Chapter One
There are two types of people, the type of people who put words on paper, and the type of people who read those words. Get it?
She didn’t. Not even a little, not even close to getting it. But like every good girl she nodded, and zoned the fuck out. She briefly went over her Academy Award acceptance speech, but that daydream was starting to get old. Stale. She needed a new one to keep her going until at least Thanksgiving break.
Her teacher had moved on now, talking about when she was in college. Her professor told her that she was very talented, and could probably write something beautiful if she put some effort into it. The teacher turned to the class after the last statement looking as if she expected some sort of gasp, or nod of agreement, as if these 5th graders had always held that opinion of her as well.
Little fuckers.
Leila sighed. I cannot wait to be a teenager, she thought. I cannot fucking wait. But she didn’t think fucking. She wouldn’t have that kind of vocabulary until later on in life, but she felt fucking. She felt like she needed to get out of that fucking school, and out of this fucking life. She started to imagine what life would be like if she ran away.
I will only pack a few things, but not so many that when Mom and Dad come into my room looking for me it's obvious that I have packed anything. Just my tie-dyed shirt with the lace at the bottom, leggings, and my journal. And some gold fish crackers. And my guinea pig, Doodle. Wait, that could get messy. But I don’t want to leave Doodle.
Okay, Doodle had just died. And we had a big funeral for him, and the whole block came, and we hung Christmas lights up in the trees, and we had lanterns with candles in them. And I wore a black veil.
The Doodle funeral coasted Leila into lunch time. FINALLY. Ms. Ramilo had just finished reading from The Indian in the Cupboard. And was she crying? It looked like there might be a tear in her eye. Leila decided it was best for her to check.
Ms. Ramilo, were you crying? It’s okay if you were. It’s a very healthy way to express your emotions.
No, Leila, I wasn’t crying. The Indian in the Cupboard is not a particularly sad book.
Well, the native American people were basically completely wiped out by the white man. I think that’s sad.
Little Fucker.
Leila was off to lunch.
She didn’t. Not even a little, not even close to getting it. But like every good girl she nodded, and zoned the fuck out. She briefly went over her Academy Award acceptance speech, but that daydream was starting to get old. Stale. She needed a new one to keep her going until at least Thanksgiving break.
Her teacher had moved on now, talking about when she was in college. Her professor told her that she was very talented, and could probably write something beautiful if she put some effort into it. The teacher turned to the class after the last statement looking as if she expected some sort of gasp, or nod of agreement, as if these 5th graders had always held that opinion of her as well.
Little fuckers.
Leila sighed. I cannot wait to be a teenager, she thought. I cannot fucking wait. But she didn’t think fucking. She wouldn’t have that kind of vocabulary until later on in life, but she felt fucking. She felt like she needed to get out of that fucking school, and out of this fucking life. She started to imagine what life would be like if she ran away.
I will only pack a few things, but not so many that when Mom and Dad come into my room looking for me it's obvious that I have packed anything. Just my tie-dyed shirt with the lace at the bottom, leggings, and my journal. And some gold fish crackers. And my guinea pig, Doodle. Wait, that could get messy. But I don’t want to leave Doodle.
Okay, Doodle had just died. And we had a big funeral for him, and the whole block came, and we hung Christmas lights up in the trees, and we had lanterns with candles in them. And I wore a black veil.
The Doodle funeral coasted Leila into lunch time. FINALLY. Ms. Ramilo had just finished reading from The Indian in the Cupboard. And was she crying? It looked like there might be a tear in her eye. Leila decided it was best for her to check.
Ms. Ramilo, were you crying? It’s okay if you were. It’s a very healthy way to express your emotions.
No, Leila, I wasn’t crying. The Indian in the Cupboard is not a particularly sad book.
Well, the native American people were basically completely wiped out by the white man. I think that’s sad.
Little Fucker.
Leila was off to lunch.
posted by karin at 10:18 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home