2.

 

I don’t like school. It seems like a waste of time. I don’t do my homework either. I don’t mind that I am failing my classes, because I really doubt I will go to college. There is no point….my dad expects me to take care of him, like I do.

            It may be the fact that kids at school hate me. I don’t really know what I did to then….I get into trouble a lot, but I don’t remember doing the things they tell me I did. I haven’t ever cheated on a test, I haven’t ever cussed out a teacher, but for some reason, I get called into the office for these things.

            But I never deny those things. I don’t know why. I just have a bad feeling I am forgetting things when I do them…I don’t know why….I don’t remember what I ate after dinner sometimes, and that is kind of weird. I have noticed that I don’t have a good memory, but is it normal to remember 50% of what I learn in school?

            Today Ms. Poplar calls me over to her desk with a hook of her index finger.

 “Jill, you need to go up to the office…” she says, studying my face. I forget for a second what she has just said, then gaze off.

“Jill, office.” I snap out of it and nod.

            As I walk down the odd musky checkered hallway, I count the lockers on one side. 345 lockers. I wait in the office counting the specks of mud on my Converse. 12 specks of mud. I don’t know why I count everything, but I do.

            “Jill, I will see you now.” Says an authoritative voice. I look up from my shoes. Principal Wheelander. Great.

“Ok.” I say in a meek voice, and wonder why I am being pulled out of class to go talk to the principal.

            He shuts the door quietly behind us in his small office and sits behind his desk.

“Jill, it was reported that you used some derogatory language at Staci Bingham and Molly Harmond today during third hour.” I blink. Did I? No….I don’t think so.

“I did?” I ask. Mr. Wheelander’s eyes narrow.

“Jill, you are not going to play a dumb act with me. These words you used,” he looks down at a piece of paper, “…I can’t even say these words out loud. This is a major offense, and will not be tolerated.”

            Mr. Wheelander’s voice seems to get fuzzy in my mind. My eyes glaze over his angry voice and look out the window. I think about the expression “in one ear and out the next.” I imagine little squiggly lines crawling into my ear then zooming out the other, and then I think about ear drums. What are those bones in the ear drum called? That reminds me of a song I sang in fourth grade to remember the bones in the body. Tibias, Fibula, Phalanges….I sing in my head. Phalanges, what an odd word. I think. Phalanges, I remember I spelled it “Falanges” on the test, and got half off. Why does “ph” make an “f” sound? And who decided what the bones were called? Why do I remember a song about the body from fourth grade but I can’t remember things that happened yesterday? I always thought I had a great memory until...until when? I imagined a time line of my line, and my gawky body running over the line, looking for some event. But I don’t know what event.

            “Jill!” A harsh voice brings me back. I look back at the principal, but after he glares at me for a few seconds, my mind starts to shift again…

            What happened with Staci and Molly today in third hour? I start thing about everything that happened in third hour. Third hour. Mr. Clayton’s World Geography .

class. 27 books on his bookshelf. 21 kids in class. 3 dry erase markers lying on the white board tray. No, No. I think. What happened in class? What did I do? I remember Mr. Clayton leaving the classroom, he needs coffee. I was glad for a break from a lecture about the split between Austria and Hungary. And Italy? That is the boot shaped country in Europe, I think. I can see the boot kicking a nearby country and then the country…..No. Focus. What did you do?

            I blink again. Ok, so Mr. Clayton leaves the classroom. The buzz of whispers reaches a roar. I sigh and pull out an application from my backpack. This one is from McDonalds, I like these. They are the ones with the squares. I bend my head down really low to the paper, my black hair draping my face. I feel a tap on my head, and I look up to see a crunched up ball on paper lying on my desk. I open it, dizzy, waiting to see what it says. “FREAK!” The note reads in scrawled huge letters. I just stare at the paper, and smooth out the wrinkles. A few kids look over and I hear laughter.

            “Why do you always fill out those things?” someone drawls in my direction. I look over, it is Staci. She just stares at me, her thickly rimed eyes narrowed, almost tiny slits of black, with distasteful eyeliner and metallic lip stick. I am fumbling for words.

“I, I, I…uh, I….” I ramble.

Molly shoves Staci’s arm. They are best friends. Molly laughs, looks around the room to see if anyone is listening and says, “That’s just what you are.” She says, pointing to the paper. I look at the words, and then I look at her cruel face. I feel something boiling in my stomach….I am getting upset. A few kids start laughing as my face gets red

. “Oh, no Molly! She’s gonna blow!” someone yells from across the room. People watch me in excited anticipation, ready for a good laugh.

            I squeeze my eyes shut, and I finally open them. Bethany is sitting right next to me. She smiles at me, and whispers,

“It’s okay.”

            I feel my soul floating away, and I know everything will be okay. I don’t know why, but I do.

            Bethany leans forward to the girls and asks them what is wrong with them. The girls laugh harder.

“Leave her alone. Or there will be consequences.”

            Laughter stops. Molly gives Staci a strange glance. Confusion and a little fear.

“Her?” Molly inquires. Bethany glares at the girls.

“Don’t ever say anything again, you…” and she goes on to use a line of about twenty expletives in a row, an impressive combination of some I have never even heard.

            The class becomes very quiet. Jason, a jock in the back, hollers “OH! Nice Comeback!” Snickers float around the room, everything is back to the status quo. Bethany looks at me with an exasperated look.

            “I tried.” She gives me a smile. I blink, I feel dizzy. I open my eyes, and Bethany is gone. I’m all alone. Where did she go?

            A door clicks shut, and Mr. Clayton walks back into the room. Thank God. I think. Bethany stood up for me, what a good friend. I smile. Everything will be alright.

“JILL!” Mr. Wheelander screams. I look at him. “So…are you ready to take responsibility for your actions or not? You are looking at serious punishment, possibly In School Suspension.”

            My mind reels. Do I tell him that it was Bethany? Bethany did it….right? Yes, Bethany. Not me, but I don’t want to tell on her….she was sticking up for me. She doesn’t need to be punished...

.           I clear my throat. “Yeah, it was me.” Apathy washes over my body. Then I feel numb.

            “Okay, well we need to call your mom and dad…” Mr. Wheelander looks down at Jill’s records, “Err, Dad, and we need to inform him on the events that took place today. How about you dial, Jill.” He doesn’t want for an answer and pushes the telephone to me from across his desk. He sneers at me. My hands are sweating, my body is shaking. Why am I so scared? I swallow. So dizzy….so dizzy….. “Okay…” I manage to say, my hand inching towards the phone. I don’t know why I can’t tell my dad what happened, he might understand. He is okay…except I have this weird feeling at the pit of my stomach. Something might happen. No, it won’t.

            Blink. I press in the numbers and wait for a ring. We talk. I apologize, he listens. Not so bad…But I just think he will be really mad at me when I get home. I don’t know why. He’s okay.

            Mr. Wheelander sighs. “Okay, so we will have to let you go with a detention,” he says, disappointed, after reviewing punishment procedures in our Code of Conduct. Then comes his speech about what respect is, ect. When are you going to get off your soap box? I look out the window. Who cares, I was just covering for Bethany. I count books on his shelf, 48. Plaques and certificates, 9. Pictures of Mr. Wheelander and celebrities, 1. (Mr. Rodgers…wonder what that’s about.) I am tempted to ask.

            “Are you listening?” he isn’t so loud this time. I think he has given up, momentarily at least. His question washes over my numbness.

            I don’t use to be a bad kid. A pretty good one think. Well, I mean…it’s always Bethany’s stuff I get in trouble for. I used to get good grades. I just don’t care anymore…I used to be….. Did I just really think that?  Happy. I guess I’m not sad…just…not happy. I think I just realized that. But I don’t know what’s wrong.