With only eight students, our Literatures class always looked empty. It was “indicative of this country’s disinterest in reading and lack of critical thinking,” our teacher, Miss Redmayne, always ranted.
At full complement, the class comprised six girls and two boys. When I arrived the other seven were already seated and discussing Don Birnham’s character flaws—we were reading The Lost Weekend.
Redmayne dismissed my excuse for tardiness with a flash of the hand, followed by, “Quickly, quickly, have a seat.” I took the one closest to the only other male in the classroom, my best friend, Christian.
Five minutes hadn’t passed before Christian asked, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing. What do you mean? Did you hear something?” I was panicked.
“You look like shit. Like your body forgot what sleep is,” he whispered.
I barely opened my mouth to respond before Redmayne looked over at us.
“Pay attention” she said, pointing at both of us. She was too gentle a soul to be intimidating. We continued our conversation through text: