mose peeked out cautiously and hurriedly moved away.