Create Text Message
194/200
To:
James
Last nite wz weird. I miss talking like we used 2. Not that u would want 2 hear about this stuff i'm thinking. Like luke. I know what heartache means now. I feel like puking when i think of him.
From:
Dee
Send your message? y/n
*** Your message is unsent.
Store your message? y/n
*** Your message will be stored for 30 days.
James
Day eleven (11) (onze), according to the ticks on my left hand.
The first week--all coy introductions in class and fluffy assignments--was over, and the second week was showing its teeth. Out came the giant homework assignments, the writingupon of boards, and the general rending of garments that go with high school. It was funny--I'd really thought in the back of my head that a school filled with music geeks would be different from a regular high school, but really the only thing that was different was that we played our roles according to where we sat in the orchestra. Brass players: jerks. Woodwinds: snobby cliques. Strings: overachievers with their hands up all the time. Percussion: class clowns.
Bagpipers: me.
The only class that didn't change much the second week was
Mr. Sullivan's English class: first period, Tuesdays, Thursdays, Saturdays. Bring your own caffeine. He let us drink coffee in class. It would've been hypocritical for him not to.
Anyway, Sullivan had started out the school year sitting on his desk and playing music on the stereo as he taught. While the other teachers buttoned down and buttoned up and got serious in week two, Sullivan stayed the same, a young, knobby diplomat for Shakespeare and his ilk. He'd assigned us murderous reading assignments in the first week, and those didn't change either. We might've cared more about the murderous reading assignments if we hadn't been allowed caffeine and to shift our desks around as we liked and to swear when needed.