She sighs with a curt nod. “Very well, then.”
If Mrs. Finch thinks the threat of detention is enough to deter me, she really doesn’t understand the scope of my stubborn streak.
No Brendon in detention this time, but the Indian girl from yesterday is there again. I sign in and sit down next to her. Today she has a single orange on her desk, but she isn’t looking at it. Instead she’s knitting something out of teal and purple yarn while reading a folded up newspaper. The only other person I know who knits is my grandma Doris. But this girl is good at it; she moves the needles in smooth, quick motions, in and out, in and out, not even looking down at her work as she reads. It’s oddly fascinating to watch.
I pull out my geometry assignment and get to work. Or I plan to, anyway, except five and a half problems in, the numbers start blurring together. I end up doodling spirals all over the page while I stare into space. I don’t mind detention, really. It’s boring, yeah, but it’s not like I have anything better to do. There could be way worse punishments. Mrs. Finch can suck it.
The girl next to me shifts in her seat, the chair legs scraping against the floor, and I glance up just in time to see the orange roll off her desk and toward mine. I put my foot out to stop it, then bend down, pick it up and extend it back to the girl.
“Thank you,” she says brightly. She takes it from me and peers at my open textbook. “Hmm. Asymptotes are so depressing.”
I stare at her, trying to figure out if she’s actually serious. She looks like she is.
“The curve goes toward the line, you know, and they get closer and closer, but they never get to touch,” she explains. She shrugs. “It’s just sad, is all.” She holds out the fruit. “You want my orange?”
I shake my head. The detention teacher shoots us a stern glare from behind her book.
“I’m Asha,” the girl hisses out of the side of her mouth, when the teacher’s buried her nose back in her trashy romance novel.
I look back down at my textbook, pretending to be absorbed in the nonsensical formulas and graphs displayed before me, but I can feel her gaze on me, like she’s expecting a response. I consider ignoring her; it’s what I would’ve done before. Normally I wouldn’t bother with some geeky freshman loser dressed in the most unfortunate fuzzy purple sweater I’ve ever seen in my life. I don’t associate with freaks.