Bewitched
“Hamilton takes his old seat at the far end of the table, out of range for whispered or mumbled slurs. Unfortunately, that doesn’t keep him from making asshat comments for the whole group to hear. Andrew doesn’t contribute to the discussion of the witch trials, and after last week’s outburst, I keep my comments to a minimum.
My only interaction with Andrew during class is when he loans me a pen after I can’t find one in my bag. It’s an old pen, maybe even antique, heavy and much fancier than my usual ballpoints. I’m tempted to write my name over and over on my notebook. Maybe even his name with a big sweeping W. Once again, I barely pay attention to the discussion. I’m still spaced out when class ends, and I find myself standing next to Hamilton.
“This class blows,” he says.
Not thinking before speaking, I ask, “Why are you even in this class?”
Hamilton’s gaze settles on my boobs, which are thankfully protected beneath at least three layers of clothing. “Duh.
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