A Way With Words

this is old and bad and about speaking quite literally *jazz hands*

Evan glanced at Tom, who was taking up as much room as possible at his desk and staring balefully at the paneled ceiling. His hands were bent in mock-prayer over his knees. He nearly resembled an angry minister, if the minister forewent the flowing robes in favor of week-old clothing and a mop of cotton-candy hair.

He scared Evan at the moment. The storm in Tom’s eyes matched the thin line of his lips perfectly, somehow, and Evan knew he would be pulling something, anything, just to get out of class.

F****r.

“Tom.” The teacher, a portly man of thirty, stopped talking about asymptotes and tapped the boy on the shoulder. “What’d the ceiling ever do to you?” The class erupted in nervous laughter.

“Nothing.” Tom swung his legs under his desk, crossed his arms on the faux wood desktop. “You wanna get back on with the lesson? Do your job?” He spat out the word job like it was a cherry pit. It wasn't something to get out of class, but it hit the teacher and left a purple mark the size of a pimple on his face nonetheless.

The teacher turned around, lips floundering, hand drawing the smoothest sine curve Evan had ever seen.

And in that moment, Evan’s heart rammed against his chest.

Tom had such a way with words.