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It was Thursday.
Unequivocally the worst day of the week. He didn’t have any electives on Thursday, so it was just hard classes like english and math and shit, and his parents had been on him this week about attendance so he’d actually gone to every single one. He didn’t know how normal, non-high people did it. His fucking head hurt so much he could barely see. And chemistry wasn’t helping.
Mr. White was saying something at the front of the class, but Jesse’s head was down on his desk. Who the hell could blame him? This class sucked. It was boring as hell and he was already failing, so there was no point. It was last period. He just had to get past these last few minutes of class.
He was so fucking tired.
“Jesse!”
Fuck. He raised his head gazed under his brow through unfocused eyes at Mr. White, who seemed to be expecting him to say something. “What?”
“Well? What type of reaction is this?” Mr. White was pointing to an equation on the board. “I know you know this, Jesse.”
“Uh…” Jesse squinted, willing it to make sense. Mr. White was right, he was pretty sure he knew this. He searched his aching brain for the bits and pieces he’d caught while barely listening to Mr. White talk. “Fuggin, single displacement?”
Mr. White sagged, shaking his head. He seemed to radiate disappointment. It made Jesse want to shrink into himself. “Incorrect. And watch your language.” Jesse might have interjected that he said ‘fuggin’ and not ‘fucking’, but Mr. White had already moved on to explaining that it was actually a double replacement reaction and anyone with two fucking eyes who looked at it for half a second could tell that, if they weren’t a dumbass fucking stoner like Jesse Pinkman. Jesse just rubbed his eyes and wished that class were over so he could get high. He didn’t need to pass this class to graduate, and his grade was ass anyway, so he didn’t know why Mr. White expected him to try.
God, he fucking hated Thursdays.
He stared at the clock instead of the board. Seven more minutes left in class. Fuck his parents, he was skipping tomorrow.
The bell rang before long. Jesse grabbed his bag, slinging it onto one shoulder and starting to trudge out of the classroom. But right before he escaped, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Jesse,” said Mr. White. “Stay for second, will you?”
Jesse wanted to die.
He stepped back from the door, letting his classmates go past him, staring blearily at his teacher. His eyes hurt. He just wanted to go home. “Yeah?” he grunted.
“What happened just now, Jesse?” Mr. White said. He sounded outwardly kind, but Jesse thought he could hear the disdain seeping through underneath. He lowered his head.
“I--I don’t know. Nothing, dude.”
“I know you know these answers. You know you know these answers. So why don’t you prove it when I call on you? Your grade in this class is abysmal, and yet you are able to answer questions from your peers. I need you to apply yourself, Jesse--”
“I do apply myself,” he said through gritted teeth.
“No, you don’t.” Mr. White seemed like he was going to go on, but Jesse cut him off, raising his voice because he didn’t seem to be heard if he didn’t.
“Yes, I do! If you give me one more stupid talk about my fucking potential--”
Mr. White’s eyes flashed dangerously. “Watch your language, Mr. Pinkman. I am your teacher; don’t talk to me like that--”
He scoffed. “What are you gonna do, email my parents? Tell them all about how their son is an idiot and a failure? Don’t worry, they already know!”
“Jesse--”
But Jesse walked out of the room before Mr. White could finish his sentence.
He tried to keep his breathing steady, stealing away to the bathroom. He locked himself in a stall and leaned against the wall as his shoulders started to shake. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. There was no reason for him to be crying in a school bathroom right now. God, he was such a fucking loser.
He swallowed a sob, hiding his face in his hands. His chest felt tight, and his head hurt like someone had straight up taken a hammer to it. But he wiped his eyes. He needed to get to the bus before it left, because he was not going to walk home today. Fuck that. He’d rather die.
Fuck, he wanted to die.
But he left the stall and made it to the bus right on time, resting his head on the window cool. He was going to get so high tonight.