She’s waiting for something. A nervous breakdown, a panic attack, a tirade full of big words and tears and emotions. But he just sits there, looking about as riled up as a dead guy. That gets on her nerves because this is really important. Why is it important? Well, because she thinks it seems like it should be; it has all the markers seen on TV: she’s upset, she’s yelling, they’re in public, she has all her friends on her side…. Why doesn’t he see how important this is? It strikes her that he simply doesn’t care about the conversation, which means that he doesn’t care about her views on the subject and he doesn’t respect her friends’ opinions and by not humoring her-UNDERMINING THEIR ENTIRE FRIENDSHIP-selfish and completely missing the point and-HOW CAN HE BE THIS IGNORANT-the whole time can’t handle it!!!
*she slowly returns to sanity as steam exits her ears*
Her friends lose interest, and she’s desperate to keep the closure going; she hasn’t felt this alive since six months ago, when she first read that great book that she never shuts up about. He’s still sitting there, little flecks of her spittle dripping down his face. But she’s sure he deserved that. With her verbal arsenal empty, she glowers at him from across the table. He stares back with those biting eyes, and she renames their shade Accusatory Green. She debates whether she should say “Stop staring at me,” but those words come uncomfortably close to “Don’t look at me,” and that could denote weakness; she decides not to say it.
He reaches across the table for his pen, and she has to restrain herself from grabbing it first. If she missed she would just look like a fool. He starts doing that super annoying pen-flip thing that he always does when he’s bored. It’s a sleight slight: he’s saying he’s bored with her!
*she loses it*
It now feels like a sauna, which is apropos, considering the fine mist she’s giving off. The fire alarm triggers. They’re all doused with water and ushered into the hall. As the door to their classroom opens, the mist collapses in on itself and whooshes out. Everybody in the hall sees where it came from, so she makes no attempt to hide her frayed hair or running makeup or crazy eyes. She views those things as battle scars, proof that she stood up for something as important as transgender bathrooms. Wait, that wasn’t it. That was from the day before. She struggles against the mental fatigue she now feels. She knows it was something political. But the answer eludes her until she barely remembers that it was something worth discussion.
The teachers, realizing that the alarms were just that girl from room 113 having one of her “moments”, herd their students back into their respective classrooms. But just then the bell rings. Forgetting she was ever mad (as tripolar, paranoid, psychopathic, occasionally homicidal individuals do), she turns and gives him a quick hug before she exits, leaving him to shake his head and wonder what he’s doing with his life.