Joined: 1 Apr 2009
"And on the brink of insanity, I'm about to fall head over heels . . . for you." I close
the book with a soft thud, and stand up tall and straight, waiting for all the praise and
glory that is sure to befall me for my wonderful, captivating poem.
Mr. Rider stands up slowly, and puts his big, hairy hand on my back, making me cringe. He
gives me a little push as he grunts, "Very good, Ms. Daniels. Take your seat. Ahh, who's
I stand very still. "Um, Mr. Rider?"
He turns to me tiredly, as if he thinks I'm going to give him a hard time about something.
Which I won't. "Yes?"
"Well . . . didn't you like it?" I grip my poetry book tightly, but try to keep my face
calm and relaxed. It's best to try and not look intimidated or worried.
My teacher sighs, as if he doesn't have time for this. "Of course I did, Andy. I said it
was good, didn't I?"
"But that's what you tell everyone else who read their poem. It's like, you
couldn't think of anything better to say, so you just say, 'Very good, Aaron', or 'Very
good, Patricia', or 'Very good-'"
"Nobody cares!" somebody calls from their seat. "Just sit down!" Then, quieter, as if I
wasn't meant to hear, (though I do anyway) "She's so stupid. Why is she even at this
school? Her parents obviously can't afford it, based on her clothes."
I swallow hard. I really don't understand my classmates. Are they so stupid that they
don't realize I can HEAR them? Or do they whisper loudly because they want me to hear?