The Misadventures of me, Lena Bronson

Lena

Sometimes I wish I could focus better in class. Sometimes I wish I could pay more attention to things changing around me, swirling new mysteries I can only pretend I notice. I should focus more on the things that matter rather than the things that don't. But that's kind of hard though; how can you deem one thing as more important than the other? It's not right nor is it fair since everything has its own value. At least, that's what I think. I know its rare someone would agree with me and that's fine, I've gotten use to being wrong all the time and I'm not sure if I've deemed that sad or not yet. I don't think it matters too much anyway since– Hey, why is everyone staring at me?

"Bronson!" I hear my last name practically screamed and I look shyly at the teacher towering over me.

"What do you think you're doing?" He gestures to my paper which is covered in scribbles and fragments of my internal monologue. I don't really know what to say in this situation – I never do and this is a common thing. It's not that I'm a bad student; it's just that I find it hard to concentrate on things that bore me especially if the teaching is bad. This class is no exception.

I look up and bat my eyelashes innocently and somewhat confused. "I'm listening to your lecture?" My voice comes out in a quizzical manner. I mean, of course I wasn't listening but also, there are several other people in this class that I know for a fact do not pay any attention to him either, so why would he single me out on this?

"It looks like you've been doodling on the desk for the past 30 minutes!" I look down at my desk again. Ok so maybe I ran out of room on my paper. A gal's got to express herself somehow though, right?

"That's school property, young lady and you're defacing it! Get out! Get out right now! Go to the principal's office!" I look up at the balding, red-faced, white haired man in front of me in shock and horror. The Principal's office? What? I, Lena Bronson, have never gone to the principal's office, ever.

"But- but Coach, isn't that a little drastic? Just a little bit?" I plead with him with my eyes, willing him to change his mind. I can feel the stares of my classmates boring on the back of my head as I await the dreaded answer from this angry man. He's going to say no and I'm going to have to do a walk of shame down the hall until I find myself in the principal's horrible palace. I focus my attention back to my teacher, Coach Washington – though that's hardly important – and I watch as an array of emotions play out on his face. He was in disbelief that's for sure, but his already red face, turned even redder and brighter too if that were possible. He doesn't say a word he just lifts his finger and points to the door with a glare. His face is so scrunched up he's shaking. Poor guy.

I get up, grabbing my stuff as slow as I possibly can in an attempt to make him pity me – futile at this point, I know – and contemplate erasing my beautiful artwork from table, only to realize it's in pen. Oh boy, this was bad. Maybe that's why Washington was so worked up. I shrug on my backpack and begin my dreaded shameful walk out of class. I look behind me before I cross through the doorway to see several of my peers giving me disbelieving looks. A few others look smug. Those would be the trouble makers. They always get in trouble with Coach. I guess they're glad to see its me this time and not them. Eh, I guess. Coach was paying me no mind as he made his way back to the front of the class. From his expression, I could expertly infer that he seemed pleased with himself and dealing with his "widdle twubble maker."

I sigh, cringing at my own thought before turning back around quickly and scampering the rest of the way out the door. I guess I shouldn't prolong the inevitable. Trudging along the dingy floors of the hallway, I think about what may happen. I've never been sent here before, and I have several questions honestly. I've heard that some people have gotten such severe punishments. One time someone carved a desk, and I heard that the principal made that person reorganize all of the desks and polish them. Another girl had to stay behind after school ended to clean all the chalkboards and erasers just for writing some silly prank when there was a substitute teacher in her class. I can only imagine what a time that was. Just the thought of that sends shivers down my spine. I'd hate to do that. As a matter-of-fact, I think I'd cry... or maybe just not want to exist anymore? I remember hearing that the boards looked brand new afterwards. I imagine that must have taken a long time to finish. Another jolt of fear runs down my spine as I continue to think.