Ficlets

I walk with Lauren to Social Studies. I feel like a prisoner, being led to the darkness of Europe history, by our prison guard, Mrs. Gueli, a.k.a. Mrs. Europe-history-is-so-interesting-I-can-sniffle-72-times-during-class.

“What’s up?” Lauren asks me. Sometimes I am appreciative of her intuitive nature, but not right now. “Nothing,” I say a little too quickly. She sighs. “Angela Filmer, I know something’s bothering you, now spit it out.” I look at her wistfully. I sigh, organize my thoughts, then I begin to talk. “It’s Mark,” Lauren makes a face but does not interrupt, “he never looks at me, while I spend the majority of Spanish, English, Art, and Lunch staring him. He never even glances my way.” Good old Lauren just rolls her eyes and says, “Ya think it’s cause you guys have never met before?”
“Oh,” I say. I’ve never though of it that way”