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“Page 457,” she said with a weary sigh. “Eyes on the book, please.”
Rolling my eyes, I turned my attention back to Molloy’s textbook lying open on our desk, the one I’d been using since the start of the year, and frowned when my gaze settled on one lone earphone.
The cord attached to it led back to the MP3 player balancing on Molloy’s lap under the desk, while the other earphone dangled from her right ear.
Picking it up, I discreetly popped it in my left ear, and listened as Puddle of Mudd’s “She Hates Me” drifted into my ear.
Lovely.
What a sweet way to serenade your boyfriend.
Fuck. My. Life.
Turning the page in her copybook, I watched as Molloy hovered over the page and scribbled something down before pushing the copybook toward me.
You’re an asshole.
Sighing heavily, I grabbed my pencil from behind my ear and quickly jotted down a response.
You’re only figuring that out now?
Reading over my words, she quickly put pen to paper and responded.
I was blinded by your big dick.
Shaking my head, I snatched the page up and wrote my reply.
So, you’re writing me notes and playing me love songs. Does this mean I’m out of the doghouse?
Her brow furrowed as she read my question and scribbled a furious response.
No, dickhead, you’re not out of the doghouse. Consider this note my version of throwing you a bone. As for love songs? Ha! You should be so lucky.
I smirked and wrote down a reply.
Yeah, well, this dickhead loves you.
You can’t write things like that.
Why not?
Because I’m trying to be pissed at you.
So? You’re always pissed at me, and I’m always loving you.
Okay, now you’re just being smooth.
Smooth like a Rolo?
Oh god, I’d love a packet of Rolos right now.
Check the front pocket of my bag.
“Aoife! Joseph!” A hand reached between us and snatched up the cord of the earphones, yanking the MP3 player away. Miss Murphy stood in front of our desk, MP3 player in hand. “What have I told the two of you about distracting each other in my classroom?”
“Do it quietly?” Molloy offered with one of her award-winning smiles etched on her face—the kind of smile that got her out of trouble on the regular. “Which we were.”
“Don’t do it at all,” Miss Murphy corrected, glowering. “Honestly, you two are old enough to know that bringing music into my class is not okay. This is your leaving-cert year,” she urged with a weary sigh. “Your last few months to revise as much as you can to get you both through your exams.”
