Chapter Two
Like I said, it was a sunny day in the middle of March. As I pulled up to the school in my beat up Mustang, I noticed that every solid structure on the school was covered in posters announcing the upcoming prom. I rolled my eyes. Prom was nothing more than a celebratory ritual amongst hormone-crazed teens that allowed them to dance to mundane pop music with no emotional feeling and then go to some motel with yellow carpeting and puke green bedding and have a ten minute heated love fest before returning home before curfew. Yeah, prom was definitely not my type of thing.
I found my designated parking spot, grabbed my backpack, and hopped out of the car, slamming the door as loudly as I could. Some looked over at me to see what the problem. Others shrugged it off as my usual morning ritual of showing my disdain for the purgatory they call an education facility. I sigh and flip my mess of curls over my shoulder before making my way through the sea of kids. I wished I could just go to my locker with no trouble. Of course, it could never be that easy could it?
"Hey! You!"
Oh no. I flipped my hair back down across my shoulder and tried to avoid eye contact. It was Ty Peters. Ty was the school hottie as he was christened by all the little squealing teenage girls. To me, Ty was a pig and nothing more. A pig with lots of hair gel.
"Go away!" I scoffed as he began to follow into step with me.
"Aw but Mia, I did my hair extra special for you today!" He said with searing sarcasm. I rolled my eyes and tried to telepathically make him disappear. It didn't work.
"You can put hair gel on a pig but it's still a pig," I smirked.
"Ha, funny," Ty ran a hand through his greasy hair and I tried not to puke, "Look, I wanted to talk to you about something."
Oh great. That was just great.
"No," I said without missing a beat.
"Look, sweet heart, I need a favor. One little favor."
"Drop dead," I answered as I walked off leaving Ty standing there dejected. Well, as dejected as someone who was stared at by every girl that walked past him. I rolled my eyes and made my way towards my locker. A prom poster was positioned right smack-dab in the middle. I let a growl escape my throat and ripped it down. I didn't need this. Not today. Besides, I already had my night for prom all picked out. I would reread one of my favorite books and enjoy a nice steaming cup of hot herbal tea. Yes, that would be pure bliss. I didn't need to worry with a dress and hair and makeup. I never worried about that sort of thing any way.
After twisting my combination into the locker, I yanked it open and began stuffing my backpack with various binders, notebooks, and text books. First period was a free period. Most students used it as a study hall. I used it to meet with the poetry club. Mr. Garner taught the poetry class. He was a real class act type. The kind of teacher that wears the button down shirt and tie and pants and loafers but then tries way too hard to talk like he's one of us. I think he's trying to vicariously relive his high school days. It's all really rather sad. He's a good teacher though to some extent and I enjoyed having him as a poetry teacher. After grabbing my things and shoving my backpack onto my shoulder, I navigated myself through the hundreds of students to my classroom.
The classroom wasn't what you'd call your average classroom. It was a mix of a computer lab, a library, and a classroom. There were computers lining one wall, book shelves lining the next wall and desks lined neatly in rows in the middle. In the front of the classroom was a podium and Mr. Garner's desk though I'd never seen him actually use it. The walls were adorned with various posters with Shakespearean quotes. Shakespeare was one of my favorites and I often found myself, during a boring lecture, reading the various quotes on the walls. It was entertaining; more so than Mr. Garner's lectures on the history of iambic pentameter. Of course, staring at paint dry on a wall could be more entertaining than most of his lectures.
When I walked into class, I took my usual seat in the third row and pulled out a spiral notebook and pen. Mr. Garner had a stack of papers in his hands and he was not at all pleased. I could tell they were our poems we were asked to write last class. Now, let me just tell you know, a lot of people are only in the poetry club because it counts as an English credit. Most of them think that it's a blow-off class and it sort of is in a way and that is why most of them could care less about their grades; it's a pass or fail class. I hoped I had done well on my poem. I know I had. Our poems had to be about something that happened to us in our lives that affected us and changed us as a person. I wrote about when my mom died a few years ago. I had put so much emotion into the poem I knew it would move Mr. Garner to at least pass me on it. It was a pass or fail class but that didn't stop him from color most papers red and I had my fingers crossed my paper would be as neat as it was when I turned it in.
After a few more students came in, Mr. Garner cleared his throat to begin his usual diatribe about how terrible our poems were. I sighed, crossed my arms over my chest, and waited.
"Alright," Mr. Garner said boisterously, "Now then, I graded your poems and I was very surprised at some of the things I read. The topic was about something life-changing that happened to you and I got everything from deaths to makeup to boys to cars to chicks to having sex to smoking weed to some music group called The Vaginas. Now then, I don't know if you guys think this is some kind of joke or what but I can assure you, poetry is no laughing matter. Poetry is about feeling and life and emotion. Not about weed and sex and…well inappropriately titled bands. If you guys don't get that through your heads, I am going to be forced to talk to the councilor and see if we can change this class to an actual graded class…"
"But Mr. Garner, it's the poetry club. It can't be a class," one redheaded boy in the back blurted out.
"Mr. Wesley, next time I want your opinion, I'll ask you for it. Got it? Now then, I expect better from you than what I got. If this was an actual graded class, most of you would be failing right now. I know it's your senior year but you need to start taking things seriously. These poems are a disgrace! An outrage that I will not stand for! Does everyone understand?"
"Yes sir," the class mumbled.
"Now, come get your poems when I call your name. Jessica Smith…Harry Wesley…Edward Black…Michelle Davis…Ty Peters…Angela Watson…Amanda Lois…Mia Venturi…and Jacob Alexander."
I rose from my chair trying to ignore the presence behind me. Jacob Alexander was not exactly the type of person I associated with. Not that I really assoiciated with anyone but that's beside the point. Jacob Alexander had gone to Clinton since freshman year before mysteriously disappearing for a few years. Now, senior year, he was back ready to spring terror into the hearts of all the other students. I am not one to listen to rumors but there's things you hear in the halls, things surrounding his name like how he once ate a kitten on a dare and how he has a collection of human blood hidden in his closet and how his father was some axe murder in England. The rumors were never-ceasing. There was even one about how he was in jail for the past years because he kidnapped some kid and held him in the basement of his place with no food or water for a month. They were all pretty ridiculous but they make one think – what caused these kinds of rumors to come about? They'd have to start somewhere. Anyway, even if I was a social butterfly, I would definitely steer clear of Jacob Alexander.
"Ms. Venturi," Mr. Garner cleared his throat as he handed me my paper. I was shocked to see all the red scribbled across it. My mouth gaped open and I clutched the paper so tightly my knuckles were beginning to pale.
"Are…are you sure you graded this right?" I asked.
", I am almost positive you did not just question my grading ability."
"But…but this can't be…"
"Ms. Venturi, you're a great writer, an excellent writer but sometimes your poems are just lacking."
"But there's so much emotion!"
"Emotion isn't everything, Ms. Venturi. Despite my sermons. Look, you had a good poem. It's a good start. It just isn't what I know it can be."
"So are you saying you think I can…do better?"
"No," Mr. Garner sighed, "I'm saying I know you can do better."
"I guess we all can't be the perfectionist," I turned to see Jacob Alexander sneering at me. I rolled my eyes and tried not to pay too much attention to him. Not that it was an easy task of course. As much as Jacob Alexander was a pain, he was equally as…gorgeous. His hair was almost shoulder length and fell into his glass-blue eyes. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks giving him almost a babyish appearance, despite his harsh demeanor.
"Drop dead," I hissed under my breath before returning to my seat.
That was the first time I really spoke to Jacob. The next, I wouldn't be quite so charming.
The rest of the day was pretty mundane. Lunch was, of course, a bore. I sat quietly at my table full of other social defects and nibbled my vegan ham-flavored tofu and rice cheese sandwich. After lunch, the rest of the day remained uneventful. The only time things actually got as exciting as they could possibly get in my life was when I got home.
My brother Parker was already there. He only has a half day due to his "taking a year off" and working as an attendant in the office (my dad's idea, not his. The job part, not the year off.) My dad wasn't hope yet from his job and it was nice having time to fix a cup of hot tea and relax before being beleaguered with questions about my day.
"Hey!" Parker called from the kitchen. I dumped my backpack onto the floor and followed his voice, "How was school."
"Don't start," I warned as I got down my huge mug Mom bought for me once and began to fill it with water.
"You really should try…"
"If you say the words to be more social I swear, Parker, you won't live to see tomorrow."
"Okay, jeeze! Chill out."
"Mr. Garner didn't like my poem," I grumbled as I tossed in my Celestial Seasons' Honey, Vanilla, Chamomile teabag, "He said I could do better."
"Don't you think that's a complement?" Parker asked, "I mean, he knows your capability."
"It was a good poem," I hissed as I slammed the microwave door shut.
"Good isn't great ya know."
"Yeah," I sighed, "I know."
"Dad's gonna be a little late. He's picking us up some dinner. Don't worry, I went to the store and bought more of your TruGreen protein mix."
"Thanks," I grumbled.
"Sure thing. "
After the microwave dinged, I pulled out my mug and slumped down at the bar and began to sip the steaming relaxer. The taste was familiar and kind and a warmth both figuratively and literally. I began to breeze through the stack of mail that Parker had gotten when he came home. Bills, bills, a letter addressed to Dad from Corporate, and a Smithsonian magazine. That was mine. I flipped through the glossy pages looking at the paintings and sculptures both old and new. I sighed as I imagined Chagall's art teacher yelling at him and telling him his painting could be better.
"Kids! I'm home!"
I shut the magazine and hurried to the door to greet Dad, one of the few persons I could actually socialize with. He put down his briefcase and hung his coat on the hook before grabbing me and pulling me into a hug.
"Mia," he kissed the top of my head, "How was school today?"
"Fine," I answered my usual response.
"Good. Did you get your poem back?"
"Yeah. It was fine."
"Good, good. Well, I was supposed to stay late and finished up a report but Samson let me go early. He said I had worked hard enough and didn't want to overwork his best employee so I stopped and picked up some dinner. I got barbeque…"
"It's alright. Parker picked me up some of my protein mix."
"Good."
"You got a letter in the mail. From Corporate."
"Oh," Dad's face looked blank before he excused himself, took the letter from the bar, and headed into his office/media room. I wasn't sure which use it was currently serving but I was pretty sure from his mood that he was reading his letter and not watching the big hockey game that was currently on.
I grabbed my mug and retreated to my room. Something inside me told me that things were going to be different from now on rather I liked it or not.