“Alright students, for the last
fifteen minutes of class we are going to analyze one of Shakespeare’s sonnets…together.” Mr. Peterson flicked the
lights off as a poem projected itself on the white board at the front of the
room.
A
unified chorus of moans erupted throughout the class, mine included, which
resulted in Mr. Peterson’s infamous you-have-no-power-over-me look. It included
the oh-so-carefully raised eyebrows and the slight upward twitch of the left
lips. This man enjoys making us suffer. We were so close to the freedom of fall break. Couldn't we spend our final
fifteen minutes of school enjoying it?
“Conner,
why don’t you honor us the pleasure of reading this sonnet for us?” Mr.
Peterson’s ever so present smirk almost seemed to have intensified when he saw
Conner’s face slightly pale.
“The
whole thing, sir?” Conner asked. He was a tubby fellow with an acne infested
face and ginger hair, and he wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box I should
mention.
Was he
stupid? I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time this day. Were people really so
empty-headed? Of course he meant the whole thing. Sometimes I wonder if Mr.
Peterson and I were the only ones who ever knew how to use our brains properly,
with common sense. But to compare myself to my English teacher is a bit
bizarre, don’t you think?
“What
would you prefer, a D on your next essay?” Mr. Peterson’s eyes narrowed
wickedly. I rolled my eyes once again. He was only kidding, but students fell
for it all the time; especially poor Conner. I almost felt sorry for him; it
must be difficult to have no brains.
Connor
stood up, hitched his much-too-small cargo shorts up higher on his waist and
began to slowly sound out each word that was displayed on the projection. He
read it so slow that it was like listening to a funeral dirge. These next
fifteen minutes were going to last us forever.
Connor’s
voice was like a monotonous bee that just would not stop buzzing. I read over
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 38 at least five times before Conner had even reached line
three of the sonnet. We sere seniors in high school, I thought we learned how
to read like ten years ago! I glanced over at Mr. Peterson with begging eyes. Please don’t make him read the whole
sonnet!!!
“Alright Conner, your wish
is granted. You can stop there!” Mr. Peterson interjected. He stroked his bare
chin and then glanced his piercing eyes over in my direction. “Idalia,” He
pointed at me. “Why don’t you finish reading the sonnet for us?”
Even
though I had no fear of talking in public, my stomach still seemed to feel it
necessary to lurch in protest. I mentally and possibly physically forced my
stomach to calm down before standing up and finishing the sonnet. But my pride
would not allow me to start off in the middle of a line. And to prove to my
class just how intelligent I was. I started the sonnet from the beginning.
“How can my muse want
subject to invent,
While dost though
breathe, that pour’st into my verse
Thine own sweet
argument, too excellent
For every vulgar
paper, to rehearse?
O! Give thy self the
thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand
against thy sight;
For who’s so dumb that
cannot write to thee,
When thou they self
dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth
Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine
which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on
thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to
outlive long date
If
my slight muse do please these curious days,
The
pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.
I couldn't help but glance over in
Conner’s direction. But he was focusing on the ketchup stain on his shirt. I
rolled my eyes once again…
“Thank
you, Idalia.” Mr. Peterson locked eyes with mine. “Who would like to be daring
and attempt to tell the class what this sonnet is about?
I
slumped back down in my seat, adjusting my shirt and pants to fit comfortably
around my body. I proceeded to zone out of whatever the class was talking
about. My honey colored hair escaped from behind my ear and dropped down to
cover my face. I ignored it, but instead focused my attention out the window
next to me. I was seated in the back corner of the room next to Mr. Peterson’s
desk and right up against a tall window that looked out over the small
subdivisions and cul-de-sacs that surrounded the one side of our house. I
caught a small toddler recklessly kicking his legs on a swing in the backyard
of one house. Even from the third floor of the school I could see his wide
grin. In another yard an elderly woman with a straw sunhat was pulling out dead
plants from her once beautiful flower garden. I remembered from last year how
vibrant and lively her garden had been. But fall’s chill had done its job and
the flowers were now slowly dying off one by one. If you really think about it,
all is a cruel season.
I
glanced up at the clock again and saw that it was almost five minutes until the
bell rang for school to end. Thank the
stars above! I amusedly watched my classmates try to silently pack up their
notes, textbooks, pencils and other paraphernalia without Mr. Peterson
noticing. But as usual, the sound of 20 zipping and unzipping backpacks was
deafening. I slumped and leaned back against my chair, the edge of it digging
into my shoulder blades.
Whoever
had tried to explain the sonnet, Kayla I think was her name, had finally been
shooshed by the disappointed Mr. Peterson. He turned the lights back on, my
eyes had a temporary moment of blindness before my eyesight return. Thanks for
warning us, Mr. I glared at him under my hair. He didn't notice.
“Since
you all seem to be lacking in your Shakespeare skills, I’m going to give you
some homework over the break.” Mr. Peterson’s smirk returned along with another
chorus of moans. “I want you to read Sonnets 1-10 over the break and write a
paragraph for each sonnet explaining what it is about. It shouldn't be too
difficult if you set your mind to it.”
A
scrawny girl with a rainstorm of freckles all over her face raised her hand but
proceed to talk without waiting for anyone to acknowledge her. “But where are
we supposed to find the sonnets?”
Uh….the
internet? I sometimes can’t believe people my
age are this dumb. I was so tempted to call her out on her stupidity, but
bit my lips instead. As my grandmother would always tell me as a kid, If you can’t say something nice, then don’t
say anything at all. Why does my grandmother have to always be right?
“Cheyenne,
I’m sure you kind find them quite easily using Google. I hear it’s a really
nice thing teenagers love to use and that its chuck full of grand information.”
Mr. Peterson had obviously never met my grandmother. I had to snort at my own
joke, sometimes I think I’m funny.
Before
the class could say anything else terribly embarrassing, Mr. Peterson raised up
his voice. “And don’t forget, class. Be safe during the holidays and don’t do
anything I wouldn't do.” He smirked again and shoved his hands into his
pockets. “Have a great weekend.”
And
with that final phrase, the class rose up in their seats and zoomed into their
small groupings. I stayed rooted in my seat. I didn't know anyone in this
class, nor did I have any desire to.
Mr.
Peterson passed by me as he headed towards his desk. “Miss Brice, could I speak
with you after the bell rings.”
Uh oh,
what had I done now? I nervously thought of all the bad things Mr. Peterson
could have found out about me. And the next question that pounded in my head
was how could Mr. Peterson have found out?
The
bell rang, a short yet deafening drone. Students eagerly pushed and shoved
towards the door. There was at least five students jamming themselves into a
door that could only safely allow two in at a time.
I
stuffed my backpack with the things on my desk, zipped it up and slung one
strap up onto my shoulder. “What is that you want?” I tried to sound completely
calm. But inside, my stomach was probably already in the biggest knot in the
universe and a headache was already forming.
Mr.
Peterson smiled, it wasn’t his typical smirk, but an actual genuine smile. I think that made another
knot in my stomach. Mr. Peterson never
smiled like that.
He
swiveled his office chair around to a cabinet that was standing behind him. He
pulled open the second drawer form the bottom and pulled out a folder that was
brimming with leaves of white paper. He slammed it open onto his desk and then
proceeded to leaf through each page. He was mumbling under his breath,
completely indecipherable, until he obviously found what he was looking for. He
pulled out a stapled stack of pages, there was probably about fifteen to twenty
pages in it. I couldn't see the words on the page, but I had a strange feeling
about this packet.
My
premonitions were correct when my English teacher slid the packet in my
direction. In the top left hand corner typed in Times New Roman was my name:
Idalia Bryce. I instantly knew what this was without having to read the title.
During the first week of school, Mr. Peterson had required us to right an
original story with a maximum of ten pages. Mind had been twenty two pages. I
remembered that I had been the only one with anything more than ten pages,
everyone else had done the absolute minimum.
“What
about it?” I asked.
Mr.
Peterson gestured to the worn stool that is always right next to his desk. He
keeps it there when he needs to talk to students one on one. It was nice being
in the back because I can always eavesdrop on all of the conversations.
I slid
onto the stool, subconsciously hoping it would spin. It didn't.
“Have
you written fiction before this?” He lifted my giant packet.
I
wasn't sure if he kept me here to make fun of me or to say how proud he was. I
hesitated to tell the truth if he was going to mock me. The truth was, I wrote
every day. Stories seemed to pop into my head as quickly as dead skin falls off
of my body (which is quite often, might I add).
I finally decided to keep it neutral. “Yes, I have.”
“Do you
have an interest in writing?” He asked.
I was
beginning to feel the hardness of the stool numb my butt. I squirmed around a
bit before answering. “I guess you could say I do.”
Mr.
Peteron’s smile widened. “That is good to hear.” His eyes suddenly went large
and wide, like a kid that had woken up on Christmas morning. “And tell me this,
have you ever considered joining a writing club. Where you could critic with
other writers?”
“Mr.
Peterson, are you asking me to join your honor club?” I had heard about his
Writer’s Anonymous club that included students only he invited. My friend,
Abigail had been invited a week ago. I
suddenly felt silly for worrying that my teacher would mock me for writing. He
was an English teacher.
“Well
it depends. Are you interested?” His eyebrows raised, so high that they almost
disappeared into his pepper gray mop of hair.
I
couldn't believe it. Mr. Peterson was personally asking me to be a part of his
club. That means he thinks I’m good right? I sure hoped that he believed in my
writing.
“Yes,
I’m very interested.” I tried to sound as calm and mature as possible. But it’s
difficult when you’re about to join a secret writer’s club. Even though it
wasn't that much of a secret anymore.
He
nodded with a giant grin, slid the copy of my original story back into the hazardous
folder and placed back in its proper spot in the second drawer up from the
bottom of his filing cabinet. “Glad to hear that, Brice! Our meetings are every
Thursday after school unless noted otherwise. I think you will be a great
member of this club. You've got grit, Idalia.”
It felt
strange to hear someone call me by my full name. Most people called me Dalia or
even sometimes Dolly, but never Idalia. But I shoved away the thought and gave
my teacher my most winning smile before thanking him for this incredible
offer. I adjusted my backpack’s strap
before heading towards the door. Most of the students had left already and the
halls were creepily empty.
“Oh,
and Miss Price,” Mr. Peterson called out before my foot even crossed over the
door. “Make sure you keep yourself
attentive this weekend.”
What an
odd thing for a teacher to say. I didn't know what to say to that. Is that
something you say thank you to? Do you say anything at all? I hated being
social for these very reasons! I ended up half smiling, waving and then
escaping that classroom before something else unexpected or awkward happened.
Mr.
Peterson’s last words stuck with me all the way from the third floor to the
first floor, and all the way down to the abandoned locker hall that my locker
was strangely located in. I muttered it over and over to myself as I pushed
myself against the exit door and out into the autumn chill. The parking lot was
all but empty. There were a few junky cars that I assume were left behind
because they wouldn't start. And then there was a neat line of black, white,
and gray trucks that took up the back two rows of the parking lot. Everyone
knew that those belonged to the football team. Is it normal for guys to match
vehicles? Is it similar to girls and fashion? Not even I understood why girls
found it necessary to match with their friends, so I didn't even expect myself
to understand the football team and their matching trucks.
My
thoughts returned to Mr. Peterson and his farewell to me as I made my way to my
car which was parked out on the road. Make
sure you keep yourself attentive this weekend. Why did he say that of all
things? Did I look like I needed to be more attentive? I guess I did zone out
in class today, but I didn't think that was reason enough to warn me. Maybe he’s awkward at being social like me, I
thought. Maybe we have a lot more in common than just brains and sarcasm. An
image popped in my head of Mr. Peterson in his usual sweater and black slacks
sipping hot chocolate with me in his classroom sharing our common interests. I
shuddered and shoved the thought away. The idea of my English teacher becoming
my “bestie” was a bit too much even for my imagination.
A
chorus of burly cheers interrupted my thoughts. I looked over and saw a group
of four football players sneak away from the field and run towards the row of
trucks. Were they supposed to leave early from practice? I didn't know enough
about football to make any sort of judgment. I tried to return back to my
thoughts. But the four football players shouts and obnoxious jokes kept jarring
my train of thought. I watched them all jump into one of the trucks. The driver
of the truck had obviously altered the muffler to make it rumble deep and loud.
I rolled my eyes, typical men.
Without
even a warning, the truck leaped out of the parking space and zoomed around the
parking lot. They started to drive in mad circles, weaving in and out of the
cars that were already there, sometimes missing them by just a hairline. Were
they really that stupid? Their windows were rolled down and their music was
pounding so loud, I could feel the speaker’s bass from where I was.
I was
about to look away when I saw a boy, probably a sophomore step down into the
parking lot. He could see the truck doing donuts in the parking lot, and
hesitated. But it was obvious that his vehicle was beyond the truck. Don’t try kid, I thought. Don’t even try to run over to your car.
The kid
adjusted his backpack and started to march towards a beaten up mini-van. I
stopped in my tracks. He was going to try and get to his car. I shifted my
sight to the football players in the truck, doing donuts, they weren't even
paying attention. I could see the driver was not even looking out the window,
but at whoever was screaming at him behind the seat.
That kid was going to get hit, I knew it.
Without
even thinking, without any thought at all, I flung my backpack off and raced
towards the truck that was steering its direction towards the boy.
I could
feel my heart pounding loud and hard in my chest, pushing me to not stop. I had
never been much of a runner, but I suddenly felt like my body was built for
that very thing.
The
kid, he could see that the truck’s driver wasn’t paying attention. I saw even
from my distance that his body clenched up.
My body
was coursing with adrenaline. It was so powerful I felt my heart was beating
faster to keep my body caught up with whatever was fueling me. My breathing was
hard, but even.
All I could hear was the pounding
of my heart.
All I could feel was the slapping
of my feet against the asphalt.
All I could see was the truck and
the kid.
I
caught a glisten of tears on the kid’s cheek. He knew he was going to die.
No! He couldn't die. I wouldn't let that
happen. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. I leaped forward, reached my
hand out and yanked the boy by his t-shirt, I could feel the material tear when
I flung him behind me and onto the ground. Almost like there were cotton balls
in my ears, I barely heard the rumble of the truck or the screams of the boy
behind me. I could feel the rumble of the truck right behind me through the
soles of my shoes to my feet. I sensed
how close it was to us. I spun around. There it was, a giant metal behemoth coming
straight for me. Instinctively, I flung my fist against the grate of the truck,
expecting myself to crumble and be completely swallowed up by its enormous
weight. I kept repeating in my head, I
can’t let the kid die, he has to be okay. I couldn't let the kid die, I
wasn't going to let that happen! I waited for the pain of 4000 lbs to roll on
top of me and end my life. But I didn't want to die this way either, I suddenly
let a sob break free as I waited for my life to end.
But I felt nothing, nothing but the
deafening beats of my heart and the long gasps of breath I was making. I could
still feel that power coursing through me, fueling me to keep fighting, it was so powerful that it was almost painful
to stand still and wait or whatever was to come next.
The
truck had stopped. My fist was planted deep into the truck’s grate. I could see
a small bead of blood run down my wrist and drip onto the black pavement. I had
dented the truck’s grate. Dented. I
struggled to pull my hand free, it was the most painful thing I had ever
experienced. I could feel skin being pulled clean off and left behind as I
yanked it out. I looked down at my hand and instantly regretted even looking
because as soon as I looked the pain that had lanced through me only
intensified. My hand was completely covered in my own blood, already bruises
were forming up and down my arm from the impact. My skin was pretty much
scraped off of my knuckles and everywhere else or that matter. I cried out, my
heart pounded faster. My whole body was shaking uncontrollably and my knees
weakened. What had happened? Did I
just stop that truck? I looked up and managed to see the driver and passengers staring
at me with white eyes of horror. I glanced down at the boy I had saved. His eyes
were wide too. What did I do? I felt so hot, like I had been dipped into a
cavern of lava. My heart hadn't slowed down and my body felt it was coursing
with power. This was too much.
My head
started to pound. My eyes couldn't focus. Why was my body in so much pain? But
why did I want to keep running? What was happening to me? I need to get out of here, I suddenly thought.
So I
ran. My body was still pushing me, to not ever stop, to keep running until
there was nothing left of me. But I forced myself to slow down, unlock the
driver’s side of my car and throw myself inside. Just as soon as I had slammed
the door shut, I suddenly felt my throat close. I couldn't breathe. My heart
pounded harder and faster. Clenching my fists tight, I collapsed to the ground
and waited for darkness to overpower me.
Thank you everyone for your love and support!
