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My Name Is Inigo Montoya, I Am In High School Prepare For An Adventure

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Author's note: Another English project from yours truly. Will Mrs. Stanton ever stop giving me good ideas?
Author's note: Another English project from yours truly. Will Mrs. Stanton ever stop giving me good ideas?  « Hide author's note
Chapters:   « Previous 1 2 3 4 5 Next »

A Chance Meeting

The day I became friends with Inigo Montoya was also--completely by coincidence-- the day he caused my English teacher to flee the school. But more on that in a minute.

The morning of the day I became friends with Inigo Montoya, I almost didn’t even know he existed. When I walked down the sidewalk outside of my high school at 7:30 a.m, I didn’t spare a glance at the blade-thin, hispanic-looking kid standing with a group of punks. He was clutching a bottle in a paper bag, and I decided I didn’t want to know any more about those drunk dropouts than I already did. The boy, however, had other plans. I was the only non-druggie on the sidewalk at the time, so as soon as he saw me his eyes locked in. He stumbled towards me, away from his group, and grabbed my arm before I could hurry away.
“Hey, Buttercup! I’ve been waiting for you to show up, my friend. My best buddy-wuddy. Wanna drink?” He held out the bottle. I shook my head.
“No, thanks,” I said, trying to pull away. “I... my name isn’t Buttercup, and I really need to get to class.” He frowned at me, confusion etched on his face.
“Not Buttercup?” I pulled harder, shaking my head again.
“No, sorry, not her. No. Definitely not, no. Can you let go of my arm please? No, not grip it tighter-no!” He leaned forward, studying my face. This close, I could smell the cheap brandy on his breath.
“You keep using that word,” he whispered, grinning. “I do not think it means what you think it means.” I gazed at him, surprised by the look in his eyes: a bit unfocused because of the drink, but hiding behind the liquor-haze was a sharp, intelligent glance that, for a moment, I was transfixed by. Then he let go of my arm, and I pulled away before I knew what I was doing and ran the rest of the way to the school.


I reached the school, got my books from my locker, and left advisory for my first class about an hour later, all thoughts of the boy gone from my mind. That is, Until I walked into my first-period class and saw him standing there arguing with my P.E. teacher. I ducked behind the lockers as quickly as possible and crouched down, listening to their conversation. Mrs. Levesque was getting angry, an emotion I’d only heard in her voice once before, when my class had been fooling around and accidentally damaged her new volleyball poles.
“Please, Mrs. Levesque! I need the get this credit! Just one day of makeup class, I beg you!” The drunk was very upset. I peeked around the corner to see Mrs. Levesque shaking her head.
“No, Inigo, (“Inigo?” I thought to myself, almost giggling. “What kind of a name is Inigo?”) it’s out of the question. You’ve missed too many classes this year. I’m not going to allow you to try and get your grade back up with five weeks left in the school year!” Inigo got very quiet, and I watched him raise his right hand slowly.
“I swear,” he said, “on the soul of my father, Dominigo Montoya, that I will compete every task you give me if I can pass this P.E. class.” Mrs. Levesque shook her head and sighed, but I could tell that the “dead relative” card had been played by this Inigo Montoya kid with professional grace.
“All right,” she grumbled, “I suppose I could make an exception, since you did just transfer here this winter. But I want you to listen to me, Inigo! You start your makeups today. If I even get a hint that you’re going to be late, I will never allow you near my office again. Do we understand each other?” Inigo nodded quickly, then moved out of the locker room with lightning speed. I groaned inwardly and went to change, praying that he wouldn’t recognize me.
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