It was a
sunny morning in Folkswood. The grass at our front yard glistened, sparkling as
dew coated their green tender skin. Mr. Roberts, wearing his Tuesday robe and
green fuzzy slippers, walked by with Mr. Chuckles – his white terrier. He
stopped by our mailbox and gave me a smile.
The wrinkles on his forehead showed his everyday worries and struggles
as a working single parent – the father of my best friend, Chris, - and his dark lips showed his
addiction to smoking. I smiled back. Mr. Chuckles said hi with three loud barks
as they finally went on their daily route. As I watch Mr. Roberts go smaller
and smaller as he continued to go his way, I began to think how it was like to
be a working single parent. How did he cope with his job while he juggled it
with taking care of Chris and Mr. Chuckles. Did he ever consider remarrying?
How about my dad? Was it hard for him to take care of me while mom was away
working in another country? I guess I was too young to understand, and I still
have school to worry about.
“Yo,”
Chris greeted as he walked by towards our porch. He was wearing a black
baseball cap, a black polo with white V-neck shirt underneath, his favorite
baggy pants, and white sneakers. He sat beside me. Chris always had this skaterboy
exterior but inside, he’s an organized A-lister-slash-social-worker. He would
always finish our project ahead of time, have one-o-o’s in quizzes, and would
always be there to fix a fight in class. I didn’t even know why we were best
friends until now. We’re the exact opposite. But I guess knowing each other
almost since birth got the biggest portion of the pie.
The bus
finally arrived. Chris and I went on board. The bus was filled with rusty
smell, wrestling with the colognes of the girls. Riding the bus for years now
had made me immune. If someone else went on board, he’d be falling unconscious
within minutes.
“Hi,” said
Jim, “Marlon,” continued Jam. The twins were sitting on the right front seat.
They were wearing the same clothes, orange for Jam and green for Jim. They had
been taking the same seats since they started going to our school. "Hi Chris," they greeted.
In the
second row, right behind The Twins, were The Nerds – Ned and Jasper. Ned was
wearing his traditional side-swept hairdo that got stiff like cement thanks to
his gel. He sported a green and black striped sweater vest and a white shirt
underneath it. Jasper on the other hand was the
thick-framed-glasses-wearing-guy with a coconut hairdo that preferred a simple
getup – plain colored shirt plus pants. They never really talked that much.
They just stared at us as we entered.
Opposite
them were the pretty girls. Those girls had names of Carla and Sarah. Sarah was
the pigtailed dancer girl who loved wearing pink. Speaking of pink, she was
wearing a magenta jacket, a white shirt underneath, and a bubblegum pink skirt
that fell inches above her knees. Carla was the prettiest among them all.
Walking the campuses with her golden locks, she was sure to get the guys’
attention. Along with her red leather jacket, black tank top, and her white
short shorts, I couldn’t dare to stare. That was their seats after The Goth Kid
suddenly materialized and decided to go into our school. They were supposed to
be seated second to the last row. But now, no one dared to take those seats.
Goth Kid,
Jacob, sat in the middle of the last row of seats in the bus. He was wearing a
black leather jacket, a fishnet top, and black baggy pants that came along with
black combat boots. Tough exterior. No one dared sit near him.
We sat
right behind Carla and Sarah.
“Hi there
sweet cheeks,” Chris greeted as he pulled Sarah’s pigtails, “you too, sugar,”
he greeted Carla.
“Ow! Jerk!”
shouted Sarah.
Carla
giggled, “hi.”
~xxxx~
The bell
rang. It was finally time for English – last class for today, I thought. Ms.
Heather walked in strutting her black stilettos – well, just making noise with
it – as she dragged her bag along with her. She took a seat. She looked at the
door and probably signaled someone to come in. The janitor went in, carrying a
box. He placed it right on top of Ms. Heather’s desk and continued his way
outside as he crumpled his rags.
“Homework,”
Ms. Heather began. Aww’s and sighs thundered from all direction in the room. “One
will get an item randomly from this box and he or she will be assigned to do an
essay about it,” she continued, “It’s more of like a show and tell, but this
time, I don’t want you to do the telling, I want your pens to do that for you.
I want it all in paper. To be submitted tomorrow,”
“First up,
Chris,” she announced, “please come to get your item.” She began to explore the
box with her hand and after a couple of seconds she brought it up and gave
Chris a – an eraser! What the - ? I
thought. Seriously? An eraser? What am I supposed to write about an eraser
asides from that it erases the mistakes I
make in my life?
“Next,
Carla.” Carla got a tambourine. That’s great – well better than a freaking
eraser. I’d be able to write: It makes
sounds every time I shake it. YAAAAAY. Or: It makes lovely sounds that send me straight into a nightmare.
Great, nothing’s good in that box. I knew it. What would I get? No.. Please don’t be lipstick.
“Next,
Marlon.” Shit, I’m next. I stood up quickly and walked towards Ms. Heather. She
began digging up her box and it got me scared. What would I get? What would I
get? Please be something interesting. Ms. Heather smiled at me. She gave me
this bottle, filled with sand. Well, better than an eraser and a tambourine.
Right? I sat down, and stared at it for long. I didn’t know what to write about
it. Nothing exciting about it either.
After
everyone had their items, Ms. Heather stood up. “We won’t have a topic for
today so I’m going to give this time for you guys to start working on your
homework if you like to.” Really? I don’t feel like it. I looked around to see
everyone’s head bent down, concentrating on their pen and paper. They’re
starting on their homework, but I’d better leave it be until later at home.
I gave
another good look at the bottle. It was all sand in there, and – and ants.
Okay, ants in a bottle. What’s to write about it?
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