The first day of senior year is supposed to feel like heaven. High school is supposed to feel like a prison sentence, and therefore today is supposed to be a reminder that you're almost there. For me, it only signifies that this is my last year in a comfortable place for me.

In high school, I'm the smart one. I don't have that added stress of not only achieving good grades, but achieving the best grades out of everyone, because no one else comes close to me, however egotistical that sounds. If I go to a prestigious college, I'll just be average, and that is a no-go with the mental state instilled in me by my parents.

I beat myself up over pointless things. An A- is not a good grade for me. An A- is a lecture, a question of whether or not I even care about my studies, a punishment. I wish I could loosen up, but a toe out of line means I will soon only have nine toes.

I take the first day of school to size up my classes. I have so far concluded that my history class will be interesting enough to motivate me to accomplish great things, that my math teacher is a bit nutty but seems like a fair grader, and that I have no idea what to expect from English class.

I keep my head down as I enter the classroom, taking the seat closest to the door so as to avoid the chaos of finding seats with friends that I don't have, friends that would distract me from studying. The teacher enters a few seconds after I do, right before I have the chance to start wringing my hands.

Am I always this nervous for my classes? Yes. Perseverance in school is a must for me, but that doesn't stop me from hoping for an easy time. English is not my strong suit. With math and science, I can memorize things and be done with them, but English requires a sort of creativity that I do not possess, that the American school system does not teach.

I look up at the teacher, who is making himself busy with setting up his desk with papers he brought from his time in the teacher's lounge. He's a jolly looking old man who I would hate to discover is actually the devil himself. However, my suspicions are quelled when he gives his students a warm smile.

"Hello, folks, I'm Mr. Cooper, and I will be your English teacher this year."

I sigh a bit too loudly, and I can assume that other people are now pondering what anxiety was just relieved by our teacher introducing himself. I haven't even said anything, and I'm already the weird kid who silently sits in the corner, planning how to shoot up the school.

Mr. Cooper takes a stack of papers from his desk, splits it into three piles, and gives it to the people in the front of the class for them to pass backwards. This is the extent of my social interaction for the hour, which is truly pathetic, considering my eyes never left my own paper as I sent the rest behind me.

The syllabus consists of mostly classics, like every other English class that earns its reputation as boring. That's fine for me, though. My over analytical nature will help me seem like I know what's going on in the books, and I can spew some deeply detailed bullshit about the plot and the characters so that Mr. Cooper thinks I'm an intellectual and will possibly favor me. This is not because I enjoy learning anymore, but instead have figured out how to cheat the system without actually cheating. Doing well in school isn't all about studying. By this point I've just resorted to cheap tactics.

"While you look over the syllabus, would anyone like to share what they did over the summer?" Mr. Cooper rocks on his feet until someone behind me raises their hand, and they make their way to the front.

Those few minutes in which I was calm were truly blissful, and I would like to thank Allah or whoever is up there for granting them to me. But everything has to come to an end, and what breaks my peace is seeing that the same guy who assaulted me for my drink at the party two weeks before school, is in my English course. Maybe this class won't be as grand as I thought.

The guy waves once he reaches the front. "For those of you who do not know me, my name is Ilya, and I did a whole lot of thinking over the summer. I can't say I have become enlightened exactly, as I was high for most of it, but there was one thing in particular that came out of all of this, something plausible."

I glance to my left to see my classmates staring at him attentively. Like I said, he captivates people. His voice, which I had not heard until today, puts me in a trance with its husky texture.

"I'm sure you all know how irritating it is when adults ask you about your future, and until this summer I never had an answer besides telling them I would have to speak to my lawyer about whether or not I could disclose this information."

This draws a laugh from the crowd in a way I have never been able to do. They seem to relate to Ilya. I'm not very adept at that in general, but Ilya appears to have a talent for it. I want to envy him for being so effortlessly better at me at something, but all I can feel is admiration. Instead of feeling jealous, I feel proud to have felt the very lips that his enchanting words touch.

https://youtu.be/stIbYwYnpHs

"My plan is to be someone who jumps off of bridges and miraculously survives. I haven't figured out how I will miraculously survive, but I still have a few years for that, so be patient." Ilya smiles with his teeth, far different from the close-lipped smirk I'm accustomed to but no less charming. "People will think I'm crazy or suicidal or both, but in reality it's just an art form for me...or maybe it's a coverup for when I reach the zenith of my career, when everything is going right for me, and I commit suicide by hanging myself."

I flinch, and I am not alone. Though still focused on Ilya's spiel, my classmates have become uneasy. He inspires silence in even the rowdiest of kids. Mr. Cooper fosters the expression of a teacher's appropriate amount of concern. Somehow I am sure it's what Ilya wants.

"And people are then frantic, trying to figure out why the national sweetheart would end his life in his prime, or perhaps why I hanged myself instead of jumping off a bridge like I always do, and someone will say it's because I separated my art from my personal life, because that's a consolation for grieving people, and I'll allow them that much." Ilya clears his throat nonchalantly, as if this whole speech is an everyday topic. "Then they'll delve into my past and find something to misconstrue. At least then they would be more interested in my past than in my future." He chuckles, and some of the other kids follow suit to be polite, but they're still shaken. "The people who find beauty in death will call it poetic and look at it through the same artistic lens as they viewed my work, or they will realize that there was no motive to my suicide. I did it because I knew the effect it would have on people. And then they'll worship me."

Ilya takes a bow and returns to his seat, making sure to wink at me on the way by. He has left us all speechless, and there's that damn smirk again.

~~~~~

A/N: honestly it's an interesting plan

~Dickota