Page 35 of A Dead Man's B-Side
“... What do you mean?”
“Are you being thick on purpose?”
“Are you being thick on purpose?” Wolf mimicked in a voice that sounded nothing like my own. "Detention doesn’t last for six hours. You can uncurl your fists, Rocky.”
Our steps echoed as we neared our prison for the next hour. “I’ll be mentally drained by the end of it. Can’t make it.”
I shrugged and watched, in delight, as he bristled but didn’t retort with anything else.
Mr Browne, it appears, had forgotten about the detention he’d served us with only this morning. Having found him with his feet propped atop his desk and a newspaper open on his lap.
I lingered in the doorway before sending a look to Wolf. He shook his head in question, and I tilted my head down the hall.
He lifted his head in understanding and smiled. Though, we didn’t make it two steps before Mr Browne’s voice sounded out into the hall, “Don’t even think about it.”
Both of us froze, and Wolf turned to me with wide eyes. “You think he has eyes hidden behind that hair?”
I grumbled and pushed past him. “Shut up. Always getting us caught.” I mumbled the last part but made sure he heard me.
Mr Browne didn’t look up from his paper when we shuffled in. “Take your seats.”
When we did, both in the first row as Wolf slid into the seat next to mine, to my dismay, Mr Browne folded his newspaper and threw it atop his desk with a careless flick of his wrist.
He straightened and stood, coming around his desk to lean back against it and face us. I would have taken the act as a threat, but something about Wolf’s presence calmed me. Reminded me that I wasn’t going into the wolf’s den alone. “Now, I would have you serve your detentions quietly, and maybe the silence will stick and follow you into our next class.”
Wolf’s shoulders slumped in relief before hiking up at Mr Browne’s next words, “Normally, I would. However, something tells me that won’t work with you two. So, I’ve decided that labour will do you both some good.”
I snorted and turned to Wolf; he did the same, as we spoke over each other.
“I can define labour for you, if you’d like.”
“This should be a stroll down memory lane for you.”
By the end of it, Wolf’s expression soured from the smug expression he had not moments ago, but I only smirked. If running was considered labour, then I would be a top employee, but unlikeAugust’s family of blue-collar workers, mine wouldn’t know an honest day’s work if it flushed their drugs down the toilet.
“Charming,” Mr Browne didn’t look the least bit impressed, a pursed smile pressing against his lips at what he might’ve gotten himself into. “As much as I’d love to sit and watch you two quarrel for close to no reward, I do have affairs to get to, and this classroom won’t clean itself.”
“Isn’t there staff for that?” Wolf asked dumbly, a bit snidely, might I add.
“Yes, indeed, there is, but it would make their day to know that there are still kids out there who appreciate their work.” Mr Browne shrugged with a faint, almost amused smile as he raised his brows before returning to his newspaper and plopping down onto his chair, right back into the same position we found him.
When none of us moved, he eyed us from the edge of his paper. “Well… the class won’t clean itself.”
I looked around and spoke directly to Mr Browne, for the first time since walking in, “What exactly are we meant to do?”
From where I sat, the class looked more than tidy. Save for the words on the chalkboard, but that would take less than a few minutes to wipe away.
I apparently said the wrong thing because that turned his attention to me. He didn’t speak for what felt like minutes, but realistically it’d only been barely a few seconds.
He didn’t share the same smile he’d sent Wolf, no, for me, he narrowed his eyes and spoke slowly, “Put all the chairs on top of thedesks, clean the board, organize those shelves over there.”
He gestured with a tilt of his head to a series of shelves with buckets of stationery and books. I had to admit, upon further inspection, the classroom did need some work. Many, if not all desks were at least, to some small degree, skewed.
Outside of their eerily perfect order.
He eyed me for a moment longer, and with his gaze too heavy to hold, I turned away until, in the corner of my eye, I watched him slowly lift the newspaper over his face once again.
I needed to get out of here.
