Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Write something suitable for CHILDREN (05/31/07)
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TITLE: A Lesson Learned | Previous Challenge Entry
By Steve Uppendahl
06/07/07 -
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ADD TO MY FAVORITES
“Tommy, I told you to stay.”
I wince and stop in mid step. The other kids laugh as they leave freely. I sigh and turn around and try to get out of what’s coming.
“Mrs. Hunter, I tried-“
“Don’t even start, Tommy. You’re continuing to choose not to work and to disrupt the students around you. I think it’s time we bring your parents into this…”
I try to hide my smile and tune out the rest. Call my parents? Go ahead. It’s not like anything will happen. Last time, my dad believed everything I told him and even yelled at Mrs. Hunter right in front of me. Good stuff.
She picks up the phone and pauses. I knew it, she’s faking. She turns and calls out next door.
“You can come in now.”
Time stands still, my eyes bulge. No way. The dividing wall is pushed open and both my parents stride in. Neither looks happy. Not good.
My dad just glares at me without blinking, his number one sign that he’s really mad. My mom walks up to Mrs. Hunter, but looks at me when she speaks.
“Mrs. Hunter, would you excuse for a few minutes?”
She clears her throat and replies, “Certainly. I have a few copies to make.” Mrs. Hunter blindly grabs a yellow folder and leaves quickly.
After a full minute of them just staring, I decide to try, “Mom, Dad, I-“
My dad booms, “Don’t! I am so mad right now I can barely speak.”
I wish. I close my eyes and sink back into my desk. Another few seconds of silence force me to open my eyes. My mom is mouthing something to my dad, perhaps to calm him down. It doesn’t work.
“Let me guess. You didn’t want to do your assignment, so you decided not to. Am I right?”
“Dad-“
“Answer me!”
“Yes, alright? I hate poetry. There’s no point to it. I’m never going to write poetry, so what does it matter if I do it now or not?”
Feeling I’ve made a strong argument, I sit up a bit straighter. I’m a bit surprised when they don’t answer. Maybe they understand. After all, I’m not lying. Poetry is dumb. My dad shakes his head and walks over to the window and places his arms on the furnace.
“’No point to it…what does it matter’? That’s your explanation? You don’t feel like doing something, so it’s okay not to do it. That about sum it up, Tommy?”
When I don’t answer, he turns around and walks towards me and glares again. “Yes or no. Which is it?”
“Uh, yes.”
My dad smiles slightly and looks at my mom. They seem to talk with their eyes (I hate it when they do that), because they both smile and nod.
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It’s been two hours and I’m hungry enough to brave an entrance into the kitchen. Dinner must be done by now. Strangely, nothing’s been cooked. But, I can smell lasagna; my mouth waters and my stomach grumbles. I look in the refrigerator, microwave, oven, nothing. Suddenly, a thought hits me. I look in the garbage and see two empty boxes of frozen lasagna. I check the freezer, nothing but frozen veggies. No way, no how. The pantry is filled with nothing but bran cereal and low fat crackers.
“Mom! Where’s all the food? I thought you said you were going to the store today.”
My parents walk in from the living room with raised eyebrows.
“What was that, honey?”
“Why didn’t you go to the store?”
My mom just shrugs, “I don’t know. I didn’t want to.”
“Very funny, Mom. I get it, alright? Now, where’s the food? I’m starving.”
My parents exchange puzzled glances. My dad jumps in this time.
“Get what, Tommy? We didn’t feel like cooking you dinner, so we didn’t. You’re twelve. You can feed yourself.”
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I do not enjoy my weekend. To make things worse, Monday is a holiday. Three days of my parents “not wanting” to cook, or do laundry, or take me to my soccer game, or let my friends come over, or let me leave, or use the phone, computer and I-pod. Three days.
On the plus side, I get an A- on my poetry booklet. Apparently, my writing was “inspired and emotional”. Whatever. It’s still dumb.
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I like your story. You have no idea how many times I've been tempted to use this tactic with my 15-year old. You do have one tiny typo which should not make a difference. If you don't know where it is, PM me and I'll let you know so you can fix it.
Throughout you have the perfect "voice" for a middle schooler. But then again, you probably already knew that. :)
And the last paragraph is perfection. A wonderful ending.
Love and blessings, Teri
In your "Lesson Learned" I think you captured the teen's "voice" so well. I sensed a good kid hiding inside and the parent's did a good, and honest job in bringing this out. Keep up the good work and look forward to reading more of your challenges.
I enjoyed reading your story, and the tension between the boy and his united-front parents. Great object lesson, learned!