#just wanted to try revisting this as a writing exercise to see how i've improved

[moralesmilesanhour]

teamwork (makes the dream work...?) - the re-up!

summary: the very first chapter of TWMTDW, re-written! wc: 800-ish a/n: not sure if I'm going to do a complete re-write of the entire series because I'm rlly busy with school rn. but lemme know if you'd be interested! read the original here

Sunlight bounced off of the white and red walls of Ms. Jones’ classroom. The first cloudless sky in months made the class extra chatty, newly energized to gossip. You sat quietly one row away from the whiteboard while resting your chin in one hand and clicking a pen in the other. Your usual gossiping partner and best friend Tianna was out sick, leaving you sitting next to an empty desk.

The heavy-set, chestnut-toned woman clapped her hands in that familiar rhythm that told kids when it was time to shut up, cutting through the buzz of conversation. She pressed her lips together as she waited with clasped hands for the remaining chatter to die down. Her black curls were pulled back into a slick, tight bun that made you wince. You wondered if she got headaches from it the way you did on Sundays.

“Alright y’all, today we’re finishing up our unit on velocity and acceleration,” she announced, reaching for the pile of thick packets sitting next to the projector and thumbing through them. She counted off the number of students present under her breath as she did so.

“I need somebody to hand these out in exchange for a merit. Anyone?”

The offering of a merit at the tail-end of the sentence made several hands shoot up. Most of them were either gunning for a chance at earning a pizza party on Friday for racking up as many as possible, or just wanted the opportunity to walk around and be The Guy Who Hands Things Out. Sitting in a hard chair for hours a day made you look forward to any novel distraction that gave you an excuse to stretch your legs. After choosing a boy with rectangular prescription glasses and a jet-black fringe covering his forehead, Ms. Jones looked up from her now-smaller stack of papers and made eye-contact with you.

“You’ll need a partner to work on today’s packet, sweetie, why don’t you go pair up with Morales in the back–and just where are you going, young man?”

She craned her neck sideways to stare down a lanky, brown-skinned boy with twin braids brushing his shoulders. You turned to follow her gaze. He was halfway to the back entrance of the classroom when he stopped, tilted his head up towards the ceiling, and sighed so loudly you could hear it all the way from your seat.

“To the bathroom,” he groaned, as if he’d had to repeat himself at least twenty times before. You’d never seen him before in your period, but this seemed to be a frequently-waged battle.

“And what’s the proper procedure for that?”

It only took a couple strides for Morales to return to his seat and drop back into it with a force that pushed his chair back with a slight screech. He raised his hand.

“May I please use the restroom?”

“Yes, you may,” Ms. Jones replied with a triumphant grin. “And put your glasses on. Your mother told me to remind you.”

Already in the hallway, he called out, “I can still aim, I promise!”

This earned a few scattered snickers from across the classroom - that kid’s voice could really carry.

Jones rolled her eyes and turned back to you.

“You can move back in the meantime, honey.”

You grabbed your packet and pink pencil case as you quietly stood up, making sure to push your seat back in before making your way to your new hopefully-temporary seat.

Morales arrived some twenty minutes later, breaking your focus with the loud screech of his chair. His profile blocked out the warm sunlight you’d been getting from one of the big windows that ran along the left side of the classroom that saved you from the harsh chill of the air conditioner. He didn’t say a word the entire time, just began flying through the problems in the packet while you were still tussling with the second page. Physics wasn’t your strong suit, but it was clearly his. 

You let another minute pass awkwardly staring at him before finally speaking up:

“What’s your name?”

No answer.

“Hey, can I get your name please?”

His pen began to slow down, but he remained silent.

With an added harshness, you raised your volume one more time.

“‘Scuse me, sir, with the braids. I’m talkin’ to you–”

His head snapped up, and he gave you a nasty glare. “I heard you. You don’t see me workin’?”

Indignant, your mouth opened and closed before you found more words to say.

“Yeah, well,” you tried to maintain your abrasiveness, “Ms. Jones said this is partner work and you haven’t said anything to me since you got back. I don’t even know your name–”

“Morales,” he paused, then added, “Miles. And we not partners.”

Miles returned to his work on the second-to-last page of the packet, saying not another word to you for the rest of the period.