I hate English. Usually I’m one of those people that doesn’t really mind school and enjoys they’re lessons, and I do enjoy most of my lessons! Just not English. I hate English.
Whoever decided that words had to be spelt the same way every time they were written, is a prat. Who cares if I missed out a letter when you know what word I was going for? And, Miss Kings, I know you know what I mean because if you didn’t, you wouldn’t be able to correct me and God help me, you do that a lot.
It really has gotten to the point where I consider it a success if Miss Kings has written the correct spelling of the word next to my extremely good guess, because at least then she knew which word I was attempting to write. It’s worse when she just underlines my messy scrawl and puts a question mark next to it. That’s what happens to my not so amazing guesses…
Sometimes you can tell what mood she’s in by how she marks my work. My first few mistakes are corrected in a loose handwriting, but some point after the seventh she gets a little… agitated? All I know is her writing gets smaller and sharper and when she dots the question mark, she dent’s the page.
It’s not like I don’t try, I just… okay, I suppose I could try harder. Or try, full stop. Or even at least listen to was Miss Kings has to say.
I suppose I could give listening a go.
I pulled myself out of my daydream and looked towards Miss Kings, who was talking animatedly about something or another. I focused on her voice and tried not to be distracted by my urge to daydream.
“As I said last lesson, this year’s school musical will be called ‘Star Crossed’,” Miss Kings said excitedly as I rolled my eyes, “Written by our very own, Stacy Marks! Stacy, if you would like to brief the class on the plot of ‘Star Crossed’?”
I sighed, regretting my attempt at listening as Stacy stood up. Stacy is one of those girls who cakes her face in foundation until she’s the colour of an Umpa-Lumpa and backcombs her dyed blonde hair until it looks as if it’s about to drop off. She then walks around thinking she’s better than everyone else and hating everyone who doesn’t worship the ground she walks on. She’s one of those girls.
“Right, so… basically, what happens is… Like, there’s a girl called Millie and she’s, like… really pretty and stuff and, like, every guy wants her, but she wants a boyfriend to make her more popular so he has to, like, be really fit and have a nice car and stuff. Then there’s this lad, called Tom who’s completely in love with her and he well likes her-“
“Well, I’m sure everyone will look forward to reading the script! Thank you Stacy…” Miss Kings thankfully interrupted.
“But, Miss I didn’t finish!” Stacy pouted.
Yeah, thank God.
“Don’t worry Stacy, everyone can read the script tonight,” Miss Kings smiled.
Well, I won’t be, I thought. I don’t even need to because it’s so obvious what’s going to happen. Guy hopelessly in love with a girl faker than Barbie, Barbie wanting materials instead of love… Then there probably another girl who’s so nice and boring who’s in love with the stupid guy who loves Barbie. In the end, Stupid Guy ends up with Boring Girl whilst Barbie finds her Ken who probably has a Ferrari. Typical story.
“Why do we have to read it, Miss?” someone groaned as if they knew the answer and was dreading it becoming official.
“Because,” Miss Kings smiled in a way that can never be good, “You will all take part in it!”
A loud groan swept across the room, leaving ripples of mutterings in its wake. My heart sunk.
“Now! Before you go jumping to conclusions, not everyone will have to perform on stage, we need directors, actors, prop managers, costume managers, people to design and make sets, people to do lighting…”
