04.12.2031, Wednesday, 07:16 pm

Well, I’m back home. Funny how everything seems so… clean for a change. I mean, the house isn’t littered with Kathryn’s Cosmos or my dozen pairs of football studs.

School was boring. Miss Pompei, our History teacher, was absent because of some hip injury with a motorbike, so a substitute walked in and decided that she wanted us, the most UNRULY batch of seventh graders EVER, to like her. LIKE her.

Yeah, right.

So she entered the room and the students erupted with shrieks of joy-subs are SUPPOSED to be the kind who lets you spit-ball the geek as long as you don’t raise your voice above a whisper- but, alas, our happiness was short lived, for she cleared her throat [extra loudly] and then bellowed, ‘SILENCE!!’

You could hear a pin drop after she said that. One of the guys with the tender heart started sobbing because her voice had ”hurt him.” In my mind, I was going, ‘Oh brother,’ because teachers like what I’d made her out to be don’t let you stand on your bench and sing into a rolled up text book.

I was wrong. The teacher I THOUGHT she was turned out to be COMPLETELY different, because you know what she did next?? Laugh. Yeah, she LAUGHED. Like, loud, THUNDEROUS laughs that would have brought deaf Mr Kampbell -the janitor- begging for her to stop, had he not been on sick leave.

Everyone was real puzzled [duh] but we just joined in the giggle-session and it was pretty lame, but fun. You know, in a lame way. But fun all the same.

For some strange reason, I felt this tingling sensation inside me, telling me that I wasn’t allowed to like this teacher. So I didn’t. The rest of the period, I didn’t even smile at her jokes. And when she told each of us to write a short, four-line poem about anything we wanted to talk about, boy did I write a poem!! Here it is:

I have a dog

His name is Rex

He likes to lick

His part

And after 

Pepperoni Night

He’s usually prone

To fart


That poem is nothing but a bunch of lies. I DON’T have a dog named Rex and Feni, the dog I DO have, doesn’t fart. At least, not to my knowledge. But I just wanted to see what Mrs Winson would say to my ”poem.”

Well, she patted me on the back, declared my poem to be the ”best of the lot” and further stated that she was sure I was going to ”do something great when I grow up.” So much for my rebellion!!


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