God… I hate the exams. Gilbert tried not to let out a stifled yawn as he began to lean his chair back. And I didn’t even study for them!
He turned his head to peer around himself for a moment, and then his shoulders sagged again as he hung his head. I’m not even sitting next to any smart students… can’t copy off of them…
And he hadn't had any sleep last night either, because he had been out at your house with some beer and wurst. Gil had come up with some brilliant idea to come over unexpectedly to have a slumber party, and somehow he had managed to drag you, the intellectual, logical, usually smart student, into having a late-night party the day before the exams. Great.
"It was a great idea. Who doesn't like slumber parties?" Gilbert sighed and propped his head on his hands, which caused the baggy sweatshirt he was wearing to scratch his face. "I don't even know why I had to borrow this jacket from mein bruder. I should never borrow stuff from Ludwig. He always has the stupid, formal clothing. No way the awesome me is ever going to wear his clothes again...!"
He lay his head down on the desk as the words and math problems floated through his restless mind, nagging and bothering him to no ends as sleep, on the other end, was fighting to overtake him. It certainly wasn’t fair—why did he, the awesome Prussian of the school, the awesomeness that was the leader of the school gangs, have to take the exams?
I should totally be at __________’s house right now… stealing her cookies from her pantry like I did last night… Oh, God. A cookie. He made an attempt at face-desking without making too much noise and alerting the teacher to him. Of course, if he was found slacking off on the exams, the professor would know that he hadn’t studied, and then Gilbert would probably get an F on the rest of the quarter simply for two reasons.
One: the teacher didn't like him. In fact, the professor hated him.
Two: the teacher didn't like anyone who didn't study. Period.
… I need a cookie. Gilbert finally let out that yawn that he had been holding in. It simply wasn’t any use. The only thing he wanted was one of your chocolate chip cookies right now, from your cupboards. How else was he supposed to get the sugar he needed to kick up his adrenaline?
I want a cookie… like the one I had at her house the other day… Wait a minute… The other day. What had he been doing at your house the other day? Of course. Playing games, heheh.
You eyed Gilbert from the other side of the room as you anticipated the foreboding Calculus section of the exam. It really was his fault that you had missed out on as much studying as you could have done in those few hours that you had played the “game” with him and even gotten dragged into that stupid part of his the night before, and you weren’t about to let him off the hook for it.
“God, Gilbert. I’m going to kill you after the tests.” You glanced up to make sure that the teacher hadn’t heard your words, and then you returned to reading the test problems. “Right. Gotta get these exams done before I fall asleep at my desk.”
Meanwhile, Gilbert was contemplating his newest plan, one that you would not have liked if you had known about it. Uh huh… that’s right… hmm… when she’s not looking. That’s exactly what I’ll do.
He turned his ruby eyes on you. Sure, you were across the room right by the windows, and that made it really hard to see what you were doing, but at least you never covered your hand while you were writing. Haha, you’d think she’d know what I was up to.
He caught a glimpse of you, in your high school uniform with your pen in hand, quickly scribbling out the next answer to the history question. Mein Gott, thank the Lord that it’s not multiple-choice. Silly teachers… they don’t even check to see what the awesome me is up to.
Then his thoughts began to drift away into another subject. Gott… __________, you definitely need a longer skirt. He allowed himself a quick chuckle before starting to watch your every movement carefully, his eyes following your hand movements with quick, sly eyes. As you wrote down the answer to the first few questions on the legislative branch of the American government, he too set his pen to paper and began to write.
“The legislative… branch… no, better change that up or they’ll know I’m copying… Congress… is composed of two houses… the Senate…” He mumbled the words to himself as his hand moved across the page. “And… the… House of Representatives… All right. Next question.” He worked silently to himself for a few moments, and then he gazed up at you to observe as you wrote you next answers down.
“… Gilbert.” He continued to watch your hand and pen, those twirling loops in the air that the cap moved in… “Gilbert. Gilbert Beilschmidt!”
“H-Huh?!” Gilbert turned his head up to find himself facing the teacher. “A-ah! Mister... uh… Mister… I-I mean, Professor!”
“What on earth are you looking at?!” The teacher’s beady eyes focused on him, dissecting his every feature and waiting for an answer.
“… Uh… the clock?”
“No, you are not looking at the clock! The clock…” He gestured with his pointer, a long, thin stick of some sort. “… is over there! Now, explain yourself!”
“Uh… uh…” Everyone’s eyes were on him now, and Gilbert knew that he had to come up with some answer. Come on, Gil. You’re awesome at this. You got an answer… right… got it.
“I was looking at that cute girl over there, Professor!” Right, the perfect excuse.
That is, if you hadn’t messed it up for him.
You had been staring down at your test for the past few minutes with an utter horror for the short-answer questions they had chosen for the information on theology, but the moment you heard Gil’s voice saying those words, you turned your head to blink in shock at him.
“W-what…?” You saw Gilbert watching you, and then you completely realized what had happened—and panicked. “God, Gil!” You immediately covered up your papers with your hands. “DON’T. READ. MY. PEN!!”
You didn't care if the whole class had started to stare at you. All you wanted was for him to get his sneaky little pen-reading eyes off of you.
“Oh, no…” At the sight of the teacher glaring down at him, demanding explanation, Gilbert felt like slapping his own forehead.