Daisy could not be any creepier today. I swear, it’s as if he knows that I fear him. But it’s not just me being paranoid! Merry, Franky, and Lillith all think that he hates them. And Franky mentioned that there is something odd about him. Boy, do I agree.
He said my name again today. The fact that he knows my name and that he uses it scares the crap out of me. We were about to split into 4 teams to play Jeopardy in order to review for our Religion test (that I should be studying for right now). Teachers usually like to count off people. You know, start with one person as one, the next person is two, then three, then four, and back to one. Then all the ones go to one corner, twos to another, etc.
For some bizarre reason, Daisy started with me. Which makes no sense because I sit in the middle of the back of the classroom.
Like I said before, HE KNOWS.
I probably would have been fine with it if he started with me and just moved on, but nooooo. He had to add in this completely creepish line.
Daisy: Let’s see. Why don’t we start off with Mimi today? She’ll be number one. –insert creepy chuckle here- Well, isn’t she always?
What was THAT? Really, just what was that? I can’t STAND getting comments like that, even if they’re only playing. My self-esteem is so off the charts — “off the charts” as in, it’s so low it’s practically non-existent — that I immediately think people who say things like that to me are merely making fun of me. Daisy barely knows me, and yet he goes and says something like that? It caught me so off guard that I felt the blush spread up my face like a wildfire. The girls in that class did not help my situation when they, PROBABLY FOR NO OTHER REASON THAN TO FURTHER MORTIFY ME, collectively awwed.
Of course, it doesn’t comfort me at all that there’s this teeny, persistent voice in the back of my mind that’s telling me about how Daisy is still relatively young, only in his late twenties. How he’s sort of good-looking. How half his students think the same way. How I’ve always been drawn to older men. How his muscles are rather defined under his dress shirt. How his dimple appears when he smiles. How his voice is one of the sexiest voices I’ve ever heard coming from a man—
WOAH, WAIT, STOP RIGHT THERE. I do not like where this is going. I do NOT have a petty student crush on Daisy, even though I know many students who do (like Blaize, a former cheerleader who’s obviously madly infatuated with him). In fact, I don’t like him AT ALL. I FEAR the man, for crissakes. So what if I happen to find his voice attractive? I find lots of people’s voices attractive. Same thing with faces. Older men have always fascinated me. As do muscles. :D So this means nothing. His appearance doesn’t change the fact that he gives me the chills.
You know how in novels authors often describe the whole “heart leaping into your throat” thing? I had always found that phrase ridiculous. But after meeting Daisy and having talked to him, I’ve come to understand only too well that it can actually happen. It feels like my heart had literally climbed its way up my throat and is beating there steadily, obscuring my speaking voice with a noticeable quiver. I have to take more breaths in a sentence than usual because I suddenly find that my breathing has become too shallow and my throat too tight. And I end up talking really fast. Usually my speech is slow, lazy, drawling, but when I try to talk to Daisy it’s like someone pressed the fast-forward button.
I’ll still be keeping a close eye on him. I sure know he’d be keeping his eyes on me, that creep.
Well. Done with that. Time for English homework. Look, isn’t this challenging?
Argh, me + cameras = phail.
The new English teacher probably thinks we’re all morons. So she’s making us do stuff from a second grader’s workbook. I don’t like her very much right now.
I wrote a BRILLIANT one-and-a-half-page thank-you letter to this donor to my school. I felt so incredibly proud of it because it was so much better than last year’s letter. My soul was written into that letter. But then…!
Ms. English Teacher said it MUST be under a page. She came by with a pencil and started striking through many of the lines I spent a long time thinking up, just so I can get it under a page. I had to cut out so much that my once-brilliant letter became this piece of choppy garbage that I wouldn’t even use to wipe my tables. In that letter I talked a lot about wanting to be a writer, but after all that teacher made me erase, the donor would think that I’ll never make it as a writer with those terrible writing skills.
I would rather eat grass than send this letter out. Yes, of course I’m exaggerating. But my point is proven.
Until next time,
~ Nana >:(