The story so far:
Ten minutes to write. You fiddle with the bulbous timer and plunk it on the edge of your desk. “You may start now.”
As I hunch over the cold, smooth table, I peek up through my straightened bangs at you. You’re sitting on the edge of your desk. Well, leaning, really. If you actually sat on your desk, it would probably collapse into a heap of the junk it pretends not to be. Your arms are folded across your pudgy middle, and your short pink fingernails dig into the fat of your upper arms. Your squinty eyes are staring out the window.
My pencil scratches and taps, covering the page with black marks too easily smudged. I know the side of my hand will be coated with dark filth. Nice. I’m gonna have to wait until third period to wash it off. What are you staring at? My mom said if you squint like that, you will get crow’s feet. Your feet look okay, but your shoes are ghastly. Ghastly, that’s a good word.
You’re looking at me now. I can feel those piggy little eyes squinting a hole through my head. Shut the cluck up and teach already. You’re imcopentent. I’ll write that for you. If you even bother to read this, you will make me spell it correctly, all through study hall and probably more after school.
One time, I stopped writing before timer dinged (dang? ding, dang, dung), and me and Maddie were the only ones, and we had to write a ten page essay on “The Importance of Being Earnest.” I didn’t know if you were talking about the play or the personality trait, so I just wrote “yellow brick road” over and over, and you didn’t even read it. That was when you first started here, and it’s worse every day since.
Teachers are useless. When I finally get outta here, I’m gonna become a Wall Street Goddess and blow your out of the water with your little $30K salary and your crappy Hyundai and your bad shoes. You wouldn’t know Prada from Payless.