Status: In progress, don't get attached yet.
Supernovae.
White hair.
Francine watched, a rendition of a Supernova explosion. If this is what actually happens, it’s nothing to be cheering for. It’s like watching a Batman POW and SHLOP a bunch of bad guys; it’s just not cool.
A couple of girls in her class, rather than actually writing a report, did a play on Supernovas. They dressed in tinfoil and wore beautiful masks. They pranced along the front of the classroom and sprinkled oodles of sprinkles all over the classroom. The front row looked like Christmas morning.
It was just the funniest thing the classroom had ever seen, watching a bunch of girls elephant around. One of them – discernable from the masks – had run into a chair, bruising her hipbone. The chair fell hard and slow.
Laughter. But they picked up from where they left off.
At the beginning, they had the bit where the star had collapsed into itself, it was a whole showcase of screaming, and paper cut out to look like blood. It was bad, and it was horrible, but it gave unbelievable imagery to her essay – which would come afterwards.
Once it was over, they pulled off their masks, and Francine passed one of the girl’s as she replaced them at the front of the classroom.
Francine stumbled, through the entire essay she mixed up her words, and couldn’t read the lettering. The ink was too faded, the words cut off. Anything that ruin her ability to read successfully, had happened.
Once she sat down, she did the things she did best: over thought.
Stupid, Francie, just stupid. Don’t you know how to read? Did you skip grades one through three? You did, didn’t you? Can’t even pronounce ‘said’. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
It was hard to keep positive after such a downfall. Hard to smile when Larry laughed at her.
“That was most definitely not one thousand words,” Larissa grins; she pulls the paper from under Francine’s binder.
“I lied,” she says, shamed. She tries to pry the paper from Larry’s fingers, but it only rips a bit. Give up.
“You betcha you lied. This has got to be only four hundred words,” Larry takes a pencil and starts crossing off words, mouthing their consecutive numbers.
“Its around five hundred. Leave it,” Francie sighs into her hand. Hot breath against sweaty palms. A cooler.
“So far its 327,” Larry quirks a grin, “and I’m almost done.”
“Oh, my God! Its not four hundred words. I promise you—“
“399. Wow.”
“What! No? No!” Francine reaches for a grab.
“Just kidding. 518. Pretty darn close,” Larry hands her paper back. It’s folded in all the wrong places and there’s a rip above a crease.
“This suuuucks.”
“Better hope Klapp doesn’t catch you,” Larissa adds, thoughtfully.
“You better not go and tell her,” Francine warns. Their teacher, Klapp, quiets down the class, and the next group stars. They also did a skit.
Larry nods her head, grins, and turns around in her seat, to watch the comedy unfold.
Even if you are in drama class, you don’t bring that talent to your projects. Act as silly and as stupid as you can, and you’ll get a good grade. Teachers like the spunk.
All the projects go off rather flawlessly. Francine’s sore thumb essay- the only one who did so, being the only thing handed in that wasn’t a poster, she felt confidant she would be failing this subject.
“This sucks,” the bell dismisses them.
“For you. I think the teacher loved our play.”
“Don’t gloat, Larry. She did love it.”
“I’m not gloating, I’m just saying. Someone’s defensive.”
“Am not! Just sayin’.”
There are at least 100 more students than there were last year. A good 70 grade eight students, and a good 30 from the grade sevens. The merging of the grade sevens into the high school wasn’t the brightest and best idea, but it allowed for new classes, and new teachers.
This allowed for crowded hallways and pushy people. The only way to survive in the hallways was to poke people with edges of binders, to check people into lockers, to weasel through the people who think it’s bright to stop in the middle of the hallway.
That was the only way you could reach your class, your locker, your home on the desired time. This it what you learned in the first three days of school.
What greeted Francine as she opened her locker was a glossy picture of the woman, reasoned to be the Supernova. She was dressed in blue, her hair was white, and she was smaller than a coat rack. This picture, though foreign, was like looking at a picture of the dead.
A couple of girls in her class, rather than actually writing a report, did a play on Supernovas. They dressed in tinfoil and wore beautiful masks. They pranced along the front of the classroom and sprinkled oodles of sprinkles all over the classroom. The front row looked like Christmas morning.
It was just the funniest thing the classroom had ever seen, watching a bunch of girls elephant around. One of them – discernable from the masks – had run into a chair, bruising her hipbone. The chair fell hard and slow.
Laughter. But they picked up from where they left off.
At the beginning, they had the bit where the star had collapsed into itself, it was a whole showcase of screaming, and paper cut out to look like blood. It was bad, and it was horrible, but it gave unbelievable imagery to her essay – which would come afterwards.
Once it was over, they pulled off their masks, and Francine passed one of the girl’s as she replaced them at the front of the classroom.
Francine stumbled, through the entire essay she mixed up her words, and couldn’t read the lettering. The ink was too faded, the words cut off. Anything that ruin her ability to read successfully, had happened.
Once she sat down, she did the things she did best: over thought.
Stupid, Francie, just stupid. Don’t you know how to read? Did you skip grades one through three? You did, didn’t you? Can’t even pronounce ‘said’. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
It was hard to keep positive after such a downfall. Hard to smile when Larry laughed at her.
“That was most definitely not one thousand words,” Larissa grins; she pulls the paper from under Francine’s binder.
“I lied,” she says, shamed. She tries to pry the paper from Larry’s fingers, but it only rips a bit. Give up.
“You betcha you lied. This has got to be only four hundred words,” Larry takes a pencil and starts crossing off words, mouthing their consecutive numbers.
“Its around five hundred. Leave it,” Francie sighs into her hand. Hot breath against sweaty palms. A cooler.
“So far its 327,” Larry quirks a grin, “and I’m almost done.”
“Oh, my God! Its not four hundred words. I promise you—“
“399. Wow.”
“What! No? No!” Francine reaches for a grab.
“Just kidding. 518. Pretty darn close,” Larry hands her paper back. It’s folded in all the wrong places and there’s a rip above a crease.
“This suuuucks.”
“Better hope Klapp doesn’t catch you,” Larissa adds, thoughtfully.
“You better not go and tell her,” Francine warns. Their teacher, Klapp, quiets down the class, and the next group stars. They also did a skit.
Larry nods her head, grins, and turns around in her seat, to watch the comedy unfold.
Even if you are in drama class, you don’t bring that talent to your projects. Act as silly and as stupid as you can, and you’ll get a good grade. Teachers like the spunk.
All the projects go off rather flawlessly. Francine’s sore thumb essay- the only one who did so, being the only thing handed in that wasn’t a poster, she felt confidant she would be failing this subject.
“This sucks,” the bell dismisses them.
“For you. I think the teacher loved our play.”
“Don’t gloat, Larry. She did love it.”
“I’m not gloating, I’m just saying. Someone’s defensive.”
“Am not! Just sayin’.”
There are at least 100 more students than there were last year. A good 70 grade eight students, and a good 30 from the grade sevens. The merging of the grade sevens into the high school wasn’t the brightest and best idea, but it allowed for new classes, and new teachers.
This allowed for crowded hallways and pushy people. The only way to survive in the hallways was to poke people with edges of binders, to check people into lockers, to weasel through the people who think it’s bright to stop in the middle of the hallway.
That was the only way you could reach your class, your locker, your home on the desired time. This it what you learned in the first three days of school.
What greeted Francine as she opened her locker was a glossy picture of the woman, reasoned to be the Supernova. She was dressed in blue, her hair was white, and she was smaller than a coat rack. This picture, though foreign, was like looking at a picture of the dead.
♠ ♠ ♠
(:Not the best, but I'm glad I got it out.