24 Hours

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

                Neither the boy nor I said a word as we stepped out of the principal’s office, for good. She didn’t speak either, which I found fairly reasonable for her situation.

                It was an awkward walk back to class; the silent halls and the shut doors moved past us as went by, without any recognition or importance. Besides, my next period was the only period I had without the boy; Language Arts.

                Language Arts happened to be the only advanced class I was in. The boy himself wasn’t in any advanced classes, and therefore, he was in on-level language arts.

                The only reason I was in advanced was because I love to write. I had a knack for vocabulary, skill with grammar, and a hunger for interesting stories and plots. Especially science fiction novels/novellas – they were my absolute favorite.

                That day, we were sharing poetry. I loved poetry, for it seemed the easiest way to capture your thoughts. Unlike a story, you didn’t need to write paragraphs. Unlike a novella, you didn’t need to use complete sentences. There may be forms of poetry with specific guidelines connected to    write by, but it was worth it.

                Poems were meant to capture essence, not words. Words were only imitations of essence, but a poem with words is essence itself.

                The assignment that week had been to write about a topic that meant something to you. You had to choose a specific poetic form, but there were no specifics. I didn’t intend to free verse, but rather a Shakespearian Sonnet.

                I waved “good-bye” to the boy as I approached the door to my designated classroom. He did the same thing back, and then we both disappeared after a brief, loud slam of wood against cinderblocks.

                Of course, then I had to face the horribly awkward silence and the terrifyingly unnerving stares of my classmate as I shut the door behind me. We’ve all had to face that moment at least once; walking into a classroom after being late, having everybody just staring you. Expecting you to say something.

                “I was in the principal’s office,” I said. Everyone knew why. I mean, who didn’t? I’d started the biggest food fight that had ever taken place in this school – the only food fight, to be exact.

                The teacher nodded, a sign that she acknowledged – and approved of – my excuse. I handed her the late pass I’d acquired in the office. The teacher glanced at it and motioned for me to sit down.

                She smiled at the class after I’d taken my seat. “Well, Juniper,” she exclaimed, looking at me, “you arrived not a moment too soon; we were just about to begin presentations!” And with that, she asked who would like to go first. Several people raised their hands in response, so she chose a little brunette whose name I’d forgotten at the time.

                The girl presented a short Acrostic about beauty, and how it lies on the inside instead of on the outside, where everyone saw its impersonator, vain. The second part of the assignment was to explain what type of poem you used, and the third part was to say what it meant to you.

                “I used an acrostic,” She stated, “An acrostic is a poem in which the first letter of each line is used to spell out a word. Kind of like a vertical acronym, only with phrases instead of words for each letter. I wrote this poem because beauty seems like something I’ve never been able to obtain, according to society’s definition. I wanted to set the facts straight.” With that, the girl looked up from her paper. The class applauded, she grinned, and then she sat down.