The Seventh Grade Wars

Chapter Two: JK

I knew a lot of people were excited about junior high. When they were asked why, they said things like “more freedom!” or “more lunch options!”

Not for me. Because I knew high school meant more homework, more tests, and more stuff to worry about.

Unlike most other people, I had a good reason to hate school. Mainly for two reasons. Number one was because I was dyslexic. I had a hard time pretty much reading or writing anything. This lead up to reason number two: a lot of people made fun of me. They said I was ‘stupid’ or ‘dumb.’ I’m guessing they didn’t actually know about my dyslexia, so they only thought I was a kid so dumb they had to repeat the third grade. 

Which is also why I’m older than everybody else in my grade. And taller. It’s kind of hard to be normal when you’re older than the people around you. 

One thing I liked about school, though. That was the ultimate place to play pranks. And besides being stupid, playing pranks was what I was famous for. 

Gum in water fountains. Marbles on the ground. Shaving cream in people’s backpacks. My best prank ever was when I put a Whoopie cushion on the principal’s chair right before he had a very important meeting. I’d been given detention twenty-eight times and sent to the office fifteen times. I knew because I kept record on a piece of paper on my bedroom wall. 

My mom didn’t like the piece of paper, though. She was mad that I was ‘proud of getting into trouble’ and told me to stop counting. Then I kept the paper in my backpack. 

The day before the first day of seventh grade, my mom wanted to talk to me. She sat me down at the kitchen table, the way she always did when 

“I want this to be a new start for you, Johnson,” she said. She always used my real name. But who wants a name like Johnson? I preferred to go by my initials: JK, because my full name was Johnson Kennedy. It wasn’t until a couple months later I realized it also stood for Just Kidding. Even better, I decided, because I was also the pranks master. 

“Okay,” I told her. 

“No pranks,” my mom said. 

“Okay.”

“I want you to study hard.”

“Okay.”

“And please try to get good grades.”

“Okay,” I agreed, although I knew that was never going to happen. 

“No pranks,” my mom said again. 

“Okay.”

“Johnson, I’m being serious. I don’t want to hear you’ve gotten another detention, or been sent to the office, or blown up a gym locker—”

“Mom,” I said. “I’ve never blown up a gym locker. At least, not yet…”

“That’s not funny,” said my mom. Then, “You saw the email they sent to you, right? You know which side you’re on? And you’ve got your schedule you got in the mail?”

“Everything,” I said, and stood up to leave. “Don’t worry.”

I woke up the next day feeling very tired. I’d stayed up pretty late last night playing video games and I was starting to feel the consequences. Why couldn’t school start, say, four hours later?

As usual, my mom wasn’t at home in the mornings. She was at work again. With my dad gone, she had two jobs to keep us going.

I grabbed a bagel out of the fridge—never mind if it was cold—grabbed my backpack, and headed out the door. Emerson High School was close enough that I could walk, and when I got there I saw that it was total mayhem. Kids getting out of their parents’ cars, swarming around the main building, clutching their schedules or binders in their hands. Only the kids in higher grades seemed to know their way around.