or talented, or whatever they think about him. I’m just…whatever. Normal. Average. I used to be invisible. I miss those days.
The bell rings, and at the front of the room, Mr. Ames clears his throat. Rules and teachers and authority have never deterred Conor, and he immediately starts talking to me.
“You comin’ tonight? To our practice? We’re auditioning new drummers, since f’in’ Lockett went AWOL last week. What kind of monster does that? We have our first gig at the Orion next week, man, and he just up and leaves us ’cause he needs a job or some shit?”
I slide down in my seat as far as I can go without melting onto the floor. Why does Conor always have to draw attention my way? Ames is sending death glares at us as he begins to drone on about whatever the hell is on the syllabus today in dead-European-white-guy history.
I mutter my response under my breath as quietly as I can. “I thought he got his girl pregnant. That’s why he needs a job, no?”
Conor’s basically deaf, since he refuses to wear earplugs at his shows, so he has no idea what I just said and makes a confused face in response. I shake my head and mouth, “Never mind,” all exaggerated, but there’s no stopping Conor, not when he really wants something, and he says at top volume, “WHAT?”
Maybe he doesn’t really shout, but it sure as hell sounds like a cannon going off to my ears, and Ames appears to agree. He interrupts himself and marches over to our seats, bending down so he’s at eye level.
“Want to share whatever it is you’re talking about with the class, Simonsen? Since it’s apparently so interesting that it can’t wait?” Ames always sounds like he taught himself how to speak to students by watching crappy 1980s sitcoms.
Conor leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, while I wish to god that the floor would open up and swallow both my desk and me whole. I know Conor way too well, and I know he never just shuts up because a teacher tells him to….
“Not really, sir.” Conor’s voice is a full-on smirk.
Yup, I know Conor.
He’ll never just shut up.
Ames rolls his eyes at the ceiling. “Conor, it’s a new semester. A whole new year, amiright? I thought we agreed that you’d can the attitude come 2020? Guess that resolution didn’t stick?”
The class laughs, in part because they know Ames and Conor secretly love each other, in a they’re-so-alike-it’s-creepy kinda way.
“And.” He turns to me, and I pray again that the floor will swallow me. “You.”
I raise my eyebrows at him and try to channel Conor’s IDGAF attitude. I’m sure I just look constipated.
Ames shakes his head. “Zach, get better friends.”
The class roars. Ames walks back to the front of the room and Conor smirks.
As the noise quiets, I hear Matt whisper behind me, “Good luck with that,” and I want to die.
I’m walking out of the room after class when someone grabs my elbow. I know it’s Conor because no one else touches me these days—and I mean that both literally and figuratively.
“So, you comin’?” He nudges my arm with his elbow. Someone across the hall shouts to him, and he waves halfheartedly without even looking to see who it is. Oh, to be so cool and semifamous that you don’t even care who’s screaming your name.
I cock my head and shoot him a sideways glance. “Coming where?”
He lets out a sigh of exasperation, way dramatic, and replies, “To my practice, man, remember? Hello? I told you about it in class?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, I dunno.” We reach my locker and I swing my backpack around to do a quick book-related pit stop. Conor props himself against the adjoining locker, shooting me exasperated looks as I unzip my bag, unlock my locker, and start switching out books.
“Man, c’mon!” He puts his foot on top of my bag so I’m forced to stand back