Lynnie Liner

Lynnie Liner sat rigidly, back rim-rod straight against the cold plastic chair. She idly tapped her pencil with her right hand, pausing every now and then to chew on the end. Bite marks were gnawed into almost every square inch of the #2’s service, the yellow paint long since chewed away to expose the wood underneath.
Her scuffed Reeboks were planted firmly on the linoleum floor, now and then trading positions, right foot in back of left, left in back of right. A stretched out sweater hung off one shoulder, spotted with mustard and ketchup stains from last week’s lunch. Lynnie absentmindedly reached up to adjust her hair, which at that moment was struggling out of its messy ponytail and falling to cover one side of her face and the eye that was contained there.
Her eyes squinted doggedly at the page in front of her, nearly taking up the entire surface of the unstable desk. Every now and then she would bring her pencil down to the page, eraser first, and furiously demolish whatever was written there, causing the entire desk to teeter from one side to the other, and Kenny Halken to look up from his own page in front of him and glare.