Funny Privilege
rated T * completed 11.4.23
“Brianna?”
Hoisting himself across her piles of worthless notes on the table, Lance eases his head into the platinum blonde’s eyeshot.
“Bri-Briii?”
Pencils and papers clink and clatter against the ground as he obtusely knocks shit over the desk in his motion. Is she gonna threaten to report him for sexual harassment again??
Her shoulders hike, she’s pissed. Ooh, hehe! The rush!
Perpendicular to his advance, her gaze curves him hard and her face turns straight toward the window. Wow, she’s not even giving him the time of day today. Phone notifications ding from the gadget in her hand and sprinkle salt into Lancer’s rejection. To top it all off, she scoots her chair back and kicks her legs in the other direction, turning her back on him.
Wow. Just like his mother! Any attention gratification is skillfully snubbed from his clutches. Huh… Women really are all the same.
He sneers. Whatever, feels good anyway. Reveling in the stupid expression smattered against his bracefaced lips, he’s pleased with his understanding that it’s gonna work at some point. Lancer is really fuckin’ good at being annoying. All six foot four of him is pretty hard to ignore, anyway.
It’s not even like he’s looking to talk. Not to a cootie-catching roastie, anyway— hell to the no. It’s just that Bri has this special knack for stonewalling nuisances in all the right ways… and that’s what makes her such an fascinating challenge, an excruciating human game.
Every time he tries, she doesn't respond. No matter what sequence of cheats he inputs, he can’t combo his way to the finish line. He’s pushed and pushed, brute-forcing to no avail— he can’t make it out of the bounds of the walls she’s put up around her twisted, tiny dykebrain’s code. So far, she’s one of the hardest games Lancer’s played yet.
It’s precisely why he has feelings for her. See?!
It’s easy to get excited while mashing a naughty lesbian’s buttons! There ain’t nothing like scoring dirty looks and mean stares from a bitch who wants nothing to do with you. But what the hell can he do to make her snap? How in the fuck can Lancer Iyengar-Walley get the new high score in Break-Bri Revolution?!?!
Hmmmm!
Hehehe…
His braces peek out his crooked and devilish grin. Like a whale getting beached after a tsunami of tard-juice overflowing on land, Lance’s upper body flops down across the surface of their desks. Crammed together to create a makeshift table, the weak stage design input by the professor becomes Bri-Bri’s great folly.
His elbows splash into her personal space by resting atop her handbag. Of course, L-word has got to drop his scruffy chin against his hands, all dreamy-like. Over her hiked-up defensive posture, Lance’s eyes breeze across her Instagram messages.
Nyeheh, he can see ‘em crystal clear. He’s fuckin’ made it to the bonus level. So many cute and dykey texts. Brianna is pulling like hell. He never expected Bri to be the type to strike through over three girls at one time.
“Who’s Greta?” he blurts with a snicker, leaning in closer.
Brianna flinches— Lancer smirks into the camera. This is the OK to push forward.
Press A to continue cutscene.
Lancer persists, “Your new girlfriend? I’d’ve never thunk you keep that many girls on your arm!! Are all gayfers like this, do lezzies drown in this much pussy? Tell me your secret, woman.”
Oh-ho. It’s beginning. He can hear the boss music now…
The spindly lesbian twitches in fury. She stiffens her back, arching her shoulders in defense— the chick even grips her phone like it’ll run away if she lets go. Hiding her text message means it’s GO time, and her wrath gives Lance enough gas to troll harder.
Loud and brainless as hell, Lancer shouts: “If you guys have a wet and sexyhot lesbo orgy in the girls’ bathroom, would you tell me where it is?!”
Before he can drink up any more sweet female reprehension, Bri snatches her bag leaving his elbows with only air to rest on.
Dunk.
“Owww-uu— Geez, play nice!” he groans, peeling his face off the table. Bri-Bri scoffs as he gingerly rubs his poor nose. She strides past her classmates’ surprised gazes and out of the door.
Lancer inhales the peach and aloe fragrance left in her wake. Mmmmm. He feels the scent pepper every gland in his nose… delicious. It covers up the stinky musk of what could potentially be titty sweat from one of her thirsty, lesbian girlfriends. He licks his lips in bliss.
“Oh, Bri. How I miss you already!” With a dreamy sigh, he rests his bruised chin onto a clammy palm.
Aren't girls so cute when they think you’re a degenerate?
“Lancer,” Shane deadpans, his disappointed gaze boring through Lance’s back. “You’re not seriously still this retarded, are you?”
“Fairly, yeah.” Lance maintains a perpetually-chimpy mood no matter what happens. “I’m just keeping myself entertained, what’s soooo… about that?” He wiggles his hands for much-needed emphasis. He wriggles over ‘til his butt hits the surface of the desk and dusts himself off, laid-down face-up to Shane’s disapproval.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“I saw Bri was texting some girls, aaaand I wanted to see who! D’oy.”
“Watching that made me want to kill myself.”
“Why, Shaney? Are you jelly or something?”
“Bri’s going to report you to the student conduct office. Again. You’re going to go to fucking jail.”
“Huh?! She wouldn’t do that,” Lancer frowns, splaying his fingers innocently across his chest. “We’re friends, and she thinks I’m cute! She likes my eyeliner. I like Brianna…”
“Sorry you had to watch that, bro,” Shane turns to his classmate in the seat beside him for an SOS. Shane’s face is so apologetic, you’d think he injured the guy.
“You guys seem like old friends.” Shane’s new favorite Mexican has bleached-bronze hair and the complexion of a tanning booth advertisement. His reserved voice tries to diffuse concerns surrounding his political alignment. Lancer won’t be fooled, though. Pesky liberals, raping his damn countryside!
Shane takes the defense, recoiling in embarrassment. “No! I knew him for a school year in high school, th-that’s all. Frankly, I’m shocked that this fucker’s back in my hair again.”
Lancer absently plays with a strand of greasy and purpley-dyed hair, hiding his sarcastic indignation. “Four years, Shaney-kins.”
Shane twitches like there’s a humongous shard of broken glass stuck underneath his lower-eyelid. “Please don’t call me that.”
“His sisters still ring me up sometimes! How can I pry the ladies off of me, man?! Help me!”
Shane smoulders and scans the new guy’s face for a reaction.
“Lancer has… a disability, Austin. It makes him do stupid things. They were worried about him.”
“They’re scary girls…”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Austin blinks, measuring his gaze slowly between the topsy-turvy mixed kid and Shane’s gangly and anxious grimace.
“What school are you guys from?”
“Fairchild,” they respond simultaneously. Austin cuts his eyes, glancing between the boys and the rest of the room.
“Okay… Noted.”
Lance sits upright and lifts a quizzical brow. “What’s wrong with Fairchild?”
Immediately, Shane tries to eliminate Lancer and his inquiry from view by opening up his laptop and blocking his visage with the lid.
“Austin, what school did you go to?” he asks, smiling all pretty.
“I’m not from here, actually. I’m from Texas.”
Shane chuckles. “Ahaha! I knew you had an accent! I was wondering, ‘is there a bit of cowboy in this guy?’ Ah haha.”
“I have an accent?”
“He doesn’t really have an accent, Shane.”
“Lancer, please…” Shane grits his teeth and cuts his eyes. “Don’t you have a sexual harassment report to worry about?”
“Sooorrryyy, I’m booored! I just wanna know why Austin came to this shitfestival, and not some special cowboy school in Texas.”
“Uh, I’m a student athlete. I’m here on a full-ride scholarship.”
“Seriously? Me too! Don’t pay that guy any attention, by the way— rule of thumb! You saw what he did to Brianna.”
“Hey, Texas hasn’t even gotten the chance to meet me!” Lancer interjects, crossing his legs and leaning back on his arms. “I don’t play sports, but I do game harder than that bozo ever could.”
“Uh, that isn’t a flex, stupid." Shane rapidly adjusts his laptop's lid, quickly blocking Lancer's face peeking from every angle. "A-anyway, you got bought by the Knights? For what sport? That's really sick, you know. They're gonna pay me to play soccer."
"Track," Austin says, averting his gaze and brushing his locks behind his squared-off and little hipster shoulders. "They told me I run fast, so I got the spot."
"No fuckin' way! I run like crazy, too," Shane enthuses, stumbling over his own words. "Y'know, when this doofus isn't eating our goddamn braincells, we could race the track. I bet I could outsprint that whole team."
Lancer doesn't care about sports! He rolls his eyes, returning to his own devices like all the other NPCs sparsely layering the rows of the lofty lecture hall— Lance barely knows this smug Mex fellow. But his tsundere friend on the right, Shane Hiddengrove, has been in his corner since ninth grade. There’s no way he’ll be shaking Lance anytime soon.
Proudly, Lance kicks up his feet on the chair in front of the table, crossing them and leaning back in his most relaxed pose. The desk is hardly big enough for his whole upper body so his arms tucked beneath his head hover over its edge— still, he shuts his eyes and paints himself as the chillest guy in the room. Really, Lancer is so comfy, he could fall asleep right here. Then a crumpled ball of paper thwaps against his nose.
“‘The hell? Kinda high school of you, Shane.” Annoyed, Lancer unravels the paper and finds fancy cursive handwriting chiding at him like a mean teacher.
Class is starting in two minutes. You know the professor is going to report you at breakneck speeds if you don’t put your ass back in the chair. Class-clownery is over, you dumbass! Everyone here has paid to be here, and no one’s got time for shenanigans. I’ve got less time to put up with being seen near it.
Lance grabs one of Brianna’s stray girly Sharpies and scribbles his own note back—
KISS MY ASS
—and nails it square between Shane’s beady eyeballs.
“Bullseye,” he snickers as Shane pries it open to witness its glory, then rips it clean in half. He rips it again and again and again until little bits of paper pile in his hand. Lifting it in front of his dainty shitlips, he takes a big blow and sends loose-leaf confetti raining down on Lancer. But Lance makes no move, he’s unfazed. Contrary to his love letter, Shane is taking plenty of time to play along with his nonsense. Hasn’t this dunce ever heard of “don’t feed the trolls?”
Oh, Brianna’s back. She stiffly strides down to her desk with no intention to sit down. Beneath all the paper snow, Lancer cranes his body over to face her stony gaze. She’s returned prepared for battle, he assesses— she completely avoids ocular contact with any pixel of his person. She quickly scoops up her possessions, presumably to escape the hot seat of his afflictions— he’ll have to play fast and hard if he wants a victory, or at least a draw. Before the window for a jab closes entirely, Lancer hastily throws one last fly ball into her field.
“How was the bathroom make-out session? Sometimes, I wish I was a lesbian. I just feel like lady-kissers have it better!”
But before he could even finish the mad-dash to home base, Bri had already dumped all her things into her head-sized handbag and turned face-heel 180 degrees away from him. The end of his quips splatter against the back of her ALL MEN ARE SHIT-embroidered denim jacket. Oof, critical snub! She aloofly marches away, leaving Lance’s quivering smirk facing an empty desk. Shane could take some notes from her, broad’s a max-level troll-starver.
“Now I’m all alone,” Lance sighs rich with sarcasm, reverting to his blissful position of complete and utter comfort. He pops open an eye, just to peek reactions— Shane looks like he’s going to suffocate and die from second-hand embarrassment, and Austin hasn’t taken a look at either of them since the last time he spoke. Lancer can hardly stifle his laughter; they’re both so priceless, it almost feels like he’s back in his glory days!
But Lancer will never go back to those tumultuous times. Never again. There’s funny, and there's crime. He’s well aware of the fine (very thin) line between the two, and he’ll sooner retire from trolling altogether than walk the tightrope of blurring that line again. He shuts his eyes, reveling in the sweet, sweet relief of comedy.
“Sir, what is your name?”
His eyes pop open again. Right, class is about to start. Or… is now starting. Who’s this Betty? With huge milking jugs, sweet Jesus' chess-pieces!
“Lance Walley-Iyengar. The first.” Why’s this lady need to know, unless she’s offering him to grab those handlebars? He raises his eyebrows and smirks. “This seat is free, by the way.”
“Mister Wallengard, I’m going to have to ask you to use your chair as a chair and get your behind off of the table.”
His lip kind of curls at the mispronunciation and he sits upright, ass still fat and pressed against the desk.
“It’s Iyengar,” he corrects, sounding out every syllable for her. “And, on grounds of what? Are you Greta? What are you doin’ here? You taking up for your girlfriend Brianna or someth…” Well upright, Lancer could now read the name on the front of the lanyard placed in front of her titties.
“...you’re Professor Nelson…”
“Yeah, that I am. Take your seat or we’ll have more problems than this first impression, freshman.”
“Okay, noted.” Lancer defeatedly slides his ass off the table and slumps into his chair as paper snow prances off his jacket. He’s sitting in it backwards; his spine rests against the table and his knees arc over its back, but Professor Nelson leaves him to sort out the rest of it himself. His face heats up like a microwave as he gulps down his L. He grips his sweltering impulse to call her a milf before she slinks down to the front of the hall, but hell no is Lance gonna get on her bad side and waste his tuition. Failing a college course is like financial suicide, and his mom back home doesn’t need anymore of that. Geezus, Lancer— bad start, bad start! For a moment, Lance wishes he could load another save file, Christ on a bike— that one wasn’t even funny, it was just cringe.
Well, it was kinda funny that now the professor knows Bri’s a dyke. Haha. Chick must be malding from wherever she is.
“Wow, Lance,” Shane starts bitching again in a hushed voice. “That was an epic fail.”
“Shut up!” Lancer hisses back. “You would’ve thought she was a student too. She’s got them youthful graphics, man…”
“But I recognize Professor Nelson because I’m not the one who tried to organize a Smash tournament in the middle of student orientation. I hope you and your other little gayyy-mers had fun not meeting your professors and understanding the work expectations of the semester, but I’m fully prepared.”
“I did, actually. Made lots of new friends I will cherish for a lifetime.” Lancer sniffles for dramatic effect. Shane scoffs and points his finger at his pencil and paper.
“Wooing sexy professors starts with being a good student during class hours. Hoe-collecting is for off the clock, Lancer... when will you ever learn. I’d sooner score Nelson’s private cell number after class than after the bell just rang.”
“Yeah, yeah, you, you, you. There’s no bells in college, shit-for-brains.”
“It’s figurative speech, dumbass!”
“Would you shaddup for real?! We’re about to start!”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Shane gripes back, pointing harder at his work. Lancer scrambles to neutralize his sitting position, butt forward and gangly long legs to each side under the table. He looks sort of silly at first glance, but at least now his back isn’t on the table. Progress, progress. How to be a normal student… Hmm. He’s never done that one before.
“Welcome to Intro to Remedial College Mathematics.”
Nelson’s lackluster introduction marks the cessation point for all trolling. No more trolling past this line. All trolls found trespassing beyond this territory will be shot point-blank, punished on sight. The wages of trolling is death. Abandon all hope all trolls who enter here. Stop. Trolling. Now.
But none of this logic means anything to Lancer when he receives auditory stimulus and it’s like his lips move automatically, robotically to punctuate it with a handsome and snarky quip so gamer it’s worth one thousand points.
“Wow, we’re in the retard class. What happened to calculus?” He slaps his hand over his mouth immediately after— seriously, he didn’t mean to let that slip out. Mom’s going to hate him when she finds out about how quick this professor snipes the shit out of his grade.
“Please shut the fuck up,” Shane mumbles, gripping his face in his hands. Surprisingly, that one scored a few chuckles from the other faceless NPCs. Fucking win, but fucking lose for Lancer’s self-control.
“Sorry, that was an impulse. I’m a Gemini,” Lancer says out loud. “Covering my mouth now. Please carry on, ma’am. Your blouse is beautiful, by the way.”
Nelson gives him the most callous stare he’s ever received from a woman in his entire life. Maybe it’s because she’s thirty or forty and has had twenty more years than Brianna to perfect her misandrist evil eye on freshman riffraff like him, but damn— girls thinking you’re a degenerate hits so different when they’re old enough to push you out of their pussy! Much more exciting this way. It’s like getting spankings as a kid, but not traumatizing!
Engaging with trauma in an enjoyable vacuum separated from reality and consequence might be a little too redpilled for a college setting, but Lancer would get into that some other time.
“When you’re done reminding the class you’re going to be a college dropout within the next two months, I’ll finish my brief introduction to the course and get started with our unit.”
Oof. Students start ooh-ing at that one, and Lancer recognizes the ooh as the universal socio-cultural indicator of a sick burn. He can’t clap back at that one lest he dig his coffin a deeper hole and bury himself in it, but his lips overtake the will of his brain. Betrayal! His hand moves away to pardon the crooked miscreant— his smarter hand grabs the merciful wrist, but it’s much too late to stop the autism now.
“I can’t drop out! I have to make my mother prou—“
“Lancer, just shut up!”
“That helps, really. Thank you, Shane.” Lancer clears his throat and clasps his hands together on the desk. Gulp. He stares straight forward, bouncing his knee. He has to focus. He has to shut up. Shut up, Lancer! No more trolling. Nelson needs to love him if he wants to pass her class and motorboat her boobies. Nose in, left and right, phbbhbhttt. That’d be a fun motorboat. And he’d squish the sides… squish.. squish… like a fluffy bedtime pillow…
He doesn’t realize he is miming these motions until around two minutes later. This time, there is no consequence. Win! So much win. What’s she talking about, anyway? Lancer clears the motorboat static out of his ears and catches the end of a sentence.
“...different math fundamentals you may have touched on in high school. Algebraic terms, geometric sequences, statistical reasoning…”
Blah, blah, blah. Lancer is a king at mathematics, this’ll be a breeze. And if push comes to shove, there is no greater tutor than Google! He’ll be fine. And Shane can always fill him in (for enough money.) Whoop-dee-doo. This class’ll be a cinch, even if Nelson spends the rest of the school year biting her thumb at him. Easy peasy. Swaggaroni and cheesy.
Why’s it so hard to hone in on what this bitch is saying? It’s like she’s switching between Spanish to English. He needs subtitles for this lesson, like anime. Something something your calculators, graphing calculators— Texas Instruments? The hell is she talking about? They live in Tennessee. Weird. Maybe Lancer should try and take notes, that could help. He feels around his pockets for a pencil. Pencil, pencil. Gotta find a pencil.
No pencil in coat pockets, no pencil in pants pockets… hm… he tries behind his ears. No pencils there. He checks under his cap, and still finds no pencil. The hell? How’d he come to class without writing utensils? He looks warily across the desk to see if Brianna left anything behind in her haste. Not even one Sharpie? Damnit.
A quick glance to the front of the hall shows Nelson beginning to lecture on something-something logarithm. Yeah yeah, easy balls. He could do that shit with his testicles tied. All he needs is a pencil so he can write down what he has to do in the first place. Damnit!
“Shane. D-do you have a pencil?” Lancer whispers over his shoulder. He tries to be as incognito as he can manage, as any further interruptions could get him sent out of the class like a misbehaving eighth grader. “Shane. Shane!” Lance hisses over and over, but Shane is boldly ignoring him in his time of need. Why, Lance would never! Treacherous scoundrel.
“Yeah, I’ll remember this next time you get in a freak full-body accident and need a blood transfusion. I’ll be like, Shane, you never gave me a pencil in math class you toxic bitch. You’re not getting away with this.”
“I don’t have a fucking pencil,” Shane sneers.
“Then why didn’t you just say that?!” Lancer directs his attention to Shane’s studious deskmate. “Austin, do you have a pencil?”
“Don’t bring him into this mess!” Shane whisper-yells.
“Nope.”
“Damnit.” Lance turns back around and stares helplessly at the blank loose-leaf gazing back. It’s taunting him, telling him how fail of a student he is. Actually, it’s saying he should have a spiral-notebook instead of one measly sheet of paper for a college class; that’s actually proactive advice. Coming prepared to class is a good start for a good student.
How many minutes have passed? Lancer starts scanning the walls of the room for a clock. How does anyone check the time in this place with no clocks? There’s so many windows! And the sky is really blue outside. What a good day to slink back to his dorm and play Whichcraft in pitch blackness until his myopia becomes too severe to squint through.
He looks down at Nelson. Now she’s talking about sines. Eugh, Lance always hated those. Hey, there’s a clock down at the front of the hall. But it’s analog and unfortunately too small to read. Gay. Looks like it says something like… eight… nine… forty… eight fifty… nine-ish…?
...Pencil!! Lancer’s brain tugs at his synapses, reminding him he’s still got an objective to complete. Get a pencil! Now! Before you lose more time! Okay, fine! Lancer does the good ol’ floor prowl from grade school. You take a look at the nearby floor in search of dropped or lost pencils. But unfortunately, it seems like the floors are entirely pristine. This is the first class of the day after all; no one came before them to make a mess. Shit, shit. How’s he going to get a pencil now?
Huh, what’s this? He bends over to get a better look at the floor. On closer observation, he spots a tiny chipped pencil lead tip; like one of the ones he liked to smear around the hallway floor with his shoes in middle school and eat in elementary school. After a few attempts to pinch it up, he smushes his thumb on it and it gets stuck all squished in on finger. Doesn’t hurt, but… How’s he gonna get any work done with this? There’s no way he can write using only the fine tip of a pencil. It’s barely the size of his fingertip, and when he pinches it between his index and his thumb it’s nearly swallowed whole.
But Lance will certainly have to make do. What’s she on about now? Tangents? That’s fine, that’s fine, tangents were the easiest part of SOHCAHTOA. At least from what he can remember. Alright. Notes time!
Wait— first things first on any student-to-be's assignment checklist has to be his own name! He slaps the crown of his forehead— what kind of scholar leaves his handiwork unsigned and abandoned for any filthy plagiarist to absorb and call his own? Focus, Lancer! Focus! Quickly!
The tip of graphite dangles determinedly over the paper. L is for Lancer.
…Shit. Tinkle. The lead falls and tumbles all over the page. Lancer licks his thumb and pries it off, smearing bold, gray streaks of lead. Whatever, nevermind… Focus on the task at hand!
L… annnn… cer…
Tinkle. Shit. The lead falls! Before Lancer can glue it up with his spit-thumb again, it rolls onto the floor. Damnit! Dropping to his knees as quietly as he can manage, Lancer slinks his humongous body underneath the seats beside to wipe up the microscopic pencil point.
Beneath Professor Nelson's lecture, Lancer makes a catastrophic amount of noise before returning to his seat. He readjusts his tool. Back to W. W… Woof. This W is hard work. Lancer gently sketches out each corner and crevice of its lines. Each diagonal line must be perfect to make out what letter it is. Scritch, scritch, scritch!
Waaall— Tinkle.
Damnit!!!
Scuffle, scuffle.
Walley. Lancer Walley— hyphen. Just an itty-bitty hyphen. No qualms there, an easy dashed line. Lancer scritches it back and forth in the paper, making sure it shows. Now, Iyyyyeeennn— tinkle.
Damnit!! Lancer grits his teeth, huffing out his nose as he slaps the desk in the silent lecture hall, in a fruitless attempt to capture the lead before it rolls onto the tiles again.
Shane groans very, very loudly.
Lancer cranes his neck toward him, pursing his lips in indignation. "Shut up, Shane!" he whisper-yells, locking his hands on his hips. "Some of your classmates are trying to focus! Like me!!"
Immediately, Shane becomes furious. That friendly old vein threads through his impossibly smoking red forehead. Stifling his own giggles, Lancer returns to his body of work.
Iyengar.
Drawing back to appreciate his handiwork, Lancer witnesses he's created a pile of all-capitalized chicken scratch. Why, it's utterly cuneiform!
Lancer throws his fingerless-gloved hand up into the air.
"Ma'am?? C-can I have a pencil?"
"It's nine-thirty. Class dismissed." The powerpoint behind her reads, THE END. Professor Nelson presses a button on her remote and turns off the overhead projector. Students fold their belongings and shove in chairs from all sides of the hall.
Hand now hanging limp in the air, Lancer's jaw droops in solidarity.
Professor Nelson's heels clink against the tiles as she strides by. "Close your mouth before a bug flies in it," she sneers. Lancer's lips slam shut instantly as he's called to attention, locking eyes with her curt and rigid hazel stare.
She turns toward him, holding a canteen of coffee and a clipboard with a death grip. "I'm going on my break now. Don't even think about coming to any of my tutoring sessions this afternoon… Come to class prepared, or don't come at all."
With a smooth face-heel turn, Professor Nelson harrumphs and smooths her pencil skirt. The scholarly woman continues her high-heeled clinking beeline for the exit with the rest of her well-prepared students and slams the door.
Shane stands idly next to Lancer with a self-satisfied grin on his face. "Told you high-school's over. She's not gonna baby you like all the other stupid-ass teachers. You might as well drop out now." Snide, Shane crosses his arms waiting for the burn to sink in. But Lancer pays him no mind. The seasoned troll stands idly in the professor's wake, gaze firmly planted where the lecturer stood last.
"I think I'm in love, you know?"
Shane furrows his eyebrows and scoffs. "You what?!" Shane smolders, clapping the top of his head. "I think you're fucking retarded."
The scrawny soccer player storms off with his backpack in tow. Lost in a trance, Lancer dreamily follows his footsteps out of the lecture hall and off to his next class.