Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

downhill side of puberty. You don’t know how immature fourteenyear-olds
can be until you’re stuck in a room with a bunch of them
for an hour.
The only thing that made World History, my last class before
lunch, bearable was hunky Mr. Sakola. He looks like some fifties
movie star, with a bright white smile, perfectly combed hair, and a
really cute dimple in his left cheek. He’s also as charming as Will
Smith—with an equally beautiful wife, if the framed pic on his desk
is any indication. The class, however, was another dumpload of
information. I took enough notes to fell an entire forest.
So, by fine I mean exhaustingly rotten, but I don’t say it.
“Good.” He smiles like a principal—wide and proud, his sophisticated
face cracking into sophisticated lines at the corners of his
mouth and eyes. “Any problems or questions?”
“No . . .” I say, but even that’s not true. “Actually, there is one
thing.”
He nods, encouraging me to clarify.
Though I have seriously considered not telling him this, I think it’s
in my best long-term interest to be as forthright as possible. After all,
I don’t want him out to make my life more miserable than it already
is. So, I suck it up and say, “I, um, tweaked my schedule a little. . . .”
He nods again. “In what way?”
“Well—” I swallow, hoping he doesn’t question my prerequisites.
“I traded Computer Applications and Biology for Art History and
Physics II.”
More nodding. What’s with all the nodding?
“As long as you keep up with your assignments, I don’t foresee a
problem. I just want to see you happy in your time here.” Now his
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