Addict

Part Three- Miss. Thompson

So I had my classes changed today. Apparently I had behavioral issues win other kids in the class. That's news to me. I knew the actual reason my teachers requested a class change. This one girl- excuse me, I meant cunt- Sara Clout, basically makes me seem like the biggest asshole. She points out every wrong thing I do, she makes my addictions apparent in class. So the teachers have this evil image of me, and a preconceived idea of who I am. But that's not true. I try hard in school. My last suspension was a year ago. But fuck them. Someone has to have me. They can't kick me out until they get a sufficient reason. I can still go to school. That's all that matters. Not like I wanna go to college, but I don't wanna be an idiot either.

Anyway, I got these new teachers. They're alright I guess. They didn't seem to have bad assumption about me, so that's nice for a change. There's one in particular I liked though. She fascinates me. Miss. Thompson her name is. I wanna say she's a woman in her late twenties early thirties? But damn, she's gorgeous. She's a dark skin woman with long wavy brown hair, and obvious red highlights. She wore clothes like my aunt. Tight skirt, and a nice button shirt, with extreme amounts of cleavage. A bit much for a high school teacher, she looks more like a porn star role playing a school girl. But no complains from me. There's nothing discrete about that woman. But aside from her model like looks, she's different. She seems to get me. She must've gotten my whole life story from Dr. Breenan, my counselor, but she was nice to me. She had me write this paper. All about who I was, who I wanted to become, why I am who I am. She said that it was a project she has all her students do in the beginning of the year, but since I'm new to her, I'm doing it now. Which was good for me. It's due in four days, Friday, but I was so excited, I did it during study hall. She seemed like someone I might be able to talk to. So I wrote my heart out. I wrote about my moms, my homelessness, my addictions, my missing dad, my sexuality. And I turned it in.

At the end of the day, she stopped me in the hallway. She had read it, and graded it. There was a big one hundred on the top right corner in purple pen, written in some of the neatest penmanship I had ever seen. I was happy. She didn't say anything, but she smiled, and told me she wrote a response on the back on a sticky note. I thanked her and told her I'd check it out at home. I put it in my bag, and started walking to Jakes Brooke. I don't ride the buss. Those kids make me wanna flip. It's quicker to walk anyways, because there's no stops. I'm hanging at Ray's house anyways. I'm not staying there for the night, I'm sleeping at Sam's again, but I'll be with him and probably Becca till night time.

On the way home, I pulled my paper out of the bag. I noticed the ink had spread in a constellation of small dots around the paper. Tears I'm assuming. I flipped through the many pages of my essay. What can I say? I had a lot to write about. And on the back, there was a note, it read

"Oh Kate, that was the most heart warming response I have ever received for that project. I'm so sorry about your past. Your mom, your situation. It's okay Honey, I can relate. I grew up in Philadelphia. My parents were addicts, and died when I was only twelve in a car accident on the way home from the bar. I had to live with my abusive uncle for a few years, but one day I ran away, and lived with my friends. I had a smoking addiction for over ten years, and I just quit recently. I get you, I'll be on your side. I'm here for you baby, you seem to be a bright girl, you can always come to me. Here's my number, if you ever need a friend, or a place to stay if you're in trouble. 610-899-1749"

And after I read that, there were more teardrops on the paper. Never had I ever heard someone tell me that. No one had ever taken the time to care. I can see this becoming a great relationship. And I need this. I can't ruin this for myself. She may be the one to save my education.