I loved my history teacher, though he was a shitty teacher. He didn't call on boys and girls equally, either, everyone noticed. He called on me often, though, everyone noticed. I got a 69% on my midterm exam, and he let me come in to re-take it, which was cool. I almost didn't come in, I hate missing lunch, I love the cafeteria chocolate pudding and french fries so much. My parents never let me eat that shit so I have to get it where I can. But I went in; I made myself. He started to grade it right there, after I took it, and I picked up my jacket and backpack and kind of said, you know, OK, see you later, but he waved his hand with the pen in it and nodded no. I kind of stood there, it was awkward. He waved me to come over. He put the pen down and told me that I did much better on this test, which was good, because my grade in that class was getting bad, and a bombed midterm can be fatal. He kind of made this motion for me to come closer, and I did, and he talked like, into my ear.
Matt came into the class while he was telling me about my grade, and I thought Matt looked weird. His cheeks were blotchy and he was chewing on the inside of his mouth over and over. Anyway I got my stuff and asked him if I'd have my grade by end of the day, and he said, yeah, and I left. But when I got the girl's bathroom, I realized I forgot my red notebook on the back tables from earlier, and it had my next period homework in it, so I had to go back. I opened the door and that's when I saw, you know, the teacher with his hand in Matt's pants. Matt's jeans were like unzipped half way and he looked pretty fucking miserable. OK?