Oh look, it’s Friday again! Today’s flash fiction story has troubled me for quite a while, as I have started and stopped on it for weeks. I still don’t know how I feel about the end result, but maybe y’all will like it. Here we go…
Mean Girls asked how many people felt they’d been personally victimized by Regina George, never considering that someone like Sybille Lawson could be infinitely more lethal. Teachers adore her. Parents aspire for us to be like her. Little do they know that girl with the frizzy hair, lisp, and headgear is the most fear-rendering being at Summerland High.
As I enter our AP Calculus class, Sybille glares daggers at me from behind her coffee cup rim-sized frames, chewing on her pencil’s eraser. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I take a seat in the back corner. Today is the day I’ll die. After surviving almost thirteen years in elementary, middle, and now high school with Sybille Lawson, I had to let it slip within the last month of senior year.
I scored five points higher than Sybille on our last calculus test. I just put our twelve-years-running top academic student out to pasture.
I’m deader than fried roadkill at a redneck convention.
The bell rings, barely audible over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest. Our teacher—Ms. Smith—sets one toe in the classroom, and up goes Sybille’s awkwardly long arm. Ms. Smith rolls her eyes, mumbling under her breath as she approaches her desk, before finally saying, “Yes, Miss Lawson?”
Sybille straightens her posture, licking her braces-emblazoned front teeth before she begins. “Ms. Smizz, I reworked zhe bonus problem, and I know it’s cor—”
“Miss Lawson…” Ms. Smith runs her palm over her face. “I explained it to you yesterday afternoon, I explained in the office this morning… I even have Principal Heck as a witness…”
Sybille’s face reddens, her expression cold as it peers down at the top of her desk. Other teachers believe this is a reaction rendered by shyness or embarrassment. Only we know she’s silently plotting. Except, in this rare case. Ms. Smith, who’s eight years our senior, had to deal with Eustice Lawson in the past.
“But, Ms. Smizz,” she continues, hiding her face in her Dr. Who hoodie sleeve, “I’ve always been zhe zop szudenz! I’m the Valedizorian!” She either sniffles or wheezes, though both are common for her. The wheezes come naturally, but the sniffles are all a part of her act. And, right now, deep down, I kind of want her to get her way. Because, if she doesn’t, I could end up like Ms. Smith… and I’m not too keen about losing my academic scholarship to vet school over a last-minute faux cheating scandal.
“Enough, Sybille,” Ms. Smith barks, dropping her teacher’s edition textbook on her desk. She eyes me in the sea of students, her eyes pleading. “Cassidy Harland earned Valedictorian on her own merit. Let her have her chance.”
© Copyright 2017, Allyson Kennedy. All rights reserved.
Thanks for reading! I would also like to say that I’m torn about posting Flash Fiction Fridays every Friday right now, as the short stories are taking too much time away from my novels. How would you guys feel about Flash Fiction stories once or twice a month? Let me know in the comments!