In a sea of dull school uniforms, I stood out like a sore thumb in my luminous pink t-shirt and jeans. No, not a sore thumb - a thumb that was just amputated from a disease-ridden hand. Free.
What a dump. How had I put up with three years in here?
On my way to the Principal's office, I passed by a kid getting pinned against a locker, and some girl scrambling all over the floor, retrieving books. Her head was down and I didn't see her face. As I passed, I gave a tattered-looking English novel a kick for good measure.
I didn't even hesitate before flinging open the door to Mr. Gregory's office.
He was sitting tensely at his desk, and looked up at me, stony eyed. The forty-something year old man was obsessive compulsive - there were probably members of the royal family who had rooms messier than his. I'd sat in front of his desk about three thousand times, and we was constantly shifting things around so that they lined up - pencils, pages, his photo frames.
"Darryl Jones!" he coughed; he may as well have said the name Michael Jackson, by the look of surprise and disbelief on his face as he stood up in as threatening a stance as he could muster. Which didn't say much. Pathetic man. "Where have you been all week? And may I ask the whereabouts of your proper school uniform?"
"Who gives a shit?" I asked, approaching his desk. The first signs of fear crossed his prematurely weathered face.
"I beg your pardon?" he gasped.
I had to hide a smirk. Karma had never been on my side. Looked like it was finally gicing me a break with this opportunity. Putting my hands on his desk, I leaned closer to his face.
"I SAID," I shouted, "WHO GIVES A SHIT?"
And with one strike I knocked everything from his desk. A glass shattered, a photo frame cracked, a pot of ink splashed against the pale cream wall.
As Gregory stared in utter shock, I said,
"Yeah, I'm dropping out, Gregory. See you around!"