The Secret Journal of Brett Colton

by Kay Lynn Mangum

  Of course, the sweater was ruined. Trying to “enjoy” the rest of my first day of high school with ketchup stains all over my new sweater was going to be impossible to do, but somehow I had to survive the rest of the day. Luckily for me, tutor/study hall was right after lunch, so I could spend the first part of it in the girls’ bathroom trying to clean up my sweater. But of course, ketchup all over me wasn’t enough torture. I was forced to an abrupt halt due to the scene in the library when I finally arrived. Instead of seeing students scattered around studying quietly at tables, and wandering up and down the aisles looking for books, I was in for an unwelcome surprise. All of the tables and chairs were pushed together in neat, classroom-type rows facing the opened double doors to the library, filled with students listening intently to Mr. Madsen, the mediaologist and apparent study hall teacher, who was calling the roll.

  Great, just great.

  I tried to quietly sneak around Mr. Madsen, who was barking out names, but he quickly reached out an arm to block my path, his eyes never lifting from the clipboard in front of him.

  “—Waddington—hold it there for a second, please.”

  I stopped.

  “Jason West?” Mr. Madsen continued. I jerked my head up. Please, no—not again—

  “Here!” I heard Jason West’s booming voice somewhere to my left. Could this day get any worse? I thought miserably to myself. I looked up and locked eyes with him for a second as I gripped my notebook tighter to my chest, hiding the horrific stains there.

  Apparently, it could.

  After the torture of standing like an idiot in front of the whole study hall class, which would have to include Jason West, Mr. Madsen finally turned to me with a glare. “And you are . . . ?”

  “Kathy,” I began.

  “Kathy what?”

  “Colton. That is, Kathryn Colton. With a K.”

  “Hmmm—I’m not seeing any ‘Colton’ spelled with a K.”

  “No—it’s with a C.”

  “You just said your name was spelled with a K—”

  “Well, it is—”

  “Then you’re in the wrong class. There is no Colton with a K on the roll.”

  “No—you don’t understand. My last name is spelled with a C, but my—”

  “Then why did you say it started with a K?”

  The more the class giggled at the ridiculous exchange I was forced to endure, the more irritable and short-tempered Mr. Madsen became. It was astounding how long it took for me to explain to a grown man and college graduate that my first name started with a K and my last name started with a C.

  “That’s enough—enough from all of you! Especially you, Miss Colton. Please take your seat.” Another glare followed his last words for me.

  My heart pounded as I stumbled around looking for a seat, doing my best to avoid Jason’s stare. Mr. Madsen wasted a good fifteen minutes droning on about the do’s and don’t’s of having study hall in the library. “You’re probably wondering why your study hall period includes the word ‘tutoring.’ Central High did extensive research concerning other high schools who consistently crank out large percentages of graduates with high grade point averages. What was their secret? It seems the majority of these high schools were successfully using a student-to-student tutoring program, wherein students help other students who struggle in the subjects they do well in . . .”

  Mr. Madsen droned on and on about the tutoring program, but what it basically came down to was that study hall was going to become a tutor-slash-study hall after Labor Day. The first two weeks of school would be finished by then, giving students a chance to figure out which subjects they were having trouble with and which ones they excelled in. I would likely be expected to put my name on a list as a potential English tutor. If someone signed his name up by mine, then I would be obligated to help that person in English studies.

  “Keep in mind that this is a program for students to help each other succeed. It’s not a social dating time. The teachers will review the lists of tutoring partnerships for the particular subject they teach and will give the final approval as to whether or not the partnerships have a chance for success, based on the grades of each member of the partnership, as well as whether both members are currently signed up for a class in that subject. So if you’re not taking a computer class, but someone you’re romantically interested in is signed up to be a tutor, your partnership will not be approved. Also, if both members of the partnership are doing fine, or both members need help, those partnerships will not be approved, either. Also, if performance in class by either member of the partnership is not satisfactory, the partnership will be dissolved. Also, if I see that productive work is not being accomplished during tutor/study hall, that partnership will be reported and dissolved . . .”

  Mr. Madsen had about a million other “Also’s” that he had to drone on about, even though everything was in the handout. All I knew was that I hoped no one would sign up by my name so I could use study hall as a study hall. And that I just wanted to get home and change.

  When I got home from school, I hurried to my bedroom before Mom saw my ruined sweater. I balled it up and threw it in my closet before reaching for the old Beatles album to spin. So much for hoping for all the luck I could get on my first day of high school.

  CHAPTER THREE

  William Carlos Williams’s poem “The Red Wheelbarrow,” written in 1923, was our first Honors English writing assignment, due on Friday of the first week of school. “Write a two- to three-page paper on your thoughts concerning the poem.” That was all Mrs. Dubois had offered in the way of instruction. When Friday arrived, before letting us hand in our papers, Mrs. Dubois had one last, horrible surprise. “We will spend the duration of class today listening to students read their papers on Mr. Williams’s poem.”

  As if the daily dose of humiliation or improvisation numbers in drama wasn’t enough! My heart pounded as I stared at “Mr. West’s” back several rows in front of me. He would have to be in this class with me. To his credit and my surprise, he had tried to apologize to me in class on Tuesday for destroying my sweater, but I’d made it clear it’d be best if he just left me alone. For the sake of the rest of my wardrobe. I couldn’t decide if that was going to make it easier or even more horrific to have to stand up in front of the class, mere inches from him, to read my paper.

  The first mass of readings were the typical boring fare. Lots of strange, mumbo jumbo was thrown around that was impossible to follow, from the incredibly stupid to the incredibly bizarre, until “Mr. West’s” turn. He stood up, grinning broadly, as if he actually enjoyed the chance to stand in front of the class.

  “I decided to write my ‘thoughts’ on the poem in a style like Mr. Williams’s.” With that stupid grin still on his face, he held out his paper for all to see that he had indeed written it in Mr. Williams’s style of three words per line followed by one word per line—three horrific pages worth. Then, he cleared his throat loudly and read his “poem” in a deep, booming voice. A “poem” that was nothing more than an embarrassing mockery of Mr. Williams’s amazing poem. He even threw in some lines about the chicken crossing the road joke—and stated that the chickens were wheeled across the road in the red wheelbarrow instead.

  The nauseatingly flirtatious gigglings from the girls and the admiring guffaws from the guys throughout Jason’s “paper” reading made it obvious that I was the only student who was stunned at what he had done. Mrs. Dubois stared without blinking an eye at him until the laughter in class died away and the grin left Jason’s face.

  “Very interesting interpretation, Mr. West.” Mrs. Dubois walked slowly to where Jason stood and took the paper out of his hand. “Actual poem lines and stanzas. Very creative, indeed.” She looked up from his paper and smiled icily. “Your peers may enjoy such antics, but I do not. You will need to be serious about your papers in the future if you hope to pass Honors English. Or even to remain in this class. Is that understood, Mr. West?”

  I didn�
�t get to enjoy his embarrassed response because I was next and far too nervous to worry about Jason anymore. I was hoping a week in Drama 101 with all the improv work I’d been forced to endure would make this moment easier, but it didn’t. My heart pounded so loudly I could hardly hear my voice above it, and my hands were shaking badly.

  And then, I saw Jason looking at me with that annoying grin back on his face. Knowing that my paper was pretty great and would knock his flat and wipe that smug grin right off, I gave him a cold stare before turning to face the class with a pretended degree of confidence.

  “Although ‘The Red Wheelbarrow’ is a poem of few words, it is rich with many layers of meaning. The fact that from the beginning, one is forced to stop and take another look at the poem is enough to prove the poem itself is something above and beyond the ordinary and one that will not be forgotten. That the poem is still dissected years since it was written proves that it has transcended time and will outlast us all.”

  Oh, my paper was amazing, and I knew it. I’d researched the poem and Mr. Williams’s life nearly to death. I’d detailed each layer of

  the poem from the initial layer of what is going on in the poem, at the moment of the poem, all the way through to the universal layer—

  the layer all people can relate to, whether they’d lived on a farm or not. That was the best, most powerful part of my paper. A great finish to a greater than great paper.

  “The red wheelbarrow can represent any seemingly ordinary object often taken for granted on a farm. Many chores are accomplished on a farm with the help of a wheelbarrow, yet it is quickly and easily forgotten, even though it is an immensely necessary tool on a farm. The poem could easily have been about a shovel, a rake, or a watering can. Ordinary objects, forgotten and left out in the rain, yet incredibly important to the welfare of the farm.

  “The same can be said of ordinary items in everyone’s lives. For a student, the poem could have been written about a ballpoint pen—an ordinary object ‘so much depends on’ in a student’s life—for taking notes, completing a written test, or writing down a phone number. Such a poem could have been written about an alarm clock, a set of keys—any ordinary object that is easily ignored and forgotten, yet again, is immensely important in keeping our lives running smoothly. Therefore, in a universal sense, the poem cries out to pay attention to the ordinary—the seemingly unimportant things in our lives, and not take them so much for granted.

  “Taking time to discover the opening layers of a poem followed by the universal layers not only shows us how remarkable and rich with meaning the poem is, it also has the wonderful effect of enriching our lives with the powerful truths conveyed in its few, well-placed words.”

  With that, I ended my paper by reading the poem with some nice, dramatic emphasis courtesy of what I’d been learning in Drama 101.

  It was pin-dropping quiet after I finished. Jason was looking down, hunched over his desk, his eyebrows drawn together. Ha—take that much-deserved kick in the pants, Mr. West! Your ability to throw a football means nothing in here!

  Mrs. Dubois took my paper from me and smiled. “Very good, Kathryn. I very much enjoyed your view of Mr. Williams’s poem. You may take your seat.”

  I was more than happy to do just that.

  “I hope you’ve learned how important reading out loud is in helping you sharpen your writing skills. Reading aloud should show you whether or not you’re arguing your point of view clearly and coherently.” Mrs. Dubois straightened her stack of papers against the top of her desk. “You’ll receive these back on Monday with your grade. Next week we will read some of Edgar Allen Poe’s work. It wouldn’t hurt to get a head start on it over the weekend. Congratulations on making

  it through your first week of high school. Have a wonderful and safe weekend.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ou haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you, Kathy? Kathy??”

  I jumped as Crystal practically screamed my name in my

  face, while Mistie nearly spewed a mouthful of cola laughing at us. I’d been absently twirling spaghetti strands on my fork, oblivious to the noise around me. Which included Mistie and Crystal’s nonstop talking.

  “What? I mean, yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

  Crystal rolled her eyes. “Wrong answer. I asked you how your Labor Day weekend went, since neither of us saw you at all. Did you do anything fun?”

  I shrugged. “Just had a barbecue with my brother and sister and their families.” The expected, of course, had happened. After five minutes of Alex and Sam questioning me about my first two weeks of high school, they’d quickly launched off into memories of their own. Which, of course, caused the inevitable story upon story upon memory of Brett. The perfect depressing preview for today.

  “So what’s up?” Mistie said, raising her eyebrows. “You’re obviously annoyed about something. What’s going on?”

  I sighed. They’d find out soon enough anyway. “You know how I have tutor/study hall right after lunch?” Mistie and Crystal nodded. “Well, I checked the English tutoring board this morning, and guess who’s signed up wanting me for his English tutor?”

  They both screamed when I told them.

  ~

  I had to check the English tutoring board in the library as soon as lunch was over just to make sure I hadn’t made a mistake. After all, the name I’d seen might have been written next to the name above or below mine. I’d probably read the board completely wrong.

  I stared until my eyebrows drew into a scowl at the two names unmistakably together.

  Tenth-Grade Honors English Tutoring

  Tutor: Kathryn Colton. Prospective Student: Jason West.

  He’d scrawled his name in big, bold capitals by my computer-printed name. I still couldn’t believe it. What have I done to deserve this? I thought miserably.

  A moment later, Mr. Jason West himself with his famous backpack sauntered into the library and dropped the pack noisily by my feet where I stood. He grinned broadly and tapped his finger on our names before leaning against the wall by the board to face me.

  “Hey, Kathryn. With a ‘K.’ Looks like we’re going to be study partners!”

  I gave him the iciest glare I could muster. “Nothing’s carved in stone yet. Mrs. Dubois will need to approve this, and I doubt—”

  “Yeah, I agree—I doubt she’ll have any problem with it,” he finished.

  I purposely moved away from him with fast steps to slam my notebook and books on a nearby table before sitting down in a chair with my back to him and the tutoring board. Jason easily glided into the seat in front of me, casually tossing his backpack to the ground by his chair. “Isn’t there someone else you can torture in here?” I asked. “I mean—why me? There are tons of smart Honors English students in this school. Why do you want me to be your tutor?”

  “Maybe this will help you guess why,” he said, clearing his throat for dramatic effect. A second later, Jason perfectly imitated my dramatic reading of Williams’s “The Red Wheelbarrow,” word for memorized word.

  I stared in disbelief. “You mean—”

  Jason grinned. “That’s right. By your successfully showing up everyone in class—including myself, I admit—I knew you were the only tutor for me. I can handle the vocabulary tests and all the reading we have to do, but I could use some help in the paper writing department.”

  “I’m not about to write any papers for anybody,” I said coldly.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Jason said evenly. “I just need some help thinking through ideas, making sure I haven’t missed any important ‘layers.’ And another pair of eyes to make sure my papers are half-decent so Mrs. Dubois won’t throw me out of her class or flunk me. With your help, I know I’ll be fine and I’ll pass. So—I hope you’ll be willing to help me. Will you?” He’d been looking me in the eye too closely. Too hopefully. I could hardly stand it.

  “I—I don’t know if I can—” I tried to begin, but again, I was cut off.

  Jaso
n laughed and shook his head. “Are you really that modest? Come on—everyone knows you’re the top brain in that class.”

  “You’re forgetting one important detail,” I said, keeping the ice in my voice.

  Jason raised an eyebrow. “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Maybe I really don’t want to tutor you.”

  He actually had the gall to look surprised. “Why not?”

  I grinned evilly. “Maybe this will help you guess why: one completely ruined, expensive cashmere sweater from L’Armoire—”

  At least he had the decency to squirm a little. “Hey, I tried to tell you I was sorry—”

  “I’m not finished yet,” I said sharply, silencing him. “Besides. We’re so . . . different. You’re an . . . athlete. And I’m . . . not.” I didn’t have the stomach to use the word popular. “I can’t begin to relate to you, or you to me. This just wouldn’t work.”

  Jason shrugged his shoulders. “Well, let’s just wait and see what Mrs. Dubois says.” Before I could say another word, he reached down for his backpack and eased out of his chair to saunter away to another table at the other end of the library.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, Drama 101 dropped another bomb on me for the day.

  “So, you have to act out Shakespeare plays in front of the whole school?” Mistie asked, snapping open a can of soda after school was over for the day.

  “Not exactly. I mean, not the whole plays themselves. Just one scene.”

  “Do you get to pick which play?”

  “Sort of. As long as it’s been approved by the teacher.” My drama teacher, Miss Goforth, was determined that her idea was going to get everyone excited about Shakespeare. The drama classroom was outfitted with a mini stage, so instead of performing in front of the school in one big whack in the auditorium, each English class would get a chance to come to the drama room to watch our mini Shakespeare festival in November. It was supposed to make the event more “personable” and “intimate.” I’d tried to explain to Miss Goforth this wasn’t going to work for me and that I’d rather do anything but try to act out Shakespeare in front of the school at such close, point-blank range, but she made me an offer I truly could not refuse.