Misdirection

"“Julius!” The all too familiar voice awakens from my in-class slumber session, along with a dream I was having of a winged, white Cadillac convertible I had symbolically named “Pegasus.” Of course it was just a dream…My car could fly!
I close my fist into a five-fingered ball, adjust the position of my torso to upright, pound my chest with the thumbed portion of my hand, and do my best to eject the frog from my throat that would reveal my past incoherence, and limit my decibel secretion.
“What’s up…A-hem!” I got the frog prince to come to the surface; “What can I do for you today Larry?” There was an immediate uproar from my fellow classmates as saliva drooped from the corners of my mouth and made the gradual progression toward my binder. When I came to the realization that gravity had begun to take its toll on my exterior water weight, I did my best to suck it in…but when it rains, it pours. I can usually create a vacuum with a combination of my lips, teeth, and tongue, but not this time. I may as well have been trying to suck up an orange through a straw.
Even more laughter arose, as the drool made what seemed like the eternal voyage to the blue, three-ringed binder that lay on the pillow I’d created out of my three-legged, rusty, metal desk. Taking my clenched fist off of my desk, I casually created a bib out of it, let out an infant of a yawn, and smoothly wiped the remaining slobber from my mouth and chin, while reluctantly with my other hand, sliding my fingers toward the “play/pause” button on the mp3 player that lay dormant in my pocket, so I could make a feeble attempt at listening to what this man was saying.
“Excuse me; How may I help you Mr. Thorn?” I questioned in a voice that was as awake as it was forced…kind of like that fake job interview voice. No response. He just stared down at me behind his thick, black Gucci glasses like a tree with no branches that he expected me to climb. He then leaned his weight onto his right leg, folded his arms across his chest, exposing his wrists and his overly-shiny, yet professional watch, and hiding a part of his tie and a few of his buttons of his collared, tucked-in, white shirt, and begin to tap the floor repeatedly with his Stacy Adams covered foot, which as I had observed from run-ins with other students, was never a good sign. Still getting no love, I sought out the counsel of my fellow classmates for help; perhaps a pair of shoulders to stand on as I begin my climb up this unconquerable oak.
After going through the stares of the “knights of the squares table,” someone finally decided to help me out. It was a friend of mine named “Candis.” I in fact thought she hated me because I had misspelled her name for over four years, but that’s another story. Anywho, she sternly and daintily, almost angrily to boot, turned both of her hands in to makeshift guns, and pointed repeatedly and jerkingly at the sides of her head where her ears rested. I dropped my head and shook it in shame…”Shit” I muttered in a barely audible voice, as I reached for my small, black, and apparently not-so-camouflage ear-bud headphones, yanking them from my ears. It hurt, but I didn’t care; I was already aware of my impending demise.
Through my northern peripheral vision, I could see that Larry’s position had shifted. He stood up straight as a politician as he leaned over my neighbor’s desk, and peered into my beautiful brown eyes with all four of his for a little under ten seconds before returning to an honest, upright position and slowly raising a fully flexed right arm with a pointed index finger attached to the end, toward the only exit in the classroom, minus the windows, indicating that he wanted me to leave the room. Too tired to walk, I scooted my chair back, looked toward the door, then back at Mr. Thorn, as I gracefully, and kind of homosexually raised my right arm and flexed my bicep, stretching my medium-sized, black and red “Mecca” t-shirt a bit, and then did that thing when you close all of your fingers consecutively, starting with your pinky, and ending with your thumb, but skipping the index finger…you know what I’m talkin’ about; and gestured toward the green, dusty, and partially covered chalkboard at the opposite end of the classroom as the door. The toe tapping ceased for a moment, and then began again shortly thereafter, this time more rapidly, and with more purpose.
At that point I folded up my pillow, which had obvious marks of sleep on its inner workings, along with the side of my face, which was pretty much rippling with the mark of the “Z demon.” Next, I leaned the upper half of my body toward the floor so I could get close enough to put it in my backpack, which was still on the floor, hiding from the action, and pushed in my chair, as a smug grin snuck across the stretch of my face. I then motioned to give the teacher an adult-like handshake. Initially, I didn’t think he would go for it, but he gave; his pose went from pointing to the door, to reaching out to engage in this handshake with me. “You have a nice day Mr. Thorn,” I stated, before letting go of his hand, and in a mildly nonchalant voice. Before I had time to pick up my companion off of the dust-covered floor and sling it onto my back, the words “Same to you Mr. Mason” echoed behind mine.
I then put on my backpack, took the seven steps it took to get to the classroom door, turned left onto the white and green tile-covered surface of the main hallway, and made my way to the combination of an interrogation room and solitary confinement that modern schools refer to as the principal’s office.