Leslie's Journal

One

It's only the first week and already school sucks. I've got Ms. Graham again for English.

Today she said every class is going to start with fifteen minutes of journal writing, which is what we're doing now. This is supposed to train us to "reflect freely on our personal experiences." What a load. It's to give get fifteen minutes with nothing to do.

Also, since our journals will be about personal feelings, she says she won't read them. "Your journal is just for you. But write, write, write. As with everything else in this world, you'll only get out of it what you put into it." According to her, this is a "Life Lesson." But what it really is is an excuse for her to get out of marking.

A year of journals! Can i scream yet? It's so boring i keep forgetting to breathe. And each day when it's over-talk about an insult- she says she's going to collect them and lock them up in her filling cabinet. Yeah, that's right, they're going in her filling cabinet, like we're a bunch of babies who'll lose them or something.

But okay. Journals beat having her teach. Last year, she either read aloud to us or we read aloud to her, then she'd stop and ask us stupid questions about what we'd heard. This last part was really hilarious, because nobody ever gave her an answer. We all just stared up at her like we were dead and watched her eyes go funny. No kidding, her eyes were amazing. Like gerbils. They darted around desperate for a hand to pop into the air while the silence kept getting worse and worse until she couldn't stand it any more and she'd blurt out the answer herself.

Normal teachers would figure if students are passed out then maybe they should do something. LIKE, HELLO, MAYBE STOP ASKING SUCH DUMB QUESTIONS! But not Ms. Graham. She just went from dumb to dumber, getting more and more squirrelly. She'd be sweating, and there'd be red patches on her neck and she'd be wiping the sweat off her hands onto her dress... it was disgusting.

That's when she'd tell us to read the next chapter silently and answer the questions on some handouts she'd pass around for homework. Which of course we never did. We just pretended we hadn't heard her and that the handouts didn't exist. At the end of class, we'd crumple them into balls and toss them in the general direction of the waste basket. It's like, whole rain forests got clearcut so Ms. Graham could stuff her filling cabinet with handouts that all ended up in the garbage.

Then, pretty soon, we pretended Ms. Graham didn't exist either. We'd just come in, put our heads on our desks and go to sleep. Which was fine by her, i guess, because at least if we were sleeping we weren't throwing chalk. Or handouts.

It was soooo painful.

Near the end of the year, she went Missing in Action. They said she was away with chronic bronchitis, but we figured she was having a breakdown. Over the summer the story went around that she'd knocked over a shelf of light fixtures at Wal-Mart and ended up under a pile of lamp shades babbling hysterically while trying to choke herself to death with an electric cord until the ambulance came and hauled her off in a straitjacket.

Well, that's the rumor. And even if it isn't true, it should be, because obviously she back for more and she's nutty as ever. Right now she's floating around with this vague look, smelling kind of stale in a pile great billowy thing. She looks like a human dustball. Wait. She's just come to rest in front of the windows. She's looking out. I wonder if she's thinking of jumping.

It's kind of sad, really. I mean, if she wasn't a teacher, I'd feel sorry for her. Once upon a time she was somebody's baby, playing patty-cakes and having everybody kissing her and saying she was cutie. Then she grew up. I picture her all alone in some tiny apartment, surrounded by cats and stacks of unmarked assignments, praying that tomorrow will be better. And it never is.

Poor Ms. Graham. It's not like she wants to be boring. That's why i almost feel guilty when we all torture her. Who we should torture - really, really torture, with hot coals and a pair of hedge clippers - is Ernie Boulder. He has short greasy hair, cystic acne and a squishy tongue he likes to stick in girl's ears for a joke. He also has a dent in his forehead from where somebody hit him with a shovel when he was little. Too bad they didn't hit harder.

Ernie is the grossest pig in the school, and in this school there's a lot of competition. He has only one redeeming feature. If you want to lose weight, just think about making out with him. You won't be able to eat for a week.

Anyway, Earnie The Pus-had Boulder worked it so he sits one seat ahead of me in three separate classes. What's worse, he apparently thinks it is majorily funny to stick a couple of pencils up his nose and pretend to be a walrus. The real reason he does this is to have an excuse to let his pencils fall on the floor so he can bend down to pick them up and look up my skirt while he's at it.

Today i got my revenge. I waited till lunch, when i knew he'd be in the cafeteria with lots of people all around. Then i marched right up to his table and said in a big loud voice, "Look Pus-head, you cop a look between my legs one more time and I'll personally pop your zits with a compass!"

There was this roar of laughter, hooting and foot stomping. Ernie was so embarrassed, i thought his cysts would explode. As for me, i just snapped my fingers and diva-ed my way to the parking lot for a smoke.

That's where i met the vice-principal, Mr. Carrouthers, out on a little narc duty. "I want to see you in my office, young lady."

Sorry, journal, according to Ms. Graham it's time for you to go into the filling cabinet. Tomorrow, I'll tell you what happened with the Nazi.

P.S. Dear Ms. Graham: you promised our journals were going to be private. So in case you're secretly reading this to get some cheap thrills, you are nothing but a crazy perverted liar, and it's not my fault if it sends you over the edge.