Change The Past
Private School
“Private school…Private school...” I mumbled under my breath, shuffling through the clothes on the floor. They were all pastels, and the pants went up to my bellybutton. It was vile, actually.
I was looking for something that sang, “Private school!” Something like a polo and a pink skirt.
I hated this girl Sam for this, and especially the hobo; and I hated them even more when I found the uniform, its navy blue skirt an itchy cloth of Satan.
I stared at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t find any makeup whatsoever in this room, realizing that this girl probably didn’t wear any; she didn’t need it.
The skirt went down to the unscarred knees of Sam’s and the blouse poofed out like I was eight months pregnant. The socks were itchy and shoes were clunkers.
My heart bled for this girl, and this saddest part is that she probably never noticed how horrible she looked.
“SAMANTHA,” A woman yelled, making me jump; her voice sounded like she was in another part of the house. “ARE YOU READY?”
Glancing up at the ceiling, slightly pondering if it was God, I didn’t answer – I really didn’t want to - and instead I chose to find the bathroom in search of some eye liner, making sure to close my door on my mess as I left.
The hallway was cold and buzzing with the air conditioner, and right next door, thankfully, was a room opened to the bright yellow light of a bathroom.
Maybe it was out of sheer luck, or maybe it was the magical hobo, but there was a tube of eyeliner waiting for my taking by the sink. It took me a while to find someway to make it look good, as it being I had a new face to deal with.
I settled on deep and dark on the top, a faint line on the bottom, and when I finished, it made my eyes even bigger than they already were. I made a doll face at myself in the mirror, puckering my lips and making my eyes dull, and laughed at the similarity.
I couldn’t help but be kind of happy that Sam was a really pretty girl. If I could never find a way out of this alternate world, maybe I could some fun instead, I thought, eyeing the person in the mirror.
Then the woman who was calling for me appeared at the bathroom door like a ghost, so quickly I sketched out and dropped the eyeliner. Twitchy, aren’t I?
“Samantha, you’re going to be late.”
I assumed this woman was my mom by the arrogant power in her voice, but then again, I assumed I was adopted like Mike because I had no similarities whatsoever to her.
She had blonde short hair and tanned leather skin; big, nicotine-stained teeth and eyes covered with spider-like eyelashes. But she seemed nice, nonetheless.
I tried conjuring up something I could do rather than have to face even more delusion at my so-called school, but I failed.
“Uh yeah, I’m ready.” There was nothing else I could do.
“Good.” She brought a bag out from behind her back and dropped it in my hand, which crippled under the weight. I stumbled and wrestled with the bag for a while in the bathroom, its mass crushing my frame, until I could stand without falling over.
Putting the textbook Mike handed me in the bottomless pit this girl Sam called a book bag, I followed the mother like a lost puppy.
“Let’s go, Samantha, stop dilly-dalling,” the woman spoke as she walked down the hall, me bustling behind her, trying to take in everything: the walls, the pictures, while mimicking this woman’s every word with a nasty face. Authority and I had a, you could say, strained relationship.
For once in the past hour, I had felt like I was back home, which wasn’t a good thing.
It turns out school was the same in the eighties: the biased, subculture of a jail cell with beige hallways and dank lockers and annoying teenagers. Even in the uniforms I could instantly spot out the jocks from the loners; it was all the same as before, but, this time, I had no idea where my class was.
The only way I found my first period was help from a tanned, blonde guy with an old, “Prince of Bellaire”, Will Smith hairdo.
Usually, you would think the boy would have led me there nicely after seeing me ill at ease, but in reality, he abruptly pushed me through the door, whispering “freak”, as I had walked by it curiously, peeking inside the classroom. It was then I found out I wasn’t taken kindly to here; except by the teachers, of course.
My first period teacher was standing next to the chalkboard when I walked - or fell -into class. I saw her give grimaces to every one of the students who had walked in late just moments before, and expected just the same; but instead I was greeted with a delighted smile and her hand whisking me away to her desk in the corner.
The woman was an oafish, grandiose lady with five chins and a peach fuzzy beard on everyone one of them. Her teeth were so foul and dank that when she smiled, they made me imagine her eating students. She smelled of seven different kinds of perfume, her skin so potent I couldn’t breathe. Her fingers were like sausages, giving me the shivers when she grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“You know, Samantha,” She started, her grubby hands twice the size of mine, “Since you got a 110 on yesterday’s exam, I’m letting you off the hook for next week’s test.”
I couldn’t understand. A 110? On an exam? In a private school, for god’s sake? Suddenly I felt very, very feeble and small-minded. Sam was a lot smarter than I was, I couldn’t imagine trying to fake this. What was I trying to fake anyways?
But, on the brightside, at least I didn’t have to take a test next week…if I was still here. Thank goodness for Sam being a suck-up, or I would be stuck here and tackling school.
“Oh,” I smiled, fake-ness nearly brimming over the face I wore, “thank you so much.”
I wondered what Sam did to make her teachers like her so much; maybe I could learn a few things. The teacher smiled her nasty smile again and patted me on the hand, letting me know the conversation was over. Then she turned towards the class and the smile she created only for me melted like plastic under a blow-torch.
“Get to your desks, students,” She bellowed, sounding a lot like what I imagined Satan to sound like. I waited until most of the students had sat down, me trying to look as innocent as possible, and found my seat, right at the front. Typical.
The class, turns out, was U.S. Government; a total drag, a lecture class. I had been in a daze, wondering why Sam got straight A’s in a class that taught you about the most disillusioned system, until I heard Mrs. Peach Fuzz speak a couple words that I couldn’t believe.
“…And that is why you should do everything our government says.”
I almost sobbed out-loud. Is this what she was teaching these kids? To not have opinions? And another thing – Sam put up with this? I didn’t bother to raise my hand, I was so enraged.
“So, basically, if the government tells us to all get guns and kill our friends, we should do it? Is that what you’re telling us?”
I heard a couple gasps of kids around me and saw the student next to me shift nervously; Sam probably hadn’t spoken this many words her whole life.
Mrs. Sausage Finger’s face was flabbergasted, not even angry, just shocked.
“Excuse me, Samantha?” She chuckled, laughing my outburst off because I was supposed to be this angel, a being with no controversial emotions.
“I’m going to ignore that,” she said in a sugar-coated, razor-blade kind of tone of voice as she turned back to the chalkboard, “continuing, like I said, our government is always right.”
I interrupted again, this time with more poison in my words. “Wait. You’re telling me, that everything and I mean everything, the government says is right?”
This time the teacher stopped right in her tracks and turned around curtly; twitching her head with the fakest smile she could muster.
“Why, yes, Samantha, that is what I’m telling you.”
“So,” I began while leaning back, tossing my elbow against the back of the chair, making sure to talk in the most sarcastic tone I could, “if the government says you’re a fat whore who doesn’t know shit, I’m guessing they’re right. Correct?” My smile dripped with cynicism.
And that was how I got suspended on my first day of private school.
I was looking for something that sang, “Private school!” Something like a polo and a pink skirt.
I hated this girl Sam for this, and especially the hobo; and I hated them even more when I found the uniform, its navy blue skirt an itchy cloth of Satan.
I stared at myself in the mirror. I couldn’t find any makeup whatsoever in this room, realizing that this girl probably didn’t wear any; she didn’t need it.
The skirt went down to the unscarred knees of Sam’s and the blouse poofed out like I was eight months pregnant. The socks were itchy and shoes were clunkers.
My heart bled for this girl, and this saddest part is that she probably never noticed how horrible she looked.
“SAMANTHA,” A woman yelled, making me jump; her voice sounded like she was in another part of the house. “ARE YOU READY?”
Glancing up at the ceiling, slightly pondering if it was God, I didn’t answer – I really didn’t want to - and instead I chose to find the bathroom in search of some eye liner, making sure to close my door on my mess as I left.
The hallway was cold and buzzing with the air conditioner, and right next door, thankfully, was a room opened to the bright yellow light of a bathroom.
Maybe it was out of sheer luck, or maybe it was the magical hobo, but there was a tube of eyeliner waiting for my taking by the sink. It took me a while to find someway to make it look good, as it being I had a new face to deal with.
I settled on deep and dark on the top, a faint line on the bottom, and when I finished, it made my eyes even bigger than they already were. I made a doll face at myself in the mirror, puckering my lips and making my eyes dull, and laughed at the similarity.
I couldn’t help but be kind of happy that Sam was a really pretty girl. If I could never find a way out of this alternate world, maybe I could some fun instead, I thought, eyeing the person in the mirror.
Then the woman who was calling for me appeared at the bathroom door like a ghost, so quickly I sketched out and dropped the eyeliner. Twitchy, aren’t I?
“Samantha, you’re going to be late.”
I assumed this woman was my mom by the arrogant power in her voice, but then again, I assumed I was adopted like Mike because I had no similarities whatsoever to her.
She had blonde short hair and tanned leather skin; big, nicotine-stained teeth and eyes covered with spider-like eyelashes. But she seemed nice, nonetheless.
I tried conjuring up something I could do rather than have to face even more delusion at my so-called school, but I failed.
“Uh yeah, I’m ready.” There was nothing else I could do.
“Good.” She brought a bag out from behind her back and dropped it in my hand, which crippled under the weight. I stumbled and wrestled with the bag for a while in the bathroom, its mass crushing my frame, until I could stand without falling over.
Putting the textbook Mike handed me in the bottomless pit this girl Sam called a book bag, I followed the mother like a lost puppy.
“Let’s go, Samantha, stop dilly-dalling,” the woman spoke as she walked down the hall, me bustling behind her, trying to take in everything: the walls, the pictures, while mimicking this woman’s every word with a nasty face. Authority and I had a, you could say, strained relationship.
For once in the past hour, I had felt like I was back home, which wasn’t a good thing.
It turns out school was the same in the eighties: the biased, subculture of a jail cell with beige hallways and dank lockers and annoying teenagers. Even in the uniforms I could instantly spot out the jocks from the loners; it was all the same as before, but, this time, I had no idea where my class was.
The only way I found my first period was help from a tanned, blonde guy with an old, “Prince of Bellaire”, Will Smith hairdo.
Usually, you would think the boy would have led me there nicely after seeing me ill at ease, but in reality, he abruptly pushed me through the door, whispering “freak”, as I had walked by it curiously, peeking inside the classroom. It was then I found out I wasn’t taken kindly to here; except by the teachers, of course.
My first period teacher was standing next to the chalkboard when I walked - or fell -into class. I saw her give grimaces to every one of the students who had walked in late just moments before, and expected just the same; but instead I was greeted with a delighted smile and her hand whisking me away to her desk in the corner.
The woman was an oafish, grandiose lady with five chins and a peach fuzzy beard on everyone one of them. Her teeth were so foul and dank that when she smiled, they made me imagine her eating students. She smelled of seven different kinds of perfume, her skin so potent I couldn’t breathe. Her fingers were like sausages, giving me the shivers when she grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
“You know, Samantha,” She started, her grubby hands twice the size of mine, “Since you got a 110 on yesterday’s exam, I’m letting you off the hook for next week’s test.”
I couldn’t understand. A 110? On an exam? In a private school, for god’s sake? Suddenly I felt very, very feeble and small-minded. Sam was a lot smarter than I was, I couldn’t imagine trying to fake this. What was I trying to fake anyways?
But, on the brightside, at least I didn’t have to take a test next week…if I was still here. Thank goodness for Sam being a suck-up, or I would be stuck here and tackling school.
“Oh,” I smiled, fake-ness nearly brimming over the face I wore, “thank you so much.”
I wondered what Sam did to make her teachers like her so much; maybe I could learn a few things. The teacher smiled her nasty smile again and patted me on the hand, letting me know the conversation was over. Then she turned towards the class and the smile she created only for me melted like plastic under a blow-torch.
“Get to your desks, students,” She bellowed, sounding a lot like what I imagined Satan to sound like. I waited until most of the students had sat down, me trying to look as innocent as possible, and found my seat, right at the front. Typical.
The class, turns out, was U.S. Government; a total drag, a lecture class. I had been in a daze, wondering why Sam got straight A’s in a class that taught you about the most disillusioned system, until I heard Mrs. Peach Fuzz speak a couple words that I couldn’t believe.
“…And that is why you should do everything our government says.”
I almost sobbed out-loud. Is this what she was teaching these kids? To not have opinions? And another thing – Sam put up with this? I didn’t bother to raise my hand, I was so enraged.
“So, basically, if the government tells us to all get guns and kill our friends, we should do it? Is that what you’re telling us?”
I heard a couple gasps of kids around me and saw the student next to me shift nervously; Sam probably hadn’t spoken this many words her whole life.
Mrs. Sausage Finger’s face was flabbergasted, not even angry, just shocked.
“Excuse me, Samantha?” She chuckled, laughing my outburst off because I was supposed to be this angel, a being with no controversial emotions.
“I’m going to ignore that,” she said in a sugar-coated, razor-blade kind of tone of voice as she turned back to the chalkboard, “continuing, like I said, our government is always right.”
I interrupted again, this time with more poison in my words. “Wait. You’re telling me, that everything and I mean everything, the government says is right?”
This time the teacher stopped right in her tracks and turned around curtly; twitching her head with the fakest smile she could muster.
“Why, yes, Samantha, that is what I’m telling you.”
“So,” I began while leaning back, tossing my elbow against the back of the chair, making sure to talk in the most sarcastic tone I could, “if the government says you’re a fat whore who doesn’t know shit, I’m guessing they’re right. Correct?” My smile dripped with cynicism.
And that was how I got suspended on my first day of private school.