KALICO: 1 Hypnotized, Naked in Hope Springs, Texas

Kalico: Meeting Mr. Coltwright

Kalico Johnson: Monday, last week of summer vacation

Hello, my name is Kali Johnson, age 14, and this is my journal.

Make that Kalico Katherine Johnson. I think Mr. Coltwright wants me to use my whole formal name to start this with. I'm writing this with ballpoint ink, and I don't feel like scribbling out that line, or starting over. Everyone calls me Kali, or Kalico.

It's because of my hair. 

My name, that is, is because of my hair. They call me Kalico because it's my name. I got named Kalico because I was born with splotchy-colored hair, like a calico cat. I don't like it but who gets to chose their hair color when they're born? Also, whoever gets named after a dead cat? My family's beloved calico-colored cat named Calico died a few days before I was born. Then, when I turned up with all this multi-colored hair, my fate was sealed: Named for a dead cat.

Oh, as I was saying, everyone calls me Kalico or Kali, so you can, too. But don't shorten my middle name and call me Kalico Kat. I'll scratch your eyes out.

Mr. Coltwright, the psychology teacher at my school wants me to keep a journal so he can decide whether to let me take his advanced class out of line from the normal way of doing things. That means I didn't take the usual beginner class of Introductory Psychology first, and he needs to find evidence that I'm intelligent enough to handle his workload.

I've got two uncomfortable feelings in this project of keeping a journal.

My first uncomfortable feeling is that this report will be published someday and I will wish I had said, " ... this is my journal of how (insert adventure or disaster) happened to me." Only, not much has happened yet so I can't really say it's the beginning of any adventure that changed my life. Probably later I can change it to "... and this is how I got into that psychology class."

And my second uncomfortable feeling is that this daily log will be so bad that I'll be charged with teachercide for boring Mr. Coltwright to death. But it will be at least a page or two long every day, like he wants. And if you find this next to his body, just remember he asked for it. And you should be careful about reading further, too. Remember, Terminal Boredom kills just as dead as any other way of dying.

That should cover me in case of police investigation. Surely the district attorney won't prosecute if the evidence is right here in the murder weapon that the victim ordered me to write this instrument of lethal boredom.

Look at this page: it's about full. Now that the legal qualification has been met, I will try to make another page of honest journal material. Don't claim I don't have honor enough to try to do a job right. You can begin counting the next honest page as soon as you finish reading this sentence.

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An Honest Effort

Actually, some interesting things did happen to me today -- the sort of things you come across when you're enrolling in a new school and discover they do things differently. I've had to change schools several times in the past eight years. Each new school has had its odd ways; one simply has to accommodate them.

Mr. Coltwright said I have to keep a journal, at least a page or two every day, if he is going to let me into his psychology class this fall. School starts on Tuesday morning next week. So it shouldn't be so bad. I keep my own daily diary anyway; but I want to keep it separate from this. No offense Mr. Coltwright, but this journal is school work, the other is private.

"You're a ninth grader. You come up here at this late hour wanting me to pop you into a senior level course, and you've not even taken any high school sciences at all, yet? If you expect to be in that particular class, you must make some significant effort to prove to me that you should be there."