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"Shit-----" Of course his messenger bag would break now.

"Oh now that simply will not do!" A soft giggle and Alice smiles wider, strutting over with the soft clicks of her heels, petting down her dress and her head softly cants to the side. "Baking must require love and patience" She had found herself and welcomed herself into a cooking class in the school. Alice puts her hand to her chest                                "Believe me, I know what I am talking about, I've been first place champion at the blueberry festival's bake off, every year for the past seven years." Light tone and lifting eyebrow expression all while that pink lip gloss smile never fades.

              Fingers scratch and rip up the page from his sketchbook, crumpling it up and he tosses the charcoal smudged paper away, with a loud sigh, tipping his head back, inhaling slowly, shaking his head. Everything sucked, it was all shit and he couldn't even draw out the frustration, Tate's on the verge of giving up, the hell with it all.

"Think it'd be worth the caning? I hear she hits real hard---" Don't get the sickly boy wrong, he's had his share of brutal beating punishments. It was just a curious comment on how much cock Jesus sucked.                  Apparently that's a sign of bad behavior, but he'll just grab his card for the shit game of cards, holding out for cigarettes, Tate smirks wide "There ain't no getting out of here. Keep trying and you won't be able to sit down for a month, bud."

"Dammit!" Hands slap to the counter top, defeated sigh as his head bows, Tate pouts, running his hand over his face. Why can't he just do it--Without exploding anything? Surely no one would really miss that candlestick...Would they? No---No of course not.

                        "Could you pass me that" Long digit points to his bag on the bench, sweat drips down his brow and his tongue laps at his dry lips, desperate to get hydrated and cooled off, Tate's chest continues to heave and rise quick and desperate as his heartbeat slows with some minor difficulty. A hand pushes his sweaty clung hair back with a wide wicked grin.  "I don't smell really bad, do I? Like, nasty gym--three month old never washed, socks?" It's all those endorphins making him chatty, happy and a charming attempted conversationalist.