“Is this the end?”
“Nah . . . this can’t be the end. There’s no climax in the story.”
“Yeah, where are the explosions? I thought this was an action flick.”
Then the credits start rolling. The pit orchestra crescendos and we are left sitting on the edge of our seats anticipating something, but that something never comes along. Instead we tell ourselves that we must have held our breath for too long; we must have blacked out and woke up right after the cops charged in on the real murderer.
“Gee whiz man, what a bad ending.”
“Wait, so was the guy in the picture at the end really the Zodiac?”
“Yeah, but who was the other guy?”
“Which guy?”
“The guy who pointed out the Zodiac.”
“I thought he was the guy from the beginning.”
“Which guy?”
“The guy that was shot in the car.”
“He lived!?”
“I don’t know. It looks that way.”
As Kevin, Kenneth, and Dan unraveled the ending of the movie, I sat there on the couch. I looked over and saw Anna in her chair. She dozed off 10 minutes into the movie.
It was the first day of Christmas break and we needed a release from school. We borrowed a movie from the video shop and wasted 3 hours tucked under blankets, with bowls of buttered popcorn on our laps, sipping hot chocolate from our mugs. This was what we’ve been waiting for since the end of summer. And now that our vacation was here, we begun to lose our wits.
“Dude, you’re not choosing the next movie.”
“Fine, but we’re not watching any chick flicks! You’re not making me sit through Bring It On 3 again.”
Their bickering woke up Anna. She regained consciousness and looked around; it was as though she was lost.
“Is the movie over?”
“Yeah,” I told her, “you missed the whole thing.”
“It wasn’t a very interesting movie.”
“It’s a true story though.”
Anna started hanging out with the gang after the parking lot. We included her in our expeditions. She was our only fan when we practiced BMX. She gave us tips on balancing when we couldn’t get a trick down. She road on the back of my bike when he went anywhere. It was fun having a female around.
“So what now?” I heard Dan say.
“What about a board game.” I said. “My parents just bought this board game, Ticket to Ride. Supposedly it got mad reviews.”
“Nah . . . How about we go prank Carl. Let’s hide a bunch of raw meat around his house. It’ll stink up the place like crazy!”
“Yeah! I’ve got some leftover casserole from last night, too. We can pick it up from my home.”
“Let’s go!”
Thus we begun another great adventure.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
#29
Today I saw Anna at the parking lot. It was four o’clock and the place was deserted. Students from school had already been picked up by their parents or they had extra-curricular activities. Anna was alone; alone with her book. She was holding the same book that she held the previous day.
I decided once again to approach her.
“Still reading that book?”
“It’s a good book!” She exclaimed. I could tell too, she was barely through the first 3 chapters yesterday, but today she had less than thirty pages left. “It’s a page turner.”
“I could tell. So I guess you like books.”
“Well, my parents aren’t too keen on television. We’re never in one place long enough to enjoy cable. And the local channels are boring.”
“You can say that again. I couldn’t live without cable. Have you heard of Ben 10?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s a cartoon.”
“Cartoons are for kids.”
That was like a stab to the heart. Here I was trying to strike up a conversation, and she already gutted me with a knife. I tried to defend myself, “But we are kids.”
“How can you enjoy something fake like cartoons? There’s so much life in this world that hasn't yet been discovered! This world is a huge miracle!”
I was offended. “Well, what about you!” I said a little louder than I intended. “You’re just sitting there with a book. Why aren’t you discovering life?”
The conversation crumbled after that point. But I didn’t leave. I sat on a bench juxtaposed to hers. We sat there in silence for what seemed like ages.
Then Anna said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Well, I clearly offended you. I don’t get along with other people well. It’s just, I can’t relate with you; with your cable television, your class games. I’ve grew up under the wings of my parents and was never in one place long enough to really make close friends.” She put down her book as though it was a heavy burden that she had borne her whole life.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
More awkward silence.
“Hey, you know what? You can come over to my place. We’ll watch some cartoons; I’ll culturalize you.”
She looked up and gave me a nod.
“My house is just a few blocks away. I’ve got my bike. You can ride on the back. I’ve got pegs that you can stand on . . . Quick, Ben 10 starts at 4:30.”
“Thanks,” she said. It was the first time she gave me a real smile. I felt warm inside.
I decided once again to approach her.
“Still reading that book?”
“It’s a good book!” She exclaimed. I could tell too, she was barely through the first 3 chapters yesterday, but today she had less than thirty pages left. “It’s a page turner.”
“I could tell. So I guess you like books.”
“Well, my parents aren’t too keen on television. We’re never in one place long enough to enjoy cable. And the local channels are boring.”
“You can say that again. I couldn’t live without cable. Have you heard of Ben 10?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s a cartoon.”
“Cartoons are for kids.”
That was like a stab to the heart. Here I was trying to strike up a conversation, and she already gutted me with a knife. I tried to defend myself, “But we are kids.”
“How can you enjoy something fake like cartoons? There’s so much life in this world that hasn't yet been discovered! This world is a huge miracle!”
I was offended. “Well, what about you!” I said a little louder than I intended. “You’re just sitting there with a book. Why aren’t you discovering life?”
The conversation crumbled after that point. But I didn’t leave. I sat on a bench juxtaposed to hers. We sat there in silence for what seemed like ages.
Then Anna said, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?”
“Well, I clearly offended you. I don’t get along with other people well. It’s just, I can’t relate with you; with your cable television, your class games. I’ve grew up under the wings of my parents and was never in one place long enough to really make close friends.” She put down her book as though it was a heavy burden that she had borne her whole life.
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
More awkward silence.
“Hey, you know what? You can come over to my place. We’ll watch some cartoons; I’ll culturalize you.”
She looked up and gave me a nod.
“My house is just a few blocks away. I’ve got my bike. You can ride on the back. I’ve got pegs that you can stand on . . . Quick, Ben 10 starts at 4:30.”
“Thanks,” she said. It was the first time she gave me a real smile. I felt warm inside.
Friday, November 28, 2008
#28
I smile. I flash my teeth. I tilt my head up. Then I’m told to stop.
“Hey kid, you’re good looking and all. But you’ve got to stop fidgeting.” With his giant, masculine hands he grips my head like a melon and adjusts it for the camera. “Okay, don’t move. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”
You know how the Germans say the fastest thing is a thought. It’s not true. I thought to myself Boom! Flash! Kapow! But the before I could finish my list of onomatopoeias I heard from the photographer that I was done; they shooed me off my stool and I followed the trail that they left for me to follow. I tugged at my colored shirt so I could breath better. I turned around and saw Gerald make his peculiar, closed-mouth smile that looked more like he was constipated.
“Smile . . . I said smile. . . Show some teeth, kid . . . You’re not making this any easier for yourself. Okay, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”
Then flash.
Today was a rather uneventful day. We didn’t plan a game. We were too preoccupied with yearbook photos. We all dressed our best – bow ties, flared shoulder pads, head bands, earrings, etc. Though, some people didn’t take it as seriously.
Carl was up next and he had a fake black eye, and he wore the same raggedy shirt that he wore last year. I escaped the scene before the photographer could vent his impatience with us elementary kids.
Anna was already at the playground. She sat on a bench and looked consumed by a book.
Everyone else was still messing with their attire and appearance, so I decided to approach Anna. “What book are you read?” I asked innocently.
“Twilight,” she said, looking up from her book.
“What is it about?
“Vampires! Edward is such a heart throb.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. “Uh . . . I’ve seen Interview With a Vampire. It was about vampires. It was pretty good.”
“But that doesn’t have a real love story in it! This one is so romantic!”
“Whatever.”
I ran away. I forget that I was in elementary school, though. Because after that incident, everyone started teasing me by saying I liked Anna.
Dude, just cause I talk to a girl doesn't mean I like her.
“Hey kid, you’re good looking and all. But you’ve got to stop fidgeting.” With his giant, masculine hands he grips my head like a melon and adjusts it for the camera. “Okay, don’t move. 1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”
You know how the Germans say the fastest thing is a thought. It’s not true. I thought to myself Boom! Flash! Kapow! But the before I could finish my list of onomatopoeias I heard from the photographer that I was done; they shooed me off my stool and I followed the trail that they left for me to follow. I tugged at my colored shirt so I could breath better. I turned around and saw Gerald make his peculiar, closed-mouth smile that looked more like he was constipated.
“Smile . . . I said smile. . . Show some teeth, kid . . . You’re not making this any easier for yourself. Okay, 1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”
Then flash.
Today was a rather uneventful day. We didn’t plan a game. We were too preoccupied with yearbook photos. We all dressed our best – bow ties, flared shoulder pads, head bands, earrings, etc. Though, some people didn’t take it as seriously.
Carl was up next and he had a fake black eye, and he wore the same raggedy shirt that he wore last year. I escaped the scene before the photographer could vent his impatience with us elementary kids.
Anna was already at the playground. She sat on a bench and looked consumed by a book.
Everyone else was still messing with their attire and appearance, so I decided to approach Anna. “What book are you read?” I asked innocently.
“Twilight,” she said, looking up from her book.
“What is it about?
“Vampires! Edward is such a heart throb.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. “Uh . . . I’ve seen Interview With a Vampire. It was about vampires. It was pretty good.”
“But that doesn’t have a real love story in it! This one is so romantic!”
“Whatever.”
I ran away. I forget that I was in elementary school, though. Because after that incident, everyone started teasing me by saying I liked Anna.
Dude, just cause I talk to a girl doesn't mean I like her.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
#27
Today I received a letter in the mail. There was no return address and the top right hand corner of the envelope was blank. The envelope didn’t even have an address on it. All it said was “For Sam.”
After being tricked by Carl one too many times I developed some paranoid habits. First I poke the envelope with a stick, thinking it might explode the detonator. When nothing happened I picked it up with a garden glove and dropped it on the sidewalk. I got a magnifying glass from my house and examined whether there were traces of cyanide on its cover. I didn’t find any.
I looked at my watch and realized I had just wasted fifteen minutes of my life, so I plopped myself down and tore open the envelope with my bare hands.
Within the envelope was stationary card.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” said a cartoony turkey on the cover. I opened up the card and read, “One thing I’m thankful for is for this opportunity to waste you!”
And from behind my neighbors trees I see Kevin, Dan and Kenneth with their water guns. This wasn’t a real threat, but at the same time it was. As I ran for my front door for cover they began squirting me with water. It was cold.
Dan reached the door before me. “Dude! What took you so long? Can’t you open a letter like a normal person?” He didn’t even give a chance to reply. He squirted me in the face.
We ended up messing around the rest of the day. And I got to say, I’m thankful for my friends.
After being tricked by Carl one too many times I developed some paranoid habits. First I poke the envelope with a stick, thinking it might explode the detonator. When nothing happened I picked it up with a garden glove and dropped it on the sidewalk. I got a magnifying glass from my house and examined whether there were traces of cyanide on its cover. I didn’t find any.
I looked at my watch and realized I had just wasted fifteen minutes of my life, so I plopped myself down and tore open the envelope with my bare hands.
Within the envelope was stationary card.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” said a cartoony turkey on the cover. I opened up the card and read, “One thing I’m thankful for is for this opportunity to waste you!”
And from behind my neighbors trees I see Kevin, Dan and Kenneth with their water guns. This wasn’t a real threat, but at the same time it was. As I ran for my front door for cover they began squirting me with water. It was cold.
Dan reached the door before me. “Dude! What took you so long? Can’t you open a letter like a normal person?” He didn’t even give a chance to reply. He squirted me in the face.
We ended up messing around the rest of the day. And I got to say, I’m thankful for my friends.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
#26
You remember that story about Little Red Riding Hood and how she foolishly believed her grandmother had monstrous eyes, hirsute ears, rugged teeth, and a distinctly wolfish voice? Well, I feel like that foolish child. I feel like I’ve been deceived and swallowed whole by an imposter.
I had a few days left before I could start eating lunch at school again. But during this time I developed habits: I feast like a king during breakfast and I stuff my face with food when the 3:30 bell rings. But in between I’m what Homer Simpson is to being sober – painfully out of my mind. All day I dream about fruit baskets and the fruit they contain. I imagine my fist is an 8 oz. filet mignon and chew. And sadly, in my hunger I lose control of my movements and decisions: I babble, I drool, I move around like a cretin. It got pretty serious.
Even Carl noticed. And I so wish he didn’t. One day during recess he came up to me and offered me a sloppy joe sandwich. He said it was his lunch and he felt bad for me – felt bad enough to sacrifice his own physiological needs. Of course I, the dimwitted, hungry savage, accepted the sandwich without hesitation.
You probably think it was filled with bugs or gravel or mud. But in actuality, it was filled with all of the above. I barely sunk my teeth into the sandwich when the spread dripped into my mouth and I quickly spat it out.
Carl toppled over in mountainous laughter. Stupid Carl. Stupid Me.
I continued to feel sorry for myself the rest of the day.
After an uneventful lunch I came back to my seat and found within my desk half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My first thoughts were of Carl and how this might be a continuation of his tricks, but after peeling open the top layer I realized it was clean.
I looked up from my desk and saw Anna staring back at me. She gave me a discreet wink and turned her attention back to the teacher.
I snuck the sandwich into the bathroom and ate half a sandwich. Yeah, I broke the rules of the game, but you can’t blame a hungry man.
I had a few days left before I could start eating lunch at school again. But during this time I developed habits: I feast like a king during breakfast and I stuff my face with food when the 3:30 bell rings. But in between I’m what Homer Simpson is to being sober – painfully out of my mind. All day I dream about fruit baskets and the fruit they contain. I imagine my fist is an 8 oz. filet mignon and chew. And sadly, in my hunger I lose control of my movements and decisions: I babble, I drool, I move around like a cretin. It got pretty serious.
Even Carl noticed. And I so wish he didn’t. One day during recess he came up to me and offered me a sloppy joe sandwich. He said it was his lunch and he felt bad for me – felt bad enough to sacrifice his own physiological needs. Of course I, the dimwitted, hungry savage, accepted the sandwich without hesitation.
You probably think it was filled with bugs or gravel or mud. But in actuality, it was filled with all of the above. I barely sunk my teeth into the sandwich when the spread dripped into my mouth and I quickly spat it out.
Carl toppled over in mountainous laughter. Stupid Carl. Stupid Me.
I continued to feel sorry for myself the rest of the day.
After an uneventful lunch I came back to my seat and found within my desk half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My first thoughts were of Carl and how this might be a continuation of his tricks, but after peeling open the top layer I realized it was clean.
I looked up from my desk and saw Anna staring back at me. She gave me a discreet wink and turned her attention back to the teacher.
I snuck the sandwich into the bathroom and ate half a sandwich. Yeah, I broke the rules of the game, but you can’t blame a hungry man.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
#24
[I'm aware I missed day. So here's what was supposed to go up yesterday. Enjoy]
I come with arms: a machete, a rocket-propelled grenade, and a flare gun. I take pleasure with my new found facts to quiz Anna on her so called experiences around the world. I let out a growling laugh: Anna is both doomed and helpless.
I wait patiently at school. And one by one my classmates, who yesterday were hypnotized by her luring speech about her past, came and gathered around me. And then she came: Anna, the girl with a split tongue . . . well, not literally. But she had that type of character.
“Anna!” I called out, “What’s the capital of Namibia?”
“Windhoek.” She replied matter-of-factly.
“Who’s its president?”
“Pohamba.” She said turning her quizzical mouth in a smile. “Cool name for a president, huh?”
And it was true, it said so on Wikipedia.
“Fine, where’s Namibia located anyway? What continent?”
“South Africa! Why are you so interested anyways?”
“Yesterday you said it was in South America. Now you changed your answer.”
“That’s because it is in South Africa. I messed up yesterday, I got confused. After going to so many countries you lose track of where everything is. I hardly own anything at home – my parents say it’s not worth keeping anything that’s not portable.”
“How can you forget where you lived?!” I was incredulous. She was covering up her tracks. I was going to pin her down, one way or another.
“We were only there for a week. I never said I lived there.”
“B..b..b..but . . .”
My other classmates started giving me strange accusatory glares. I did not feel comfortable; not at all. One by one they left me. I felt sorry for myself. I let my eyes fall to my feet and starting rubbing one shoe against the other. Then I felt a push on my back. It was Anna.
“Come on Sam. Let’s get to class before we’re marked as tardy.” She was as cheerful as ever and she didn’t even seem to mind my rude behavior. I felt more relaxed. “Oh, Sue told me about this game that you guys have got going. Want to tell me more about it?” And that’s how our friendship started.
#25
“Dude, what happened?”
“I forgot.”
“How could you forget? It was your idea to begin with!”
“I don't know. I wasn’t thinking about it last night.”
“But you do know what’s going to happen . . .”
Today is not a good day. It’s thirty-two degrees outside and the air is humid. My shirt sticks to my back and sweat dribbles down my face. The heat causes beads of impatience to form on my skin. I’m about to burst out of my skin when the bell rings.
“Class, I’m sorry to inform you but the air conditioning has some problems. And I know this is probably the worst time for it to break down, but we’re going to have to bear with it.”
I scan the classroom and notice my classmates’ beady eyes darting in my direction. I know why they’re looking at me, and it’s not comforting. My blood begins to boil as I simmer in the sun’s rays.
“Oh, and by the way we have a pop quiz in math.”
I hear a chorus of groans echo through the room, but I’m not so much concerned about the pop quiz and I am with the game.
The game was easy: Wear Red; red in demonstration against the school’s new policy of school uniforms. The tragedy lied in my forgetting to wear red, meaning that I approved of the new uniforms. And like what was said earlier, it was my idea to begin with.
Yesterday we decided that if you don’t wear red you have to forfeit your lunch for the entire week. This is how much we were against the uniform idea. And even though I was against it, I still had to suffer the punishment as though I actually was for it. And now I don't get a lunch. And the weather was not improving my attitude.
I looked over and saw Anna in the corner of the class. She sported a bright red t-shirt with a smiley face printed on its back, and underneath it read: Have a Nice Day.
“I forgot.”
“How could you forget? It was your idea to begin with!”
“I don't know. I wasn’t thinking about it last night.”
“But you do know what’s going to happen . . .”
Today is not a good day. It’s thirty-two degrees outside and the air is humid. My shirt sticks to my back and sweat dribbles down my face. The heat causes beads of impatience to form on my skin. I’m about to burst out of my skin when the bell rings.
“Class, I’m sorry to inform you but the air conditioning has some problems. And I know this is probably the worst time for it to break down, but we’re going to have to bear with it.”
I scan the classroom and notice my classmates’ beady eyes darting in my direction. I know why they’re looking at me, and it’s not comforting. My blood begins to boil as I simmer in the sun’s rays.
“Oh, and by the way we have a pop quiz in math.”
I hear a chorus of groans echo through the room, but I’m not so much concerned about the pop quiz and I am with the game.
The game was easy: Wear Red; red in demonstration against the school’s new policy of school uniforms. The tragedy lied in my forgetting to wear red, meaning that I approved of the new uniforms. And like what was said earlier, it was my idea to begin with.
Yesterday we decided that if you don’t wear red you have to forfeit your lunch for the entire week. This is how much we were against the uniform idea. And even though I was against it, I still had to suffer the punishment as though I actually was for it. And now I don't get a lunch. And the weather was not improving my attitude.
I looked over and saw Anna in the corner of the class. She sported a bright red t-shirt with a smiley face printed on its back, and underneath it read: Have a Nice Day.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
#23
“So this is the cafeteria.” I said pointing towards a decrepit building. I wasn’t much of a tour guide, but it wasn’t like I was trying to impress anyone.
“What time does lunch start?” Anna asked while kicking a tile that stuck out of the ground.
“Eleven-thirty.” We began walking to the gym. We didn’t talk much; mostly we just heard the scuffling of our feet against the concrete and the construction workers as they rebuilt the art room.
Anna spoke up. “You know, my old school had huge library. The one you showed me is tiny.”
Oh no, I thought to myself. Here comes the flurry of comparison and complaints.
“Our old library had three floors. They had a floor exclusively for magazines – not the pop culture stuff like Seventeen or GQ, but the good stuff. I love looking through NG’s stuff.”
“NG?”
“National Geographic, silly.”
Her pompous attitude was beginning to get to me, so I asked about why her family moved here.
“It’s only temporary. They came to help out because of the earthquake. You know, nature has to rebuild itself after catastrophes, too.”
I gave her a barely audible “uh huh” and started picking up my pace. “That's the gym over there . . . behind the office building. We have PE tomorrow, so we’ll show you around the gym then. And that over there is Mr. Walker’s office; he’s the principal. He’s pretty nice, but he gets pretty impatient if you talk back at him. He’s got like, five kids; all of them graduated from high school already.
“Hey, I was wondering. Where is Namibia? It sounds like a cool place.”
“Err . . . It’s in South America.” I caught her off guard.
That night I looked up Namibia on the internet and as I expected, Anna was lying. I wondered how much of her life she had lied about. I figured I could interrogate her the next day, but I was still deliberating whether I should get the class involved. I decided against it; I wanted to know how much I could get out of her myself.
“What time does lunch start?” Anna asked while kicking a tile that stuck out of the ground.
“Eleven-thirty.” We began walking to the gym. We didn’t talk much; mostly we just heard the scuffling of our feet against the concrete and the construction workers as they rebuilt the art room.
Anna spoke up. “You know, my old school had huge library. The one you showed me is tiny.”
Oh no, I thought to myself. Here comes the flurry of comparison and complaints.
“Our old library had three floors. They had a floor exclusively for magazines – not the pop culture stuff like Seventeen or GQ, but the good stuff. I love looking through NG’s stuff.”
“NG?”
“National Geographic, silly.”
Her pompous attitude was beginning to get to me, so I asked about why her family moved here.
“It’s only temporary. They came to help out because of the earthquake. You know, nature has to rebuild itself after catastrophes, too.”
I gave her a barely audible “uh huh” and started picking up my pace. “That's the gym over there . . . behind the office building. We have PE tomorrow, so we’ll show you around the gym then. And that over there is Mr. Walker’s office; he’s the principal. He’s pretty nice, but he gets pretty impatient if you talk back at him. He’s got like, five kids; all of them graduated from high school already.
“Hey, I was wondering. Where is Namibia? It sounds like a cool place.”
“Err . . . It’s in South America.” I caught her off guard.
That night I looked up Namibia on the internet and as I expected, Anna was lying. I wondered how much of her life she had lied about. I figured I could interrogate her the next day, but I was still deliberating whether I should get the class involved. I decided against it; I wanted to know how much I could get out of her myself.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
#22
Anna. How do I describe her? She’s average height (compares to the rest of us). Her words are crisp and enunciated. Her hair is cropped at her shoulders. And she has a scar above her left eye brow that’s partly hidden by her bangs.
When Miss Grothoff asked her to introduce herself she said she was an aspiring oceanographer. She talked about all the countries she’s live in and travelled to. “Five continents” she’s exclaim with raving arms. She told us about countries we’d never heard of: Bolivia, Namibia, Oman, Maldives, and so on and so forth.
“I think I’ve heard of Maldives,” Kevin whispered to me. “I think it’s in Canada.”
Anna shared with the class what her parents did. They were environmental spokespersons for the WWF. They travelled from country to country giving talks about the preservation of the planet and its species.
There’s something about Anna. Maybe it’s the way her eyes grow bigger when she emphasizes a word that no one understands; or the way her bangs bounce up and down with the cadence of her monologue; or the way she acts bigger than life. Whatever it is, I hate it. She’s such an actor. She’s so fake.
I turned to rant to Kevin but he was consumed by her words. I looked to my left to talk to Dan, but he had been sucked in by Anna too. I looked at my other classmates and was shocked to see that Anna had put everyone under a trance. She had hypnotized everyone! Was this an alien invasion that uses unearthly culls to entangle our species into surrender? I bet she’s an alien. I bet she came from one of Saturn’s moons. She’s probably doing research for her mother planet – that’s why she’s travelling so much!
My train of thought was broken before my paranoia made me do anything stupid, when Miss Grothoff said quite loudly, “Sam. Could you give Anna a tour of the school? Show her where the cafeteria is, the playground, the nurses office . . . and the principal’s office – just in case.” She gave us a wink. I felt sick to my stomach.
The spot light fell on me as I got up from my desk. I could feel the gazes of my classmates as I made my way to the front of the classroom. I could hear whispers all around me. I could feel my face turn to an embarrassing shade of red.
Miss Grothoff ushered us out the door and reminded me to take her to the library also. We were going to start on a research project and Anna needs to know where she can find books for the project.
“I don’t need books,” Anna said. “My parents know everything there is to know about anything. They’re geniuses.”
And with that she bounded off with aristocratic air. Gahh . . . I can’t stand her.
When Miss Grothoff asked her to introduce herself she said she was an aspiring oceanographer. She talked about all the countries she’s live in and travelled to. “Five continents” she’s exclaim with raving arms. She told us about countries we’d never heard of: Bolivia, Namibia, Oman, Maldives, and so on and so forth.
“I think I’ve heard of Maldives,” Kevin whispered to me. “I think it’s in Canada.”
Anna shared with the class what her parents did. They were environmental spokespersons for the WWF. They travelled from country to country giving talks about the preservation of the planet and its species.
There’s something about Anna. Maybe it’s the way her eyes grow bigger when she emphasizes a word that no one understands; or the way her bangs bounce up and down with the cadence of her monologue; or the way she acts bigger than life. Whatever it is, I hate it. She’s such an actor. She’s so fake.
I turned to rant to Kevin but he was consumed by her words. I looked to my left to talk to Dan, but he had been sucked in by Anna too. I looked at my other classmates and was shocked to see that Anna had put everyone under a trance. She had hypnotized everyone! Was this an alien invasion that uses unearthly culls to entangle our species into surrender? I bet she’s an alien. I bet she came from one of Saturn’s moons. She’s probably doing research for her mother planet – that’s why she’s travelling so much!
My train of thought was broken before my paranoia made me do anything stupid, when Miss Grothoff said quite loudly, “Sam. Could you give Anna a tour of the school? Show her where the cafeteria is, the playground, the nurses office . . . and the principal’s office – just in case.” She gave us a wink. I felt sick to my stomach.
The spot light fell on me as I got up from my desk. I could feel the gazes of my classmates as I made my way to the front of the classroom. I could hear whispers all around me. I could feel my face turn to an embarrassing shade of red.
Miss Grothoff ushered us out the door and reminded me to take her to the library also. We were going to start on a research project and Anna needs to know where she can find books for the project.
“I don’t need books,” Anna said. “My parents know everything there is to know about anything. They’re geniuses.”
And with that she bounded off with aristocratic air. Gahh . . . I can’t stand her.
Friday, November 21, 2008
#21
Today everyone wore solid colored t-shirts. The game was to see who can single themselves out as being the only person with a different color t-shirt. So you can just imagine how colorful our class was that day. Everyone wore shirts that they’d never wear any other normal day; puke green or neon yellow seemed like the perfect outfit for the day.
But despite our color creativity no one had an exclusive color. We had fuschia shirts, almond colored shirts, azure shirts, etc, but we everyone had a matching partner. That meant the punishment applied to everyone.
Yesterday we decided that those whose shirt’s color matched someone else’s in the class would have to spend the entire recess standing one leg, and chirp like bitter birds. You could just imagine us standing on the blacktop, a colorful bunch, all standing on one leg – squawking.
When we got back to the classroom Miss Grothoff was already standing at the front of the room and beside her stood a new girl.
“Class, I’d like to introduce you to Anna. She’ll be joining us for the second semester of the school year. Her family just moved into town last week. Why don’t you welcome her?”
“Hi Anna,” we said in unison.
It must’ve been weird for Anna . . . not because she was new to the class, but because everyone had their eyes on her shirt and not her face. Our eyes drilled into the threads of her cotton t-shirt; we were all pretty upset.
Anna wore a plain white t-shirt with a small but recognizable WWF logo (Panda). I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with my class. No one had ever thought of wearing white to school. We all tried to be something totally different, but in the end everyone was the same.
But despite our color creativity no one had an exclusive color. We had fuschia shirts, almond colored shirts, azure shirts, etc, but we everyone had a matching partner. That meant the punishment applied to everyone.
Yesterday we decided that those whose shirt’s color matched someone else’s in the class would have to spend the entire recess standing one leg, and chirp like bitter birds. You could just imagine us standing on the blacktop, a colorful bunch, all standing on one leg – squawking.
When we got back to the classroom Miss Grothoff was already standing at the front of the room and beside her stood a new girl.
“Class, I’d like to introduce you to Anna. She’ll be joining us for the second semester of the school year. Her family just moved into town last week. Why don’t you welcome her?”
“Hi Anna,” we said in unison.
It must’ve been weird for Anna . . . not because she was new to the class, but because everyone had their eyes on her shirt and not her face. Our eyes drilled into the threads of her cotton t-shirt; we were all pretty upset.
Anna wore a plain white t-shirt with a small but recognizable WWF logo (Panda). I’m telling you, there’s something wrong with my class. No one had ever thought of wearing white to school. We all tried to be something totally different, but in the end everyone was the same.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
#20
Today we had lunch on the soccer field. It was a tradition of Miss Grothoff to plan a picnic for the class before the end of the year. We brought our own home-made sandwiches, but she brought the good stuff – she brought sliced fruits, baked cookies, and tons and tons of orange juice.
We pigged out while Miss Grothoff gave a spiel about biology. She went on and on about nonvascular plants, spineless invertebrates, protists, monerans, and the fungus kingdom. It was all such a bore.
Fortunately we kept ourselves occupied with Dan and his jar of peanut butter. Dan likes to make his sandwiches at school so that the peanut butter and jelly doesn’t soak through the bread. Today he brought a brand new jar of Skippy’s Roasted Honey Nut Super Chunk Peanut Butter and we coaxed him eat the whole jar in one sitting.
He reluctantly gave in. A small crowd gathered around and watched Dan as he twisted off the red cap, peeled off the safety seal, took a spoon and drove it into the was-smooth surface of the peanut butter. Dan scooped out a huge chunk but hesitated before sticking the spoon in his mouth. He didn’t say anything, but you can see it in his eyes – he wanted to chicken out.
Dan’s no chicken though. He started stuffing his mouth with the stuff. We quietly cheered him on. You could see the sticky excess trickle down the corners of his mouth, but Dan wasn’t worried about his manners – he’s going to do this!
Eating peanut butter on its own is no easy task. PB is thick and murky. You can’t swallow the stuff like you swallow water. You have to force it down, especially if you’re taking mouth full’s at a time. And contrary to popular belief, it’s not that sweet; honestly, it tastes really gross. So you can imagine the horrors Dan was going through as he downed spoon after spoonful.
Dan didn’t finish the whole jar; he didn’t even get half way. His face turned an unnatural shade of green so we stopped cheering and gave him a little breathing room. Fortunately for the class he didn’t hurl, but we decided it was best to avoid him for the remainder of the day.
Dan vowed never to eat peanut butter again, and so far he’s kept that vow. Meanwhile, Miss Grothoff continued to lecture us on the genus Panthera. We continued to ignore her and instead lay down on our blankets and soaked in the sun.
We pigged out while Miss Grothoff gave a spiel about biology. She went on and on about nonvascular plants, spineless invertebrates, protists, monerans, and the fungus kingdom. It was all such a bore.
Fortunately we kept ourselves occupied with Dan and his jar of peanut butter. Dan likes to make his sandwiches at school so that the peanut butter and jelly doesn’t soak through the bread. Today he brought a brand new jar of Skippy’s Roasted Honey Nut Super Chunk Peanut Butter and we coaxed him eat the whole jar in one sitting.
He reluctantly gave in. A small crowd gathered around and watched Dan as he twisted off the red cap, peeled off the safety seal, took a spoon and drove it into the was-smooth surface of the peanut butter. Dan scooped out a huge chunk but hesitated before sticking the spoon in his mouth. He didn’t say anything, but you can see it in his eyes – he wanted to chicken out.
Dan’s no chicken though. He started stuffing his mouth with the stuff. We quietly cheered him on. You could see the sticky excess trickle down the corners of his mouth, but Dan wasn’t worried about his manners – he’s going to do this!
Eating peanut butter on its own is no easy task. PB is thick and murky. You can’t swallow the stuff like you swallow water. You have to force it down, especially if you’re taking mouth full’s at a time. And contrary to popular belief, it’s not that sweet; honestly, it tastes really gross. So you can imagine the horrors Dan was going through as he downed spoon after spoonful.
Dan didn’t finish the whole jar; he didn’t even get half way. His face turned an unnatural shade of green so we stopped cheering and gave him a little breathing room. Fortunately for the class he didn’t hurl, but we decided it was best to avoid him for the remainder of the day.
Dan vowed never to eat peanut butter again, and so far he’s kept that vow. Meanwhile, Miss Grothoff continued to lecture us on the genus Panthera. We continued to ignore her and instead lay down on our blankets and soaked in the sun.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
#19
Today in PE we played dodgeball. Not the wimpy five on five version where you move to the side after getting hit. This was a full fledged war with armies and strategies, but instead of flying bullets we had styrofoam balls passing our heads. And instead of generals we had Carl and me as team leaders.
We chose the strongest throwers and dodgers to be part of our team and worked our way down till we got to little Susan who always sat out after the first round. Both teams huddled together and planned our strike.
You have to understand something before we move on. Warfare at our age was pretty straight forward – attack and defend. We send minor troops forward to take the initial hit then bring on the big hitters with three or four balls (and less defenders) to finish the other team off.
Let me pause before the actual game and explain what everything looks like. Picture yourself in a basketball gym with bleachers and raised basketball rims. You can hear the whomping of the exhaust fans overhead and despite the fans, the only thing that fills your lungs is that musky gym air.
Now picture yourself as one of the students/soldiers. Your heart pounds in your chest your palms begin to tremble. You survey the battle field and the opponents stretching on the other side of the court; and despite the distance you see their white teeth behind smiling lips of anticipation; and despite the squeaky sneakers you can hear your enemy’s hushed whispers. They’re coming after you!
So when our gym teacher, Mr. Hertz blew the whistle initiating the war, everyone hustled over to their positions. As we ran forward we could see the balls volleying past our heads. We zig-zagged our way up court with our balls clutched to our chest, prepared to deflect any incoming balls.
But despite our small size and agility a few of us already fell to our enemies. Left and right I saw bodies splayed on their backs on the court. I saw a blue ball roll out of the hands of my comrade who got struck on their chest. My heart pumped faster.
But still, I ran forward. Slowly but surely I was making my way towards my target: Carl. I see his figure growing bigger and bigger in my line of sight, and fortunately, he’s facing another direction! I come in for the kill!
Fwooooosh!
I miss by a hair. How can this be? I, Sam, am the master of dodge ball throwing. I can put a spin on a ball so it would curve around a standing lump of meat and hit my target behind it. I was Pro! This is what I train myself all year round for! This was my biggest –
POOOOW!!
Next thing I know I’m laid out on the ground. Somehow a kid snuck up and put a ball to my head. The kid wasn’t very strong (it was Susan actually), but what they said to me later was that it wasn’t the initial impact that brought me down, it was the dozens of other kids who flanked me from behind and pummeled me when I least expected it.
Of course this was all planned out by Carl who learned the word “flank” from his family, the night before. He relayed the term to his teammates when they huddled together during the beginning.
Carl scores another point – bah humbug!
We chose the strongest throwers and dodgers to be part of our team and worked our way down till we got to little Susan who always sat out after the first round. Both teams huddled together and planned our strike.
You have to understand something before we move on. Warfare at our age was pretty straight forward – attack and defend. We send minor troops forward to take the initial hit then bring on the big hitters with three or four balls (and less defenders) to finish the other team off.
Let me pause before the actual game and explain what everything looks like. Picture yourself in a basketball gym with bleachers and raised basketball rims. You can hear the whomping of the exhaust fans overhead and despite the fans, the only thing that fills your lungs is that musky gym air.
Now picture yourself as one of the students/soldiers. Your heart pounds in your chest your palms begin to tremble. You survey the battle field and the opponents stretching on the other side of the court; and despite the distance you see their white teeth behind smiling lips of anticipation; and despite the squeaky sneakers you can hear your enemy’s hushed whispers. They’re coming after you!
So when our gym teacher, Mr. Hertz blew the whistle initiating the war, everyone hustled over to their positions. As we ran forward we could see the balls volleying past our heads. We zig-zagged our way up court with our balls clutched to our chest, prepared to deflect any incoming balls.
But despite our small size and agility a few of us already fell to our enemies. Left and right I saw bodies splayed on their backs on the court. I saw a blue ball roll out of the hands of my comrade who got struck on their chest. My heart pumped faster.
But still, I ran forward. Slowly but surely I was making my way towards my target: Carl. I see his figure growing bigger and bigger in my line of sight, and fortunately, he’s facing another direction! I come in for the kill!
Fwooooosh!
I miss by a hair. How can this be? I, Sam, am the master of dodge ball throwing. I can put a spin on a ball so it would curve around a standing lump of meat and hit my target behind it. I was Pro! This is what I train myself all year round for! This was my biggest –
POOOOW!!
Next thing I know I’m laid out on the ground. Somehow a kid snuck up and put a ball to my head. The kid wasn’t very strong (it was Susan actually), but what they said to me later was that it wasn’t the initial impact that brought me down, it was the dozens of other kids who flanked me from behind and pummeled me when I least expected it.
Of course this was all planned out by Carl who learned the word “flank” from his family, the night before. He relayed the term to his teammates when they huddled together during the beginning.
Carl scores another point – bah humbug!
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
#18
Kevin brought a film to my house today, entitled Martial Arts: Judo! The cover of the CD pictured a giant, flying through the air with flailing arms and legs, and beneath the giant was a poorly built man with skinny arms and legs. It was like The Amazing Spiderman without costumes!
We popped the CD into a DVD player and on the 52” HD screen saw a pixilated, wrinkly old Japanese man in a suit. He introduced Judo as one of the world’s greatest forms of fighting, despite it being called Judo, or “the gentle way.”
Before we witnessed a fight between two masters of Judo, we endured the hour long introduction of its history, its benefits and its rules. He went through the mechanics and why it’s such a fine sport for people of all ages – going through interview and interview with old ladies in their 80’s, little Billy’s, and even a 7 year old kid who after weeks of discipline training got over his attention deficit disorder. Judo rocked.
Judo’s great because anyone can use it. You don’t have to be strong; you just need the right technique. Even a tiny kid like little Parker could topple over a man as big as a rhino. Judo’s secret lies in its manipulation.
And then Kevin, my friends and I watched as grown men grappled with each other in different positions standing up and lying on the mats. And just to advise you, it’s nothing like WWE. It’s not as showy and it’s supremely more realistic (not that WWE is all fake).
Anyway, after watching a few fights my friends and I decided to practice some of the new moves we learned. We tugged at each others shirts and sleeves, pushing one other off balance so we could take advantage of their unstable stance, which then led their timbering fall.
Unfortunately, Kevin we never learned how to fall properly leading to Dan’s breaking his arm. When we heard the crack of marrow and the bulge protruding out of the skin, we panicked. We cried for our mothers to help and called the hospital to send for a helicopter to rescue our poor friend Dan. Instead they sent an Ambulance with paramedics.
It was quite a day and everyone felt pretty shaken by the day’s incident. Well, all except me and Kevin. The following day we hid behind a bush and jumped Carl’s brother as we walking home. We knew the techniques – we watched the fighters closely on TV and knew how to execute throws and drops. We were prepared.
Well, not quite prepared for fists which are quite illegal in Judo. We didn’t learn about the round house or the sucker punch. We were familiar with the noogie, but we weren’t very big fans of it. And when we were overpowered by the high schooler, we received pummels like we never had before. And I got to say, it hurt.
Kevin and I returned home defeated and disappointed. Judo sucks as a fighting technique. The rest of the day we watched a discovery channel special on guns and ammo. If only we weren’t underage.
We popped the CD into a DVD player and on the 52” HD screen saw a pixilated, wrinkly old Japanese man in a suit. He introduced Judo as one of the world’s greatest forms of fighting, despite it being called Judo, or “the gentle way.”
Before we witnessed a fight between two masters of Judo, we endured the hour long introduction of its history, its benefits and its rules. He went through the mechanics and why it’s such a fine sport for people of all ages – going through interview and interview with old ladies in their 80’s, little Billy’s, and even a 7 year old kid who after weeks of discipline training got over his attention deficit disorder. Judo rocked.
Judo’s great because anyone can use it. You don’t have to be strong; you just need the right technique. Even a tiny kid like little Parker could topple over a man as big as a rhino. Judo’s secret lies in its manipulation.
And then Kevin, my friends and I watched as grown men grappled with each other in different positions standing up and lying on the mats. And just to advise you, it’s nothing like WWE. It’s not as showy and it’s supremely more realistic (not that WWE is all fake).
Anyway, after watching a few fights my friends and I decided to practice some of the new moves we learned. We tugged at each others shirts and sleeves, pushing one other off balance so we could take advantage of their unstable stance, which then led their timbering fall.
Unfortunately, Kevin we never learned how to fall properly leading to Dan’s breaking his arm. When we heard the crack of marrow and the bulge protruding out of the skin, we panicked. We cried for our mothers to help and called the hospital to send for a helicopter to rescue our poor friend Dan. Instead they sent an Ambulance with paramedics.
It was quite a day and everyone felt pretty shaken by the day’s incident. Well, all except me and Kevin. The following day we hid behind a bush and jumped Carl’s brother as we walking home. We knew the techniques – we watched the fighters closely on TV and knew how to execute throws and drops. We were prepared.
Well, not quite prepared for fists which are quite illegal in Judo. We didn’t learn about the round house or the sucker punch. We were familiar with the noogie, but we weren’t very big fans of it. And when we were overpowered by the high schooler, we received pummels like we never had before. And I got to say, it hurt.
Kevin and I returned home defeated and disappointed. Judo sucks as a fighting technique. The rest of the day we watched a discovery channel special on guns and ammo. If only we weren’t underage.
Monday, November 17, 2008
#17
We wrote short stories today in class. We learned about using active verbs instead of passive ones. Miss Grothoff asked us to write a fantasy about our weekend. So here it goes.
Dawn! I wake to a cloudy room scented with morning dew and breathe in fresh alpine air. I sit up on my bed and survey the expanse of my living quarters – the undying sun rises and I feel its warm rays on my face. I see my visage on my wall’s mirror and know deep in my being that today was going to be a fantastic day.
I make my way down to the breakfast table and gobble down a breakfast for champs. With every swallow my body begins to bulge and develop muscle mass needed for the day’s activities. I toss my empty bowl into the hollow sink and turn to leave the house.
My bike leans on a tree; it waits for me with godly patience, like a noble steed. I mount my bike and adjust the helmet strap which guarantees my safety. I journey over to the local fireworks store to pick up some weaponry for that evenings battle. Yes, the hour of bloodshed closes in like the minute hand on a doomsday clock.
Oh the suspense! How time slows to agonizing minutes when one anticipates a victory. Cruelty lies in waiting. The mere constraining of oneself compares itself to a ship anchored at its heels, longing to be caught in the wind and whisked away on the Equatorial Current.
And how those types of thoughts flood my mind. Thankfully, those thoughts help pass the time. Hours later, dawn turns to dusk and I my nocturnal half awakes. Every sense in my body quadruples in sensitivity. After my parents fall asleep I exit the gates of my house and peddle my way down the road, block by block.
In no time at all I arrive at Carl’s house, and as I expected his window is wide open. The cool air wooshes against my face, pleading in my ears to refrain from doing what I’m about to do. The trees sway along in the wind – flapping its branches back and forth. But these things I ignore. I’m on a mission, and nothing will stop me.
From my pocket I fish out my Zippo and strike the flint. The spark ignites the lighter fluid and in less than a second turns into a small flame. I pull out the firecrackers from my bag and put the wick over the fire – the same way you roast a marshmallow, but unlike marshmallows, once the wick burns you toss it as quickly as possible.
My weekend ended with explosions and loud, loud noises; with dazzling lights and prolific screams. How I basked in that moment and cherished it. Too bad none of it is true.
Dawn! I wake to a cloudy room scented with morning dew and breathe in fresh alpine air. I sit up on my bed and survey the expanse of my living quarters – the undying sun rises and I feel its warm rays on my face. I see my visage on my wall’s mirror and know deep in my being that today was going to be a fantastic day.
I make my way down to the breakfast table and gobble down a breakfast for champs. With every swallow my body begins to bulge and develop muscle mass needed for the day’s activities. I toss my empty bowl into the hollow sink and turn to leave the house.
My bike leans on a tree; it waits for me with godly patience, like a noble steed. I mount my bike and adjust the helmet strap which guarantees my safety. I journey over to the local fireworks store to pick up some weaponry for that evenings battle. Yes, the hour of bloodshed closes in like the minute hand on a doomsday clock.
Oh the suspense! How time slows to agonizing minutes when one anticipates a victory. Cruelty lies in waiting. The mere constraining of oneself compares itself to a ship anchored at its heels, longing to be caught in the wind and whisked away on the Equatorial Current.
And how those types of thoughts flood my mind. Thankfully, those thoughts help pass the time. Hours later, dawn turns to dusk and I my nocturnal half awakes. Every sense in my body quadruples in sensitivity. After my parents fall asleep I exit the gates of my house and peddle my way down the road, block by block.
In no time at all I arrive at Carl’s house, and as I expected his window is wide open. The cool air wooshes against my face, pleading in my ears to refrain from doing what I’m about to do. The trees sway along in the wind – flapping its branches back and forth. But these things I ignore. I’m on a mission, and nothing will stop me.
From my pocket I fish out my Zippo and strike the flint. The spark ignites the lighter fluid and in less than a second turns into a small flame. I pull out the firecrackers from my bag and put the wick over the fire – the same way you roast a marshmallow, but unlike marshmallows, once the wick burns you toss it as quickly as possible.
My weekend ended with explosions and loud, loud noises; with dazzling lights and prolific screams. How I basked in that moment and cherished it. Too bad none of it is true.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
#16
When I got back to school they were still playing “Grothoff says.” Today’s game was fun though – it was nothing serious, nothing that would get us in trouble. We split into five groups and we each chose trigger words. And those words triggered our paper cars that we lined up on a pencil etched track on our desk.
The racers:
“Exactly”
“Like”
“America”
“Class”
“Marvin” (a.k.a. The Class Pet)
My group had our money on America, because we were learning about American history. How could you possible go wrong there? Well, I found out pretty quickly . . .
“Alright class (point!), today we’re going to learn about the American (point!) Constitution. I first want to educate you on what a constitution is. The constitution is the supreme set of laws of our country. And it also expresses the type of government we will have. Class (point!), who know what type of government we have?”
Marvin throws up his hand.
“Yes Marvin? (point!)”
“It’s a federal constitutional republic.”
“You’re exactly (point!) right, Marvin (point!).” Miss Grothoff sees a flapping hand and calls on its owner. “Yes Paul?”
“The constitution is a document that was written when our country was started to explain how the country is supposed to operate. It contains information on how the government is to be organized, it lays out the descriptions of the most important jobs and what the responsibilities of those jobs are, and it lays out the core values of the country as the foundation for what sorts of laws should be made."
“Exactly. (point!) Paul, I’m impressed. You actually did your homework.”
Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with too much information on things you already know. If you’re truly, madly, deeply interested about the American Constitution, you could wikisearch it.
About the points. “America" lost big time. In the middle of the lesson Miss Grothoff stopped referring to America as America, but switched over to United States. That really ticked off my team.
The team that crossed the finish line first on our race track was the “Marvin” team. You could totally see it coming too. Once Paul let out that little blurb, Marvin got all jealous and sat on the edge of his seat, pouncing on every question. Marvin, dude . . . What a kid.
Carl still hates me. He threw half of his cupcake at me during lunch. I threw back a banana peel. Unfortunately, I got caught and now I have to help clean up the cafeteria tables.
[Now past the half-way mark!!!]
The racers:
“Exactly”
“Like”
“America”
“Class”
“Marvin” (a.k.a. The Class Pet)
My group had our money on America, because we were learning about American history. How could you possible go wrong there? Well, I found out pretty quickly . . .
“Alright class (point!), today we’re going to learn about the American (point!) Constitution. I first want to educate you on what a constitution is. The constitution is the supreme set of laws of our country. And it also expresses the type of government we will have. Class (point!), who know what type of government we have?”
Marvin throws up his hand.
“Yes Marvin? (point!)”
“It’s a federal constitutional republic.”
“You’re exactly (point!) right, Marvin (point!).” Miss Grothoff sees a flapping hand and calls on its owner. “Yes Paul?”
“The constitution is a document that was written when our country was started to explain how the country is supposed to operate. It contains information on how the government is to be organized, it lays out the descriptions of the most important jobs and what the responsibilities of those jobs are, and it lays out the core values of the country as the foundation for what sorts of laws should be made."
“Exactly. (point!) Paul, I’m impressed. You actually did your homework.”
Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with too much information on things you already know. If you’re truly, madly, deeply interested about the American Constitution, you could wikisearch it.
About the points. “America" lost big time. In the middle of the lesson Miss Grothoff stopped referring to America as America, but switched over to United States. That really ticked off my team.
The team that crossed the finish line first on our race track was the “Marvin” team. You could totally see it coming too. Once Paul let out that little blurb, Marvin got all jealous and sat on the edge of his seat, pouncing on every question. Marvin, dude . . . What a kid.
Carl still hates me. He threw half of his cupcake at me during lunch. I threw back a banana peel. Unfortunately, I got caught and now I have to help clean up the cafeteria tables.
[Now past the half-way mark!!!]
Saturday, November 15, 2008
#15
Some days I dream about staying in bed under my warm wooly blankets and not have to think about school. And fortunately for me, it happened today. I have a fever so my mom made me stay home.
I was able to sleep in till noon – and I had my lunch served to me in bed while I watched the news. Yeah, that’s what I call life. That afternoon I spent hours in front of the tube watching newsmen and women talk about the aftermath of the earthquake and other local news.
I checked my clock; it was close to four in the afternoon when I heard something come in through the window . . . and splatter all over my carpeted floor. I got out of my bed and looked out from my second floor window to see Carl with a bucket full of water balloons. But these weren’t ordinary water balloons: they were filled with dye.
I quickly shut my window and quickly called my mom to tell her to stop Carl from throwing things at the house. The yellow stain on the floor would definitely leave a stain – and my mom would be ticked.
I could hear my mother right now opening the front door. And by now Carl must be running around the block, making his escape. That dummy. What he did wasn’t even funny. Why’d he have to be so destructive with his pranks?
I went to sleep that night wondering how I could get back at Carl. But there was something strange about my room. It was the smell. It smelled really funky. And then I realized that the water balloon that Carl threw into my room had egg yolk in it. And it was beginning to rot.
[edit: Real Marvel Headline]
all i can say is... sweeeeeet...
I was able to sleep in till noon – and I had my lunch served to me in bed while I watched the news. Yeah, that’s what I call life. That afternoon I spent hours in front of the tube watching newsmen and women talk about the aftermath of the earthquake and other local news.
I checked my clock; it was close to four in the afternoon when I heard something come in through the window . . . and splatter all over my carpeted floor. I got out of my bed and looked out from my second floor window to see Carl with a bucket full of water balloons. But these weren’t ordinary water balloons: they were filled with dye.
I quickly shut my window and quickly called my mom to tell her to stop Carl from throwing things at the house. The yellow stain on the floor would definitely leave a stain – and my mom would be ticked.
I could hear my mother right now opening the front door. And by now Carl must be running around the block, making his escape. That dummy. What he did wasn’t even funny. Why’d he have to be so destructive with his pranks?
I went to sleep that night wondering how I could get back at Carl. But there was something strange about my room. It was the smell. It smelled really funky. And then I realized that the water balloon that Carl threw into my room had egg yolk in it. And it was beginning to rot.
[edit: Real Marvel Headline]
all i can say is... sweeeeeet...
Friday, November 14, 2008
#14
Okay – uh . . . Carl got really sick after that one incident. Like, really, really sick. He was confined to the hospital. And you’d think I’d be relieved, since you know, I’d be off the hook for a while, but honestly . . . I’m dying.
What if Carl dies? What if I never see him again? I hate thinking these thoughts, but every time I see his empty seats, I think of the possibilities.
And I know I sound all emo, but this has been eating me from the inside out. Carl’s suffering in the hospital and it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken his clothes from him. It was immature and mean of me. And it doesn’t justify the fact that we ran over my bike last summer.
But I guess you’re not really interested in my emotional state. So, today we played a game called “Grothoff Says.” The objective of the game is to do something, like an action, whenever Miss Grothoff says or does something. We started with coughing whenever Miss Grothoff says, “uhh.” And believe me, she says it a lot, especially when she teaches Biology.
So we coughed alphabetically. We started with Sue Aarons and went down the list. Abad, Aquino, Astorga, Brion, etc. It didn’t really seem out of place, because it was cold and people were getting sick left and right. The loser is the one who forgets to cough – so everyone was super alert. We listened closely to everything that came out of Miss Grothoff’s mouth. And we got pretty far. Out of the 26 students, 15 were able to cough on time.
We played a few rounds of this (I’m telling you, Miss Grothoff says “uhh” a looot). And we were all in pretty good spirits by the end of the day.
Sometime after lunch a visitor came. Well, not really a visitor – a citizen of the class. That’s right, Carl came back. He was still a little under the weather, but we was back . . . much to my chagrin. He sat back down in his seat and was exactly the same as he was before. Then he turned around, stared directly into my eyes.
Oh gosh . . . Now I wish he was back in the hospital.
What if Carl dies? What if I never see him again? I hate thinking these thoughts, but every time I see his empty seats, I think of the possibilities.
And I know I sound all emo, but this has been eating me from the inside out. Carl’s suffering in the hospital and it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taken his clothes from him. It was immature and mean of me. And it doesn’t justify the fact that we ran over my bike last summer.
But I guess you’re not really interested in my emotional state. So, today we played a game called “Grothoff Says.” The objective of the game is to do something, like an action, whenever Miss Grothoff says or does something. We started with coughing whenever Miss Grothoff says, “uhh.” And believe me, she says it a lot, especially when she teaches Biology.
So we coughed alphabetically. We started with Sue Aarons and went down the list. Abad, Aquino, Astorga, Brion, etc. It didn’t really seem out of place, because it was cold and people were getting sick left and right. The loser is the one who forgets to cough – so everyone was super alert. We listened closely to everything that came out of Miss Grothoff’s mouth. And we got pretty far. Out of the 26 students, 15 were able to cough on time.
We played a few rounds of this (I’m telling you, Miss Grothoff says “uhh” a looot). And we were all in pretty good spirits by the end of the day.
Sometime after lunch a visitor came. Well, not really a visitor – a citizen of the class. That’s right, Carl came back. He was still a little under the weather, but we was back . . . much to my chagrin. He sat back down in his seat and was exactly the same as he was before. Then he turned around, stared directly into my eyes.
Oh gosh . . . Now I wish he was back in the hospital.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
#13
Earlier today Carl lost the game of “wrong answer.” The mechanics of the game is that you have to give a wrong answer to one of Miss Grothoff’s questions. It’s a pretty easy game to play, but it’s not very fun for the teacher.
But like I said, Carl lost. Kevin, who’s really big on psychology, kept whispering “concord . . . concord . . .” into Carl’s ear.
Carl on the other hand was focused on his etching out his initials on his chair – and when Miss Grothoff called on him to answer the question “where did the American minutemen retreat to after the battle of Lexington,” Carl lost control of his tongue and said the first thing that came to mind: Concord.
We agreed the day before that whoever lost today’s game would have to jump into the swimming pool during lunch. Carl was really hesitant at first, but after our coaxing him with words like “chicken” or “wuss.”
At 12:30PM he jumped off the low dive. We came out of the water drenched – and shivering. The temperature had dropped that week to the low teens. He quickly ran to the shower room to change out of his PE uniform and put on his regular attire.
I don't know what came over me – but while Carl was warming himself with a hot shower, I stole his clothes. Everyone had already left for the mess hall – they didn’t want to miss lunch. So there was Carl, alone in the locker room – emptied of clothes and towels – nude and freezing.
He didn’t know what to do. So didn’t dare go out – he wouldn’t dare leave the room in this weather. How long he stayed in there, no one really knows. But when he didn’t show up in class earlier, Kevin was sent to locker room to fetch him. He was ticked. That’s actually an understatement. The guy looked like he was one of the apocalyptic horseman.
And somehow he found out I stole his clothes; which does not bode well for me.
But like I said, Carl lost. Kevin, who’s really big on psychology, kept whispering “concord . . . concord . . .” into Carl’s ear.
Carl on the other hand was focused on his etching out his initials on his chair – and when Miss Grothoff called on him to answer the question “where did the American minutemen retreat to after the battle of Lexington,” Carl lost control of his tongue and said the first thing that came to mind: Concord.
We agreed the day before that whoever lost today’s game would have to jump into the swimming pool during lunch. Carl was really hesitant at first, but after our coaxing him with words like “chicken” or “wuss.”
At 12:30PM he jumped off the low dive. We came out of the water drenched – and shivering. The temperature had dropped that week to the low teens. He quickly ran to the shower room to change out of his PE uniform and put on his regular attire.
I don't know what came over me – but while Carl was warming himself with a hot shower, I stole his clothes. Everyone had already left for the mess hall – they didn’t want to miss lunch. So there was Carl, alone in the locker room – emptied of clothes and towels – nude and freezing.
He didn’t know what to do. So didn’t dare go out – he wouldn’t dare leave the room in this weather. How long he stayed in there, no one really knows. But when he didn’t show up in class earlier, Kevin was sent to locker room to fetch him. He was ticked. That’s actually an understatement. The guy looked like he was one of the apocalyptic horseman.
And somehow he found out I stole his clothes; which does not bode well for me.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
#12
Before I can continue on with my story, I have to rewind to last summer. Summer is usually the time when my closest friends and I hang out and do crazy things. We had a bike gang – like, with bicycles -- and we were dangerous. We had slingshots and BB guns, and with those we terrorized the local neighborhood. Yeah, those were the good times; the time when we were king of the streets.
Now I have to shift the story over to Carl. Like I mentioned before, Carl was a bully. He grew up in a male dominant family. He had three brothers, two are in college and one is on the high school varsity basketball team – and he’s only a sophomore. If you ask me, the family was close to overdosing on testosterone, and I know that’s a little hard to believe since that’s not physically possible, but that’s my whole point. The family lives off steak, raw eggs, and protein shake. And I heard that their house’s second floor is a giant gym. They’re crazy.
Anyways, Carl’s father had a car, but it’s not any ordinary car: it’s a Hummer. You know, those oversized titans that can squash anything in its path. It has eight cylinders, it weighs three metric tons, it holds up to thirty-two gallons of diesel, and it guzzles it down at 10 miles per gallon. You have to refuel the baby at least once a week – depending on how much you drive it around. And it costs a whopping P4,800 to fill her up. I’m telling you, Carl’s family is crazy.
So how does Carl’s massive car have anything to do with my bike gang? Well, you can probably tell where this is heading. Kenneth, Dan and I are aspiring to be X-Game athletes. We were training to join the BMX Flatland, because we didn't have a skatepark in the area. We had a few tricks down and we begun to get the hang of scuffing the back wheel. If I wasn’t so humble I’d probably brag that we were top-notch (cause we were!).
Anyway, one day Carl and his brother Ted “borrowed” their father’s Hummer and took it for a cruise down Madrinas. I think they had one protein shake-too-many, because from the look of their blood-thirsty eyes, and their sweaty faces, and the thumping from their subwoofer that reverberated from their vehicle, you could tell they were itching for something to crush. Unfortunately, the first thing they saw was me . . . well, more specifically me on the ground after tripping on the bike’s handlebars.
We couldn’t see the drivers behind the tinted windows, but you didn’t have to see their faces to realize their intentions. From the revving of the engine you could sense something bad was going to happen.
The Hummer lurched forward, slowing gaining speed. And poor me! I was all bruised from my fall and could barely move – but from the way the vehicle was coming right at me I ignored the pain and just fled for my life. If my bicycle had legs and a brain, it probably would have followed, but instead it just lay their on the street.
The poor thing got flattened.
I was flattened.
So there – that’s my grudge story. Cause today, I got Carl back . . . maybe not as good as he got me last summer. But enough to keep me satisfied for the time being. But that story has to wait till tomorrow, because at the moment I’m hiding in a bathroom stall and if Carl hears me in here, he’ll kill me.
Now I have to shift the story over to Carl. Like I mentioned before, Carl was a bully. He grew up in a male dominant family. He had three brothers, two are in college and one is on the high school varsity basketball team – and he’s only a sophomore. If you ask me, the family was close to overdosing on testosterone, and I know that’s a little hard to believe since that’s not physically possible, but that’s my whole point. The family lives off steak, raw eggs, and protein shake. And I heard that their house’s second floor is a giant gym. They’re crazy.
Anyways, Carl’s father had a car, but it’s not any ordinary car: it’s a Hummer. You know, those oversized titans that can squash anything in its path. It has eight cylinders, it weighs three metric tons, it holds up to thirty-two gallons of diesel, and it guzzles it down at 10 miles per gallon. You have to refuel the baby at least once a week – depending on how much you drive it around. And it costs a whopping P4,800 to fill her up. I’m telling you, Carl’s family is crazy.
So how does Carl’s massive car have anything to do with my bike gang? Well, you can probably tell where this is heading. Kenneth, Dan and I are aspiring to be X-Game athletes. We were training to join the BMX Flatland, because we didn't have a skatepark in the area. We had a few tricks down and we begun to get the hang of scuffing the back wheel. If I wasn’t so humble I’d probably brag that we were top-notch (cause we were!).
Anyway, one day Carl and his brother Ted “borrowed” their father’s Hummer and took it for a cruise down Madrinas. I think they had one protein shake-too-many, because from the look of their blood-thirsty eyes, and their sweaty faces, and the thumping from their subwoofer that reverberated from their vehicle, you could tell they were itching for something to crush. Unfortunately, the first thing they saw was me . . . well, more specifically me on the ground after tripping on the bike’s handlebars.
We couldn’t see the drivers behind the tinted windows, but you didn’t have to see their faces to realize their intentions. From the revving of the engine you could sense something bad was going to happen.
The Hummer lurched forward, slowing gaining speed. And poor me! I was all bruised from my fall and could barely move – but from the way the vehicle was coming right at me I ignored the pain and just fled for my life. If my bicycle had legs and a brain, it probably would have followed, but instead it just lay their on the street.
The poor thing got flattened.
I was flattened.
So there – that’s my grudge story. Cause today, I got Carl back . . . maybe not as good as he got me last summer. But enough to keep me satisfied for the time being. But that story has to wait till tomorrow, because at the moment I’m hiding in a bathroom stall and if Carl hears me in here, he’ll kill me.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
#11
Classes resumed a week later. For the mean time, we held our classes inside the study hall while the administration decided on what to do about the two collapsed buildings. Today we wrote poetry about our experience.
Doggerels
By Sam
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Crumbled pillars denude, pummeled
My chair, my chair beneath the rubble
Faulty foundations
The earth solid; building not
Thank God I’m alive
We people are sure about where we stand
What is left but confusion and heartbreak?
We go about our business just as planned
What good can come at the end of the wake?
But things will change when layers expand
The choices we make, each one we partake
Snap of a finger our lives turn to sand
Each decision puts our lives back at stake.
Miss Grothoff called me after class and asked me to explain the last poem. I said I was attempting to make a sonnet, but realized my rhyme scheme was wrong – so I jumbled it up and left it at eight lines. [Seriously, that’s what happened. Those are hard to write!]
[Edit: These stories are a mixture of my childhood memories and the sheer brilliance of my creative mind. You may sometimes find yourself saying, "hey, i remember that! but not thaaat..."]
Doggerels
By Sam
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Crumbled pillars denude, pummeled
My chair, my chair beneath the rubble
Faulty foundations
The earth solid; building not
Thank God I’m alive
We people are sure about where we stand
What is left but confusion and heartbreak?
We go about our business just as planned
What good can come at the end of the wake?
But things will change when layers expand
The choices we make, each one we partake
Snap of a finger our lives turn to sand
Each decision puts our lives back at stake.
Miss Grothoff called me after class and asked me to explain the last poem. I said I was attempting to make a sonnet, but realized my rhyme scheme was wrong – so I jumbled it up and left it at eight lines. [Seriously, that’s what happened. Those are hard to write!]
[Edit: These stories are a mixture of my childhood memories and the sheer brilliance of my creative mind. You may sometimes find yourself saying, "hey, i remember that! but not thaaat..."]
Monday, November 10, 2008
#10
The administration suspended classes for a week as families recouped after their losses – they also needed time to check the building’s structure to make sure it was safe. The school suffered two casualties: the collapse of the art room and our classroom. We were fortunate enough to be at the museum when our house of straw tumbled. And unfortunately for Mr. Bonamy, his collection of Impressionist artwork was consequently tarnished beneath his house of sticks.
As we surveyed the earthquake’s destruction, we could hear Mr. Bonamy weep profusely, mourning the loss of his life’s work. He’d recall every impressionist painting he made, every think brush stroke that left its indelible mark on the canvas. The thing was, he really was good. He was compared to painters like Monet and Manet. He held art shows once a year – which we weren’t invited to because it was too classy. But his passion and love for his stuff really radiated in everything he did.
Since school was suspended, my friends and I were free to roam around town. We dropped by the local arts and crafts store and purchased paint brushes – big ones and small ones. We also bought paint with a primer so the paint won’t wash off, then we bought white acrylic paint along with some pigments. We were pretty much set.
We went back to school and found a wall behind the cafeteria that was covered with bills. We scraped off what we could and applied a thin layer as a base. Then we started lathering on the acrylic paint.
We were making a mural for Mr. Bonamy.
From what we recalled, Mr. Bonamy’s idolized the Impressionist Claude Monet. And so we decided we’d make a replica of one of his paintings. We went online and searched through his paintings and settled on “Impression: soleil levant.” (We chose it because it looked like the easiest one to copy) So we dipped our fat brushes into the acrylic paint and started dabbing at our canvas.
It took us the whole afternoon to finish it, but we were proud. We ran back to get Mr. Bonamy and showed him our replica. He stayed quiet for a while, contemplating the catastrophe. He thanked us for our thoughtfulness and congratulated us (with half hearted sincerity) for our job well done. We were all smiles after that.
We were about to leave, when Mr. Bonamy asked us if he could use our paint: he wanted to paint his own mural. “Sure!” we said. The rest of the afternoon, we sat on the grass and just watched Mr. Bonamy as he started painting a sun rising from the ocean – or sinking to its doom. Either way, after he finished the mural we herald Mr. Bonamy as the greatest painter to have ever lived.
As we surveyed the earthquake’s destruction, we could hear Mr. Bonamy weep profusely, mourning the loss of his life’s work. He’d recall every impressionist painting he made, every think brush stroke that left its indelible mark on the canvas. The thing was, he really was good. He was compared to painters like Monet and Manet. He held art shows once a year – which we weren’t invited to because it was too classy. But his passion and love for his stuff really radiated in everything he did.
Since school was suspended, my friends and I were free to roam around town. We dropped by the local arts and crafts store and purchased paint brushes – big ones and small ones. We also bought paint with a primer so the paint won’t wash off, then we bought white acrylic paint along with some pigments. We were pretty much set.
We went back to school and found a wall behind the cafeteria that was covered with bills. We scraped off what we could and applied a thin layer as a base. Then we started lathering on the acrylic paint.
We were making a mural for Mr. Bonamy.
From what we recalled, Mr. Bonamy’s idolized the Impressionist Claude Monet. And so we decided we’d make a replica of one of his paintings. We went online and searched through his paintings and settled on “Impression: soleil levant.” (We chose it because it looked like the easiest one to copy) So we dipped our fat brushes into the acrylic paint and started dabbing at our canvas.
It took us the whole afternoon to finish it, but we were proud. We ran back to get Mr. Bonamy and showed him our replica. He stayed quiet for a while, contemplating the catastrophe. He thanked us for our thoughtfulness and congratulated us (with half hearted sincerity) for our job well done. We were all smiles after that.
We were about to leave, when Mr. Bonamy asked us if he could use our paint: he wanted to paint his own mural. “Sure!” we said. The rest of the afternoon, we sat on the grass and just watched Mr. Bonamy as he started painting a sun rising from the ocean – or sinking to its doom. Either way, after he finished the mural we herald Mr. Bonamy as the greatest painter to have ever lived.
9
The stars hang suspended above our heads. We trace the stars with our fingers as we lie silently on our blankets.
The earthquake caused us to flee from our home. Some of our families chose to sleep on the school’s soccer field; protected by flimsy tents. Four of my friends and I got our sleeping bags and made a five point star.
The temperature had recently dropped to the upper teens and we were all cuddled up. We started talking about what happened during the field trip.
“Dude, that was a pretty crazy earthquake.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’. I was in the astronomy building and they had a replica of the sun. When the earthquake hit it fell and shattered into a million pieces.”
“Rad.”
“Hey, what happened with you, Sam? I heard you guys ran away when the earthquake hit. Are you insane?”
“What can I say? We were caught up in the moment. We had to do something. It’s a shame the guards stopped us before we could do any real damage.”
“I heard Paul stole something from one of the exhibits.”
“Shh . . . If they find out, he’s doomed.”
“What did he snatch?”
“He took one of the trains from the model railways. A pretty dumb thing to take, if you ask me. What’s he going to do with it? Run it in his room?”
“Haha. You know what? I switched the sign on the rest rooms.”
“It was you?!? Dude, I got a tongue lashing from a woman when I ran in there. And dude, I kid you not: I peed my pants.”
We went on like that till two in the morning till we decided to sneak into the hot tub.
The earthquake caused us to flee from our home. Some of our families chose to sleep on the school’s soccer field; protected by flimsy tents. Four of my friends and I got our sleeping bags and made a five point star.
The temperature had recently dropped to the upper teens and we were all cuddled up. We started talking about what happened during the field trip.
“Dude, that was a pretty crazy earthquake.”
“Yeah, no kiddin’. I was in the astronomy building and they had a replica of the sun. When the earthquake hit it fell and shattered into a million pieces.”
“Rad.”
“Hey, what happened with you, Sam? I heard you guys ran away when the earthquake hit. Are you insane?”
“What can I say? We were caught up in the moment. We had to do something. It’s a shame the guards stopped us before we could do any real damage.”
“I heard Paul stole something from one of the exhibits.”
“Shh . . . If they find out, he’s doomed.”
“What did he snatch?”
“He took one of the trains from the model railways. A pretty dumb thing to take, if you ask me. What’s he going to do with it? Run it in his room?”
“Haha. You know what? I switched the sign on the rest rooms.”
“It was you?!? Dude, I got a tongue lashing from a woman when I ran in there. And dude, I kid you not: I peed my pants.”
We went on like that till two in the morning till we decided to sneak into the hot tub.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
#8
[Today I woke up at 5AM, bussed over to Laguna, planted 33 trees (and apparently, the chances of a sapling surviving is 1/33), and had a choir practice. Right now it's 1AM. I'm dead tired. Anyway, today's story kind of collapses at the end -- from my point of view. But I hope you enjoy it anyways.]
Our plan was two-fold: alter the signs and descriptions (with print out stickers and markers), and plant whacky items in the exhibit areas. The curator better be ready for a surprise, because he had one coming right at him. But unbeknownst to us, we had a pretty big surprise as well.
Our class was divided into six groups. We carpooled to the museum and an adult to monitor us . . . so they say. But from the way their eyes are constantly tracking us like sentinels, we felt like we were toddlers who needed babysitting.
Kenneth’s mom was my groups sentinel. She’s awfully nice – she actually baked us some cookies which we gobbled down during the car ride over. And she smells nice, too. But we still couldn’t trust her with our scheming.
Dan had everything figured out. As Miss Grothoff made some last minutes announcements, Dan was double checking his map. Yesterday during recess, the six groups planned which route they’d take when going through the museum. We were all required to pass by the Space Station – a generic name for lack of imagination – but it didn’t matter when. We decided to split up and “redecorate” the museum to our own liking. The science museum had six sections: Energy, Environment, Medicine and Biology, Space, Engineering and Transport, and Chemistry and Physics.
My group went to the Medicine and Biology section first. But before we could sprint off we heard an austere voice arise from behind us. “Welcome to the Manila Science Museum, but before we get started I’d like to remind our guests that running is prohibited inside the museum. There are plenty of fragile exhibits and it would be a shame if anything was broken. By the way, my name is Kate.”
Well, that was that. Our plans were ruined. A tour guide meant that we had to stay together as a group; it meant that we couldn’t alter anything because Kate was already familiar with all the exhibits. If we’d make any changes, she’d catch it right away. We were crestfallen, but the only outward sign of our feelings was our sudden lack of enthusiasm.
We followed Kate into the Medicine and Biology building. She began the tour by giving each of us purple baseball caps with the museum’s name and logo printed on it. She put the hat on Kenneth and told him how cute he looked. Kenneth blushed.
After thirty minutes of touring we already had a brain-full of information. We saw a meter-tall, wooden figure that was used in acupuncture teachings in China, way back during the Ming Dynasty. We saw cross sections of different parts of the human body.
As we reentered the main building the ground started vibrating. The vibrations started to grow fiercer; I felt like I was balancing on a really wobbly skateboard – but the skateboard I’m standing on now is the earth. I heard panicked screams as people started ducking for cover. Kate seemed a little dazed; I guess she forgot the protocol for earthquakes. But me and my group mates, we thought it was the end of the world . . . or an opportunity. Then we heard the order from Kenneth, “Let’s split.” And so we did.
Our plan was two-fold: alter the signs and descriptions (with print out stickers and markers), and plant whacky items in the exhibit areas. The curator better be ready for a surprise, because he had one coming right at him. But unbeknownst to us, we had a pretty big surprise as well.
Our class was divided into six groups. We carpooled to the museum and an adult to monitor us . . . so they say. But from the way their eyes are constantly tracking us like sentinels, we felt like we were toddlers who needed babysitting.
Kenneth’s mom was my groups sentinel. She’s awfully nice – she actually baked us some cookies which we gobbled down during the car ride over. And she smells nice, too. But we still couldn’t trust her with our scheming.
Dan had everything figured out. As Miss Grothoff made some last minutes announcements, Dan was double checking his map. Yesterday during recess, the six groups planned which route they’d take when going through the museum. We were all required to pass by the Space Station – a generic name for lack of imagination – but it didn’t matter when. We decided to split up and “redecorate” the museum to our own liking. The science museum had six sections: Energy, Environment, Medicine and Biology, Space, Engineering and Transport, and Chemistry and Physics.
My group went to the Medicine and Biology section first. But before we could sprint off we heard an austere voice arise from behind us. “Welcome to the Manila Science Museum, but before we get started I’d like to remind our guests that running is prohibited inside the museum. There are plenty of fragile exhibits and it would be a shame if anything was broken. By the way, my name is Kate.”
Well, that was that. Our plans were ruined. A tour guide meant that we had to stay together as a group; it meant that we couldn’t alter anything because Kate was already familiar with all the exhibits. If we’d make any changes, she’d catch it right away. We were crestfallen, but the only outward sign of our feelings was our sudden lack of enthusiasm.
We followed Kate into the Medicine and Biology building. She began the tour by giving each of us purple baseball caps with the museum’s name and logo printed on it. She put the hat on Kenneth and told him how cute he looked. Kenneth blushed.
After thirty minutes of touring we already had a brain-full of information. We saw a meter-tall, wooden figure that was used in acupuncture teachings in China, way back during the Ming Dynasty. We saw cross sections of different parts of the human body.
As we reentered the main building the ground started vibrating. The vibrations started to grow fiercer; I felt like I was balancing on a really wobbly skateboard – but the skateboard I’m standing on now is the earth. I heard panicked screams as people started ducking for cover. Kate seemed a little dazed; I guess she forgot the protocol for earthquakes. But me and my group mates, we thought it was the end of the world . . . or an opportunity. Then we heard the order from Kenneth, “Let’s split.” And so we did.
Friday, November 7, 2008
#7
My sandals protect my feet from the blistering sidewalk. The sun shines bright under an azure sky. Sweat beads begin to trickle down my face. The day just started and I’ve already drank a liter of water. But I have to be here. This is my call – this is what I must do to sleep at night.
My name is Enoch and I'm a sidewalk prophet. I bet you haven’t seen a sidewalk prophet in a long time. Their presence faded during the early millennium. We all thought that the advent of the new millennium would trigger the Y2K bug, collapsing the financial system which would then return us to the stone age. It was a harbinger of doom. Fortunately for you and me it never happened; we’re still alive and the world is a better place. Well, some of us think so.
In my hands is a sign board that states in bold lettering, Repent: The End is Near! I receive glares from strangers who pass me that say in decoded expression, “Dude, you had your chance. You were wrong; get off the street.” But I don’t do this for myself. I know that I have to give them a chance. I know that I have to state the truth.
The truth . . .
Then it hits me. I run into my car and grab The Inquirer. I hold up the front page so everyone could see in full sight the Truth! We live in a cruel and selfish world; a world where old white men receive hundreds of millions of dollars in benefits from corporation that brainwash mindless drones into purchasing on credit. We live in a world where politicians use money siphoned from fertilizer funds to use in their campaign. (I’m not sure about the validity of that last claim). This is the world we live in! Look at today’s headline!
“Black in White House.” Huh? (Real Philippine headline) “Change has come to America – Obama.” That wasn’t a headline I was expecting.
I look at my sign board, then back at the newspaper. It doesn’t matter: electing one person won’t create the change in social values, the cultural norms, the greed and ethnocentricity of a nation. That’s just one victory in a battle. We’re still fighting a war.
I glance up and see a caravan of cars. Six cars full of kids roll by. The kids are staring at me. They stick out their tongues at me. Then I think about the future and the leaders we are cultivating in our schools.
They stop a few blocks away at the science museum. I go back to my post and hold up my sign. The End is Near!
[Happy Birthday Oh-Sister-Of-Mine! You're Moby; You're Hose]
My name is Enoch and I'm a sidewalk prophet. I bet you haven’t seen a sidewalk prophet in a long time. Their presence faded during the early millennium. We all thought that the advent of the new millennium would trigger the Y2K bug, collapsing the financial system which would then return us to the stone age. It was a harbinger of doom. Fortunately for you and me it never happened; we’re still alive and the world is a better place. Well, some of us think so.
In my hands is a sign board that states in bold lettering, Repent: The End is Near! I receive glares from strangers who pass me that say in decoded expression, “Dude, you had your chance. You were wrong; get off the street.” But I don’t do this for myself. I know that I have to give them a chance. I know that I have to state the truth.
The truth . . .
Then it hits me. I run into my car and grab The Inquirer. I hold up the front page so everyone could see in full sight the Truth! We live in a cruel and selfish world; a world where old white men receive hundreds of millions of dollars in benefits from corporation that brainwash mindless drones into purchasing on credit. We live in a world where politicians use money siphoned from fertilizer funds to use in their campaign. (I’m not sure about the validity of that last claim). This is the world we live in! Look at today’s headline!
“Black in White House.” Huh? (Real Philippine headline) “Change has come to America – Obama.” That wasn’t a headline I was expecting.
I look at my sign board, then back at the newspaper. It doesn’t matter: electing one person won’t create the change in social values, the cultural norms, the greed and ethnocentricity of a nation. That’s just one victory in a battle. We’re still fighting a war.
I glance up and see a caravan of cars. Six cars full of kids roll by. The kids are staring at me. They stick out their tongues at me. Then I think about the future and the leaders we are cultivating in our schools.
They stop a few blocks away at the science museum. I go back to my post and hold up my sign. The End is Near!
[Happy Birthday Oh-Sister-Of-Mine! You're Moby; You're Hose]
Thursday, November 6, 2008
#6
“So how was school today?” My mother began her inquiries before I even entered through the door.
“Same old.”
“Did you learn anything new?”
“Yeah.”
“Well? What did you learn?”
“My Very Exhausted Mother Just Served Us Nothing.”
“What?”
“It’s a mnemonic we learned in school. It’s supposed to help us remember the planets in our Solar System.”
“Oh. Haha. Back when I was in school there used to be nine planets. Pluto used to be considered a planet, but recently they decided to reclassify Pluto as a dwarf planet.”
“Yeah, we learned that too. Oh, which reminds me, you need to sign this.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a permission slip. We’re going to the museum next week. Gonna learn more about the solar system and all that junk.”
“The solar system isn’t junk. It’s part of God’s creation and once you learn more about the planets, you’ll realize just how beautiful they are. Hmm . . . You haven’t been to the museum since you were in third grade. You better behave this time; you almost got us kicked out last time.”
“Hey! It wasn’t my fault. They need bigger ‘Do not touch’ sign boards. They shouldn’t make scaled models that accessible.”
“I’m just saying, just behave during the field trip. Miss Grothoff is a great teacher and I think you’re old enough to not be babysat anymore. Now go upstairs and wash up – we’re having dinner soon.”
My mother should know better – if you’ve been classmates with the same people for six years, you shouldn’t expect anything less than a riot on a field trip. Anyway, we’ve already decided what we’d do. Dan visited the museum two weeks ago. He claimed he spent the whole day there and knew the place inside out. He claimed to have spent hours reading descriptions about the universe with his father. We had our inside man. We just had to get the materials before next Wednesday.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
#5
In class today, we followed the American presidential election. That's one perk about living in East Asia: when the polls close, you're waking up and you get to listen in on the results while kids in the States are sleeping through all the excitement. And my class is super lucky, our teacher Miss Grothoff is the daughter of a current US Senator whose position is up for reelection now.
So here we are now. We’re all sitting in class staring up at the results, being projected from a projector that was borrowed from the library. We waited as the little box figures representing states started filling up with either red or blue.
Miss Grothoff was pretty excited about it and it showed. She kept rambling on and on about how this election was special because this was the first time an African American had any remote chance of reaching the white house. Her word per minute left us thinking she was on a sugar high; her prancing back and forth explaining the electoral system left us dazed and confused.
“Why are we using the electoral college system? Doesn’t that mean you can be elected as president with fewer votes than your opponent?”
“Yes! Actually, eight year ago Al Gore won the popular vote but still lost. Do you know what popular vote means? It means that Gore actually received more individual votes than his opponent George Bush, the current president.”
“Isn’t that unfair? Shouldn’t the more popular candidate win?”
“Well, our founding fathers purposely chose to have the elections held this way; it’s fairer for smaller states. Students, please look up at the screen. California, here, has an estimated population of 36 million. Now compare that to New Hampshire that has an estimated population of 1.3 million. Even though New Hampshire is a small state, it still deserves to have a say. It’s like our discussion yesterday, with representation. New Hampshire would barely have a say in who becomes president, but if we converted the votes into electoral college votes, smaller states can collate and support one candidate, giving smaller and less industrial states more say in the federal government.”
“Miss Grothoff . . . I still don’t get it.”
“Miss Grothoff, I agree with Terrence. How can you lead a country if you don’t get the popular vote? I mean, it’s not democratic at all. I thought with democracies, the majority always wins.”
“The United States is actually a constitutional republic. If we were a democracy, you students could take over the class.”
We went silent after that. Well, silent as in we didn’t ask anymore questions. But in our brains everyone had the same idea going through their minds: take over the class.
After our math lesson we switched the projector back on and checked the results again. Obama won by an electoral college landslide, and Miss Grothoff’s father had lost his seat in Congress. She was a republican. The rest of the day was pretty gloomy after that.
[Congratuations America!]
So here we are now. We’re all sitting in class staring up at the results, being projected from a projector that was borrowed from the library. We waited as the little box figures representing states started filling up with either red or blue.
Miss Grothoff was pretty excited about it and it showed. She kept rambling on and on about how this election was special because this was the first time an African American had any remote chance of reaching the white house. Her word per minute left us thinking she was on a sugar high; her prancing back and forth explaining the electoral system left us dazed and confused.
“Why are we using the electoral college system? Doesn’t that mean you can be elected as president with fewer votes than your opponent?”
“Yes! Actually, eight year ago Al Gore won the popular vote but still lost. Do you know what popular vote means? It means that Gore actually received more individual votes than his opponent George Bush, the current president.”
“Isn’t that unfair? Shouldn’t the more popular candidate win?”
“Well, our founding fathers purposely chose to have the elections held this way; it’s fairer for smaller states. Students, please look up at the screen. California, here, has an estimated population of 36 million. Now compare that to New Hampshire that has an estimated population of 1.3 million. Even though New Hampshire is a small state, it still deserves to have a say. It’s like our discussion yesterday, with representation. New Hampshire would barely have a say in who becomes president, but if we converted the votes into electoral college votes, smaller states can collate and support one candidate, giving smaller and less industrial states more say in the federal government.”
“Miss Grothoff . . . I still don’t get it.”
“Miss Grothoff, I agree with Terrence. How can you lead a country if you don’t get the popular vote? I mean, it’s not democratic at all. I thought with democracies, the majority always wins.”
“The United States is actually a constitutional republic. If we were a democracy, you students could take over the class.”
We went silent after that. Well, silent as in we didn’t ask anymore questions. But in our brains everyone had the same idea going through their minds: take over the class.
After our math lesson we switched the projector back on and checked the results again. Obama won by an electoral college landslide, and Miss Grothoff’s father had lost his seat in Congress. She was a republican. The rest of the day was pretty gloomy after that.
[Congratuations America!]
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
#4
“The Stamp Act and the Townshend Act triggered the frustrations of the American Colonialist. These two acts, as we discussed the other day, created a tax for the American colonialist. Everyone pays taxes – so what about the Stamp Act and the Townshend Act unsettled the colonialists?”
“The Stamp Act and the Townshend Act were unfair because the people had no say in it – just like how my puppies at home don’t have a say in what they have for dinner.”
“That’s correct. The two acts were created by the British Parliament without the representation from the colonies. Who would like to share with the rest of the class a modern example of this issue? Yes, Mike?”
“Well . . . well, it’s like . . . A giant monster that has big feet. But the shoe company that makes shoes, they don’t make him his size. Because like, they’re just too big. So the monster is shoeless. And it’s unfair for the monster because the shoe companies only make a certain size. And . . . and . . . the monster has no representation!”
“Thank you, Mike. Would anyone else like to give an example? Timmy?”
“Taxation without representation is a lot like baseball. So take for example, you’ve got Chris Young throwing fastballs. You’ve got the umpire calling balls and strikes. If the umpire makes a bad call, the team’s manager can challenge the call – and he represents representation. He has a say with the decision. But the guy sitting in the bleachers with the Rangers jersey and baseball glove has no say. He’s can scream and yelp all he wants, and even if he’s right, his say has no merit.”
“That’s a good example Timmy. So on December 16, 1773, American colonists protested against the British. Do you remember what they did? It was in your reading assignment last night. I’ll give you a hint: The Boston Tea Party.”
“In the middle of the night, under the moonlight, the American colonists boarded the British trading ships and dumped tea into the ocean.”
“That’s right May. Carl, would you like to share with the class what happened afterwards?”
“Uh . . . Tremors . . . uh . . . were felt throughout the country?”
“Well, that’s true. But can you be more specific?”
The class continued on in this type of manner. The game for the day was similar to yesterday’s game where secret words had to be spoken in class. This time, it was the student’s goal to incorporate the magic words into their answers. The day’s magic words: Puppies, Monster, Fastball, Moonlight, and Tremor.
[Writing stories is a hassle because you have to do the research. It's like school, but you don't get a big, fat letter A when your paper looks good. Doing research for blogs only garners you an eProp, and the occasional pat on the back.]
“The Stamp Act and the Townshend Act were unfair because the people had no say in it – just like how my puppies at home don’t have a say in what they have for dinner.”
“That’s correct. The two acts were created by the British Parliament without the representation from the colonies. Who would like to share with the rest of the class a modern example of this issue? Yes, Mike?”
“Well . . . well, it’s like . . . A giant monster that has big feet. But the shoe company that makes shoes, they don’t make him his size. Because like, they’re just too big. So the monster is shoeless. And it’s unfair for the monster because the shoe companies only make a certain size. And . . . and . . . the monster has no representation!”
“Thank you, Mike. Would anyone else like to give an example? Timmy?”
“Taxation without representation is a lot like baseball. So take for example, you’ve got Chris Young throwing fastballs. You’ve got the umpire calling balls and strikes. If the umpire makes a bad call, the team’s manager can challenge the call – and he represents representation. He has a say with the decision. But the guy sitting in the bleachers with the Rangers jersey and baseball glove has no say. He’s can scream and yelp all he wants, and even if he’s right, his say has no merit.”
“That’s a good example Timmy. So on December 16, 1773, American colonists protested against the British. Do you remember what they did? It was in your reading assignment last night. I’ll give you a hint: The Boston Tea Party.”
“In the middle of the night, under the moonlight, the American colonists boarded the British trading ships and dumped tea into the ocean.”
“That’s right May. Carl, would you like to share with the class what happened afterwards?”
“Uh . . . Tremors . . . uh . . . were felt throughout the country?”
“Well, that’s true. But can you be more specific?”
The class continued on in this type of manner. The game for the day was similar to yesterday’s game where secret words had to be spoken in class. This time, it was the student’s goal to incorporate the magic words into their answers. The day’s magic words: Puppies, Monster, Fastball, Moonlight, and Tremor.
[Writing stories is a hassle because you have to do the research. It's like school, but you don't get a big, fat letter A when your paper looks good. Doing research for blogs only garners you an eProp, and the occasional pat on the back.]
Monday, November 3, 2008
#3
“Guys, could we not do anything that would affect my grades? My parents flipped out when they heard that I didn’t do my homework,” Patty squeaked.
“Yeah, and you heard what Miss Grothoff said. ‘If this ever happens again I’ll call your parents,’” Tom said in his best impression of Miss Grothoff – hands on hips with a furrowed brow.
“I think that’s bogus. There’re too many of us. She’ll spend the whole night calling our parents if she meant what she said. And my parents don't like being called late at night,” Paul argued. We were still bitter towards him for what he did the other day. We all agreed we’d get him back, but right now we were thinking about tomorrow’s game.
“Okay, we’ll stay away from our grades. We’ll think of punishments that are non-academic related. Let’s take a vote.” Everyone raise their right fist. Jeff was the natural leader – we all looked up to him to be the mediator when we had our arguments.
“Okay, it’s settled. What’s the game tomorrow?”
“Let’s have a magic word.” I said. I could feel eyes magnetize towards me.
“What d’ya mean?” Jeff asked.
“We’ll come up with a magic word, and whoever gets Miss Grothoff to say the word, that person wins . . . And instead of a punishment, the person gets a prize. Let’s say they get a portion of everyone’s desert during lunch.” Last year, our class came up with superlatives for everyone. They said I was the most likely to host a reality TV show.
“That sounds like a plausible idea.” Jeff said, surveying the group’s response. He saw a couple of nods. Carl was giving a thumbs up. “So what’s the magic word?”
“Bloody,” I said with the biggest grin on my face. We were studying the American Revolution that month. Miss Grothoff had conservative values and an even more conservative diction. It would be our goal to coax the magic word out of her.
The next day in class we took our seats and propped ourselves up in our chairs, awake and alert. Miss Grothoff gave each of us a suspicious look. We figured she knew something was up, but we were too eager to get the word “bloody” out of her mouth to care that our game was close to being exposed. From the way she started talking in front of our class, I could tell she was pretty giddy about finally having attentive students.
“So class, let’s begin today’s lesson with the Battle of Lexington . . .”
“Miss Grothoff!” boomed Jerome, a bit too eager to win the game, “what kind of battle was the Battle of Lexington?” We all knew what he was trying to say, and even after class he admitted that his first inquiry was very amateurish.
“Well, it was the first battle of the American Revolution. Did you ever learn about the minutemen last year?” We took that as a rhetorical question, because we begun to volley our questions.
“Did people get shot?!”
“Was it as bloody as The Gladiator?!”
“How many people died!?” We were all batting around the bush. We didn’t know how to ask the right questions. Then all of a sudden we heard a quiet and hollow voice from the corner of the room. It was Sue, the class thespian.
“Miiissss Grothoff…. I think I cut myself.” She revealed to us her finger which was drenched in a red liquid – we presumed it was blood. The girls froze in shock, some squealed. The guys, on the other hand, were pretty skeptical . . . and entirely jealous that we didn’t come up with the idea ourselves.
“Oh my word! Sue, your finger is . . . bloody.” There she said it; loud enough for everyone to hear. “Go to the nurses office, right away! Sam, you go with her!”
Sam? That’s me. Miss Grothoff ushered us out before you could say “hot potato.”
Sue and I took our time. There was no hurry – no real emergency at hand. I could tell by the way the red ink dried up without caking. “That was pretty sneaky of you.”
“I always wanted to be an actress,” she said through a huge grin. She had outwitted us all – she really did deserve to win.
We arrived at the nurse’s office and from the nurses office we were redirected to the principles office. Principle Walker reprimanded Sue for deliberately faking an emergency – these types of pranks are not funny, he emphasized.
“You’re not very funny,” Sue said under her breath, quiet enough so Principle Walker wouldn’t hear her. I snickered to myself. I was sent back to the homeroom afterwards to explain to Miss Grothoff that it was all a joke. Miss Grothoff looked both relieved and irritated. I looked at my classmates and everyone had the same expression: envy.
[I really don't know how long I can keep this up . . . I'm already running out of ideas.]
Sunday, November 2, 2008
#2
At the end of yesterday's recess we decided the following:
Tomorrow, you have to wear the exact same outfit as you wore today. If you wear a different shirt, different shorts, different shoes, or even different socks you have a punishment: you have to forfeit tomorrow's math assignment.
Everyone thought they could pull it off. There was nothing difficult with wearing the exact same thing as you wore the day before. After recess everyone came up with their own excuse that explained to their parents why they have to wear the same thing again, without breaking their oath of secrecy. I was no good with excuses, so I figured I could put today's clothes in my bag and change once I got to school.
What happened after school ruined everyone's plan. The bunch of us went to the playground to play our after school game of freeze tag, but during the game we heard Wilma cry out, "Ahh! Someone threw something on my back . . . and it's weeeet!!!"
All of a sudden it started raining . . . mud. Paul and Carl, the two meanest guys in class, were hurling muck at us. We were all addled by their action, and extremely ticked off. While the girls started whining and running like . . . little girls, the guys spread out and got on the offensive. They started picking up mud that had fallen on the grass and started throwing it back to where they came from -- at Paul and Carl, who eventually ran away snickering to themselves, as if their prank was the coolest thing they had ever come up with.
The rest of us huddled together to compare our battle scars.
"Stupid Paul and Carl. Why'd they have to do that?!"
"Yeah, my mum's going to kill me when she sees my dirty dress."
It all of a sudden hit us. Why did Paul and Carl throw mud at us? So we wouldn't be able to wear the exact same outfit the next day at school. We all went home that day feeling dirty and cheated. Paul and Carl's ruse left us itching for revenge.
The next day no one wore yesterday's outfit. And no one even attempted to do their homework. Miss Grothoff gave each of us a look of disappointment and disapproval (all except Marvin -- who was as diligent as always). We were punished though. We didn't have recess that day, instead we spent the half-hour that was usually designated for recess, doing our assignments in class. And despite everything, no one even made a peep about the game.
Tomorrow, you have to wear the exact same outfit as you wore today. If you wear a different shirt, different shorts, different shoes, or even different socks you have a punishment: you have to forfeit tomorrow's math assignment.
Everyone thought they could pull it off. There was nothing difficult with wearing the exact same thing as you wore the day before. After recess everyone came up with their own excuse that explained to their parents why they have to wear the same thing again, without breaking their oath of secrecy. I was no good with excuses, so I figured I could put today's clothes in my bag and change once I got to school.
What happened after school ruined everyone's plan. The bunch of us went to the playground to play our after school game of freeze tag, but during the game we heard Wilma cry out, "Ahh! Someone threw something on my back . . . and it's weeeet!!!"
All of a sudden it started raining . . . mud. Paul and Carl, the two meanest guys in class, were hurling muck at us. We were all addled by their action, and extremely ticked off. While the girls started whining and running like . . . little girls, the guys spread out and got on the offensive. They started picking up mud that had fallen on the grass and started throwing it back to where they came from -- at Paul and Carl, who eventually ran away snickering to themselves, as if their prank was the coolest thing they had ever come up with.
The rest of us huddled together to compare our battle scars.
"Stupid Paul and Carl. Why'd they have to do that?!"
"Yeah, my mum's going to kill me when she sees my dirty dress."
It all of a sudden hit us. Why did Paul and Carl throw mud at us? So we wouldn't be able to wear the exact same outfit the next day at school. We all went home that day feeling dirty and cheated. Paul and Carl's ruse left us itching for revenge.
The next day no one wore yesterday's outfit. And no one even attempted to do their homework. Miss Grothoff gave each of us a look of disappointment and disapproval (all except Marvin -- who was as diligent as always). We were punished though. We didn't have recess that day, instead we spent the half-hour that was usually designated for recess, doing our assignments in class. And despite everything, no one even made a peep about the game.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
National Everything Month
Today marks the beginning of National Blog Posting Month. Simply put, it means daily blogging for 30 days! My sister joined two years ago and it's been the highlight of the year (when it comes to blog feeds). The tough part is churning up the ingenuity that's required for writing something interesting everyday. Therefore I'm going to combine NaBloPoMo with NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month)! NaNoWriMo is actually a near impossible feat, but maybe if I post my stuff on here I'd get more done. Anyway, here it goes.
30 Days of Recess
Rule #1
My chair is tilted forward, held fast against the bookshelf behind my desk. I glance up at the clock and watch the second hand drift closer and closer to the twelve. I lock myself to my runner’s block and brace for the bell to sound off and explode. But I’ve still got 28 seconds left.
I glance over at Daniel who just finished knotting his shoes. Yesterday one of the strings was loose and he tripped right before he could reach the door. He would’ve been the first one out, too. They call him “the wind,” that’s how fast he is.
I glance to my left and see Marvin sitting poised as always. I could never understand that nerd. Didn’t he care about recess? Didn’t he care about being free? How can he sit there like that? How can he focus his ears so intently at Miss Grothoff?
BRRRIIIING!!!!
Before I could react to the bell I could already hear shoes scuffling as my classmates pounce at freedom that teased us from the door. I had broken my concentration; I took my eyes off the clock! I was doomed to be the last one to the tarmac. And being the last one there had its consequences.
I make it to the blacktop and see 27 toothy smiles. We came up with “the punishment” yesterday. Actually, I came up with the punishment yesterday: last one to step onto the blacktop had to run around the playground’s basketball court three times while shouting the school’s alma mater.
When we first made up the game at the beginning of the year, we all signed a contract that bound everyone to secrecy and pure obedience to the rules. If we had a kitchen knife, we probably would have made a blood pact, but we settled for spit hand shakes instead – all 27 of us. Marvin was the only one who refused to take part of our game.
Kenneth B. was one of the smallest boys in the class, but he had the lowest voice among the 12 other boys. And it was always Kenneth who begun the chanting, “Rule number one! You whatever rule we decide on, you have to do it!” He put the heaviest emphasis on the “have.” We knew what would happen if we didn’t follow the rules.
First, we’d be kicked out of the game . . . That was a bad enough punishment. If you were banished, you were alone for the rest of the year – and who knows how many years after that.
The second punishment was black mail. I’ll explain that another time, because right now I’m running laps and screaming at the top of my lungs, “Alma, our Alma Mater, the home of Faith and Wisdom . . .”
30 Days of Recess
Rule #1
My chair is tilted forward, held fast against the bookshelf behind my desk. I glance up at the clock and watch the second hand drift closer and closer to the twelve. I lock myself to my runner’s block and brace for the bell to sound off and explode. But I’ve still got 28 seconds left.
I glance over at Daniel who just finished knotting his shoes. Yesterday one of the strings was loose and he tripped right before he could reach the door. He would’ve been the first one out, too. They call him “the wind,” that’s how fast he is.
I glance to my left and see Marvin sitting poised as always. I could never understand that nerd. Didn’t he care about recess? Didn’t he care about being free? How can he sit there like that? How can he focus his ears so intently at Miss Grothoff?
BRRRIIIING!!!!
Before I could react to the bell I could already hear shoes scuffling as my classmates pounce at freedom that teased us from the door. I had broken my concentration; I took my eyes off the clock! I was doomed to be the last one to the tarmac. And being the last one there had its consequences.
I make it to the blacktop and see 27 toothy smiles. We came up with “the punishment” yesterday. Actually, I came up with the punishment yesterday: last one to step onto the blacktop had to run around the playground’s basketball court three times while shouting the school’s alma mater.
When we first made up the game at the beginning of the year, we all signed a contract that bound everyone to secrecy and pure obedience to the rules. If we had a kitchen knife, we probably would have made a blood pact, but we settled for spit hand shakes instead – all 27 of us. Marvin was the only one who refused to take part of our game.
Kenneth B. was one of the smallest boys in the class, but he had the lowest voice among the 12 other boys. And it was always Kenneth who begun the chanting, “Rule number one! You whatever rule we decide on, you have to do it!” He put the heaviest emphasis on the “have.” We knew what would happen if we didn’t follow the rules.
First, we’d be kicked out of the game . . . That was a bad enough punishment. If you were banished, you were alone for the rest of the year – and who knows how many years after that.
The second punishment was black mail. I’ll explain that another time, because right now I’m running laps and screaming at the top of my lungs, “Alma, our Alma Mater, the home of Faith and Wisdom . . .”
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