We had just moved to our new house, Mr. Minkin, in August and I didn’t know a soul on my street. I missed my old friends from Harding Elementary, who were all going to Scott Middle School.
No surprise, I don’t have rosy memories of my first day at Penn Valley. I can still remember how the school looked that day. The front lobby was very dark and it smelled like B.O. My older sisters, Rosie and Jane, were in the eighth grade then and they walked me to the auditorium. They didn’t stay long because they were much more excited about going to a new school.
The auditorium seems pretty small now, but when you’re a new student from a different town it’s really scary. So many unfamiliar faces, and the worst part was that everyone, every single person in that auditorium, was having a conversation with someone else. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone than at that moment.
But then things got a little better when I got to homeroom. That’s where I met the coolest girl, Miranda, who would soon become my best friend.
We both were teased by some older kids about the teachers’ names and the game Clue. Before we knew it we started making our own little game of Clue with the map of the school and teachers’ names and classroom supplies. The homeroom meeting was kind of long and by the time we were done we actually had a game put together. And although not everyone would admit it, I know it helped us remember all the teachers’ names and where the classrooms were.
I don’t know if it was the angle of the sun or if the lights weren’t working in the morning, but when I met Rosie and Jane after school in the lobby, it wasn’t nearly as dark as it was when I arrived that morning.
Chollie Muller
May 9, 2016
English 8A
Mr. Minkin
Suggested Writing Prompt: What do you remember about your first day at Penn Valley Middle School? How did you feel at that time? How has your view of that first day changed? Explain.
Dear Mr. Minkin,
My first day at Penn Valley was very inauspicious. (Did I use that word right? Miranda has been helping me with my vocab.)
The reason it was inauspicious is because I lost track of time. When I got to school everyone was hanging out by the field next to the gym. And everyone told me that we didn’t have to report to class until the first bell rang. I knew right then and there I was going to love Penn Valley Middle School.
Within no time we got a football game going, nothing very serious, just a game of touch with an emphasis on passing the ball. The game was so good we really didn’t notice when the bells rang.
The best part was that there were some eighth graders playing and Bobby Kelly, who’s in high school now and playing on the varsity team, was covering me. After I beat him for a touchdown (it was a diving catch) he held out his hand and helped me up.
He said, nice catch, kid, and I said, thanks.
Then Coach (I didn’t know who he was then) came outside and called everybody in. That’s when I found out everyone I was playing with had gym first period and I was supposed to be in the sixth grade meeting in the auditorium but I was late.
When I got into the school the hallways were completely empty. It was kind of creepy and would have been a great setup for a scary movie.
I had to pass by the office to get to the auditorium, and that’s when I was stopped by Mr. Lichtensteiner.
“What happened to you?” he said.
I looked down at my shirt and pants. The shirt was ripped and pretty dirty and I was sweating through it. My pants had so many grass stains they looked green.
“I was playing outside,” I said.
“You know what you are?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“You’re late,” he said. “And that’ll cost you two detentions. Do you know who I am?”
I shook my head.
“I’m Mr. Lichtensteiner, and I run this school. I suggest you stay on my good side.”
I took Mr. Lichtensteiner’s advice and went right into the auditorium.
Anyway, that was my first day, Mr. Minkin. And even though it was an inauspicious beginning (love that word) I served my two detentions and I haven’t been in trouble since.
13
The Final Stretch
DUKE
Perhaps the only good thing about having two parents who are college professors is that the house is filled with books. And it’s even better having parents who are sociology professors, for that means the books have not been read and are in pristine condition.
William Safire’s24 Lend Me Your Ears has been my constant companion (sorry, Jane Austen, but Pride and Prejudice is up next). Lend Me Your Ears, if you haven’t read it, is a compilation of many of the world’s great speeches. If you happen to be called upon to give a speech, a dedication, or even a eulogy, don’t hesitate to peruse this volume. It has been invaluable to me through the years.
Needless to say, thanks to this incomparable tome, I was full of confidence before auditioning for the commencement speech. As Dizzy Dean25 said, it ain’t bragging if you can do it, and I was prepared to do it.
As I began the final stretch of the eighth grade, my grades were superb, I felt assured I could put the finishing touches on NYC Nights, and Sharon and I would soon begin practicing our routine for NYC Nights in earnest. All was well.
The auditions were held after school in Mr. Porter’s room. I arrived promptly and took a seat near the back, flanked by Knuckles and Moose, just in case there was trouble. While I reviewed my notes and patiently waited, the door opened and Mr. Lichtensteiner entered. He smiled upon us as if we were his subjects. Knuckles and Moose fidgeted nervously. Poor fellows, I know they’ve been terribly bored.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” Mr. Lichtensteiner began. “I am here with some very good news. Because there has been some controversy over the years regarding commencement speakers, we’ve decided to pick the name out of a hat this year. That seems fairest, doesn’t it?”
I shot up to my feet faster than an attorney making an objection.
“What is fair about that?” I asked.
“Good question, young man. And your name?”
Why does this man keep forgetting my name? I’ve been practically running the school for three years.
“My name, sir, is Duke Vanderbilt Samagura. I am the student council president.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Duke,” he said. “So, let’s begin.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “How is it fair to pick out of a hat rather than have a competition and have the best man or woman win?”
“If there’s a competition, then it is not fair to those who are not chosen, don’t you agree?” he asked.
“No, I don’t. And anyway, if that’s the case, why don’t we let the student council president give the speech?”
“Again, that would be unfair as well. Parents would complain that their son or daughter didn’t get to speak at the commencement because their son or daughter was not the student council president. My phone literally rings off the hook this time of year.”
“Mine too,” Mr. Porter unwisely interjected.
“So it’s quite obvious that in the spirit of fairness for all involved, we shall pick the name out of the hat.”
“The enormity26 of this decision proves the gross incompetence of you and your ilk!” I said.
“Yes, it was a very large, very big decision,”27 Lichtensteiner replied.
I didn’t know what to say after that. I was speechless (pun intended!), and here just minutes before I had been prepared to give an unforgettable address that people would be talking about for years to come.
Believe it or not, and probably simply due to the mind-numbing experience of attending this poor excuse of a school, I actually gave up for a moment and thought that my odds, at 10 percent, weren’t that bad.
We wrote our name
s on index cards, folded them twice, and dropped them into the hat which Lichtensteiner held in his hand. Then he picked out a card, smiled, and said, “Congratulations, Ralph Waldo.”
Everyone looked, but Ralph Waldo was not in the room. I jumped up from my seat.
“I move we pick another name from the hat,” I said, then added so that Lichteinsteiner, the numskull, could comprehend my request, “since he isn’t here. After all, it wouldn’t be fair to us all who are here.”
“It’s okay,” Mr. Porter, the overly officious jerk, unwisely responded. “I promised Ralph I’d enter his name. He’s practicing for his NYC Nights routine. I’ll tell him the good news.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Lichtensteiner said, smiling like he’d actually done some work. “Thank you, everyone, for giving it your best.”
Then he turned to leave the room. I stood up again.
“Um, just a moment, sir,” I said.
Lichtensteiner paused at the door, giving Knuckles and Moose the extra seconds needed to thrash him.
I left the room, quite discouraged, only stopping to tell Knuckles and Moose not to forget about Mr. Porter.
To say I left the room angry would be an understatement. I was livid. I was enraged.
If I was my old self, I would have left the school, gone home to my room, and contemplated the whole monstrous affair. Instead, I entered the auditorium to check on the progress for NYC Nights. As you can see, I have evolved and matured as a person.
Outside the auditorium I caught the melody to Joplin’s “The Entertainer,” and I think I can state here that for a moment, just one moment, my spirits were lifted. After all, I thought, how can I let the administration’s malfeasance get me down? Why should I expect anything more? I didn’t exactly chuckle, but a smile did cross my face. I was the student council president. I was respected. And we were about to pull off a wonderful event despite the idiocy which surrounded us.
When I entered the auditorium, however, all hope was gone.
I stopped and looked at the stage. Sharon was in the arms of Ralph Waldo. He was teaching her to tap-dance.
And there to the right of the stage was a large poster, the wet paint still drying.
PENN VALLEY
CELEBRATES
NYC NITES!
It was seeing “NITES” that did it, I think. It was that misspelling that drove me to the edge.
“No! No! No! No!” I screamed.
As I walked down the aisle with purpose in my stride and fire in my eyes, everyone stopped. Ralph, the chump, actually ran from the stage. Sharon stood alone on the stage (I should’ve been at her side) and watched me with, I’m sorry to report, horror.
I ripped the drying poster from the wall. I tore it and shredded it into a thousand pieces, screaming again and again, “That’s not how you spell ‘NIGHTS’! That’s not how you spell ‘NIGHTS’! That’s not how you spell ‘NIGHTS’!”
After I finished, my hands stinging with fresh paper cuts, I stopped. The auditorium was silent. My peers were, no doubt, embarrassed for me. Even Knuckles and Moose, fresh from thrashing Mr. Porter, averted their eyes from me.
“That’s not how you spell ‘nights,’” I said after a pause, my voice now a whisper.
I kicked the shredded papers and left the auditorium as some joker, probably Sam Dolan, asked, “How do you spell ‘nights’?”
CHOLLIE
Coach calls me and the guys into his office first thing this morning.
“Listen, fellows, we’ve been too uptight. We’re going to take the day off, get our heads ready for the Cedarbrook game.”
Everyone looks very confused, and then they stare at me. I know what they’re wondering. I raise my hand.
“Coach, what are you saying?”
“We need a day off to clear our heads. No practice this afternoon. Don’t think about the Cedarbrook game, not until tomorrow at least.”
Since I’m the captain, I don’t cheer and show excitement like the other guys, but this is really perfect. This will give me a chance to go to the student council meeting and see how things are shaping up for NYC Nites. And I’ll get to finally spend some time with Miranda. We’ve both been so incredibly busy it’s hard to believe. But pretty soon we’ll be finished and we’ll have the NYC Nites celebration with the talent show and the art exhibit and the food and all that. It’s the perfect end to the year.
I also really need the break because Billy and my mom are going at it. You see, Billy has a new girlfriend, Angela, and he’s been spending so much time with her that he quit the job at the pizza shop. Billy says he quit, but Mom says he got fired, and it sounds like a little bit of both. It doesn’t really matter what happened, though, because Mom has a policy that Billy can’t stay at the house if he doesn’t have a job. So, obviously, I have a lot on my mind.
At lunch Miranda is so busy we don’t get a chance to talk about anything except for the big night. And she has really taken over a lot of responsibilities.
“Did you hear about Duke?” she asks.
“No, did he break his leg in a skiing accident?” I ask.
Miranda laughs. “No,” she says. “He flipped out yesterday and started ripping up the signs for NYC Nites. I think the pressure finally got to him.”
“Wow,” I say. I miss a lot when we’re in the middle of baseball. Now I’m really glad I have the afternoon off.
“It was pretty crazy. So I promised Mr. Porter I’d take on some extra responsibility. In fact, I promised I’d stop by his room to go over some things. Sorry I can’t have lunch with you.”
“That’s okay because we don’t have practice today. So I’ll see you at the student council meeting.”
“Perfect,” she says. “I’ll see you then.”
I have to say Coach really knows what he’s doing because when I get to the auditorium after school, I feel super relaxed. And I just have this great feeling come over me, not only because I’ll see Miranda but also because I know I’m going to rip the cover off the ball when we play Cedarbrook.
Miranda gets right down to business the moment everyone is in the auditorium.
“Okay, let’s get started. We have two weeks until NYC Nites. So we’re going to hear some updates from the committees and then we’ll get right back to work. Let’s hear how the entertainment committee is coming along. Sam?”
Sam Dolan says, “Yeah.”
“What do we have booked for the entertainment?” Miranda asks.
Sam says “um” about fifty times.
“Okay, we’ll come back to entertainment. How’re things coming along with the spirit committee?”
Everyone looks around, but there doesn’t seem to be a spirit committee.
“What happened to the spirit committee?” Miranda asks, and I can tell from her voice she’s starting to get upset.
Jimmy Foxx finally stands up. “I think the spirit committee is all spirited out after what happened yesterday. Sharon has to redo all the posters.”
This gets some of the people laughing, but Miranda only becomes more upset. She takes a deep breath and looks over at Mr. Porter. He’s asleep.
“How is the art exhibit coming along?”
Jimmy Foxx holds up a painting.
“That is disturbing,” Miranda says. And that’s really the only way to describe it. It’s dark, just a lot of black paint with some red paint that looks like dripping blood.
“Good,” Jimmy Foxx says. “It’s supposed to be. It matches my heart.”
Miranda moves along after checking her clipboard.
“How’re things coming along with the food committee?” She asks this very slowly, sort of like she knows what the answer is but doesn’t want to hear it.
Stephen Jones stands up.
“How are the donations from the restaurants coming along?” she asks.
“The
y all said no.”
“When?”
“I guess about four weeks ago,” he says.
“Charlie,” she says. “What about the pizzas?”
This is kind of like the lawyer show Billy likes to watch, when the lawyer is asking whoever is on the stand a question and they know the answer is going to save the day. But this time my answer is not going to save the day.
“Um, about the pizzas. You see, my brother isn’t really working there anymore,” I say.
That’s all Miranda can take.
“I don’t get it! What’s wrong with you people? You all chose NYC Nites over putting on a dance. We made a commitment to this entire school, to this community, to the Penn Valley Vegetarian Society, to ourselves! We made a promise that we would have this special night. And now no one is willing to do any of the work. How can you all be content letting this happen?”
By this point Miranda looks more disappointed than mad. She lets out a gasp and starts to tear up. She takes her clipboard and throws it across the auditorium. And then she storms out, not even bothering to look at me.
I feel really terrible. So much for a stress-free afternoon.
Billy makes me feel even worse when I give him the update. He’s packing up his clothes because he’s going to stay with his friends back at college. I always get a little sad when he leaves, even though I’m sure he’ll be back in a month.
“What’s up, big guy?” he asks.
I tell him about the whole thing, every single thing I can think of. Billy takes it all in and rubs his chin. He’s quiet for about one whole minute, which for Billy is a seriously long time. He’s been known to talk at funerals.
“Okay, here’s what I think, and I don’t want you to get mad when I tell you, got it?”
“Sure, Billy,” I say. “I think I really need your advice on this one.”
“It’s over,” he says.
“What’s over?” I ask. “You and Angela?”
“No, you and Miranda.”
I don’t know what to say to this. Is he serious?
“Are you serious?”
My Future Ex-Girlfriend Page 10