Well, today was eventful. I'll try not to ramble on for two thousand words, but forgive me if I do. It's not my fault. Really.
As I disembarked the school bus this morning, I espied E. and P. walking toward the gym building. I ran after them, of course, and tagged along with them to the teamroom (they are both in cross country. I'm not). There, E. declared that she had purchased make-up for the first time ever, and intended to apply it. The make-up in question consisted of one bottle of mascara.
"Why's my mouth open?" she inquired, sitting on the floor with her face close to the mirror.
In addition to the mascara, she had brought several calendar images of animals--mostly reptiles and amphibians--with which to decorate her locker. One of the non-herpetological specimens was a small owl, of which P. became immediately infatuated.
"May I name it?" asked P., wide eyed.
"Of course!" E. replied.
"Hold on," P. said, sidling closer to it. "I'm gonna need to think about this."
"It looks like Pigwideon!" remarked S., who had been in the teamroom when we came in.
The bell rang, and I set off for Politics and Lit, on the other end of campus. I sat next to N. again (Mr. H. will have a seating chart ready next class), but we weren't there long before we set off for the Commons as a class for school pictures.
I was fourth in line for the camera when I arrived. My turn was directly after N.'s; thus I was required to endure the depressing experience of watching the cameraman adjust the lens dramatically lower. I didn't think I was that much shorter than him.
"Turn that way a bit. Perfect. Now look at the camera. Tilt your head a bit. Good. Now, big smile!"
Upon exiting the photo area, I found N. sitting alone at one of the large, round tables. I struck the cheesy pose that I had just been photographed in.
"I know, right?" he said wryly. "It's the same every year, and I always look awful."
I joined him at the table, and, in a round about manner--in the middle of a conversation spanning topics varying from quitting orchestra, to falling down the stairs, to Scooby-Doo--we wound up on the subject of the fall play.
Extremely truncated version:
"Yeah," he began, "So I'm auditioning today. Thing is, I don't have my piece quite memorized yet. I guess I'll skip Advisory to work on it."
"I was thinking about auditioning too," I informed him.
"So here's the thing. I have two different monologues. One's a comic one, and I don't remember the title of the play it's from, and I don't really like it that much, but since this play's a comedy, I figured it would be best to audition with a comic piece. The other one's dramatic, but I like it much more. Which one would be better?"
He sat back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. "I would do the one you're more confident with. What's it from?"
"The Scottish Play."
"Ooh. And who speaks it?"
He nodded, slowly. "And which part is it from, do you know?"
"Act one, scene five. The one that starts with her reading a letter. And then, 'Glamis, thou art'."
He squinted, concentrating. "Oh God, it's been two years since I've read the play. It's before she goes crazy, right?"
"May I hear it?"
And so I recited my monologue--not at full volume, of course: we were in a crowded room and people were staring. When I had finished, he smiled and pushed back from the table. "Great! That was great! Want any feedback, or are you good?"
"So, I noticed you were doing this sort of gesture a lot," he demonstrated, lifting his arm up, palm towards the ceiling, "which is fine; it's natural to do that in Shakespeare. Just the director this year likes a very physical style of acting. So maybe you could think about giving Lady Mac a tic, or something--something different, I guess. Aside from that...I think you're pretty much set."
Since we had to wait for everyone in the class to get their picture taken, and since the people toward the back of the line had intermixed with two or three other English classes, we returned to the classroom a full forty minutes after we had left it.
"Well," remarked Mr. H once everyone was settled. "That took a while, didn't it? Now, I know that none of you woke up in the middle of August and exclaimed, 'Oh, goody! On my first real day of school, on the first full week, we get to go over Class Guidelines and Expectations! Hoo-ooray!' But, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, children of all ages, this is a necessary bit of bureaucracy."
I shan't go over the rest of Mr. H.'s class, because I am over eight hundred words currently, and only through first period. An account of the Adventure Cup, or that the Whining Rubric, may be available on request.
Next, came Advisory. My thoughts occupied entirely by the anxiety of impending trial and tribulation (aka signing up for a time slot on the Drama Board), I paced up and down a row of desks until class started.
It was 'run through emergency procedures and drills day.' Mrs. S was jumpy the whole time, anticipating the fire alarm. She startled comically when her computer beeped loudly, and again when a boy a few desks behind me hit the table to make her jump. Last year, someone caught a video of her reaction to a fire alarm and posted it on Facebook. It was hilarious.
I could go on, but I don't want to make this too long.
I walked with E. and S. to Calc, where Mrs. A. went over more class syllabus and some questions on the homework with us. Then we took notes, after which we did Calculus Kinesthetics. This consisted of forming with our arms the shape of the graph of the function named, then applying the proper translation with our feet. Next class, I guess, we'll be putting it to music to dance the Translation Tango. Or the Function Fast-step, since it'll be country music.
I went with S. to the teamroom today, as E. stayed back to talk to Mrs. A. about participating in Math Team this year. Then we made our way to the commons, discussing relative lunch sizes. We found a table near the back, where we were joined shortly by E., A., another A., P., and J. We practiced the Cup Song using water bottles. And I signed up for an audition slot tomorrow. 3:55. It's written on my hand.
After lunch, I went down to Fiber Arts, where we conceptually designed t-shirts. I drew a picture of Waelyngar by night. I may live too much in my own world.
Come the end of the school day, I did Calc homework in Mrs. A.'s room with E., J., and yet another A. We got so engrossed in it that I lost track of time and missed my bus. J. offered to give me a ride home.
I could have walked, but it was 96 degrees outside and my backpack contained a Calculus textbook. I took her up on the offer.
J.'s father met us below the bus ramp with a white pickup truck. J. volunteered to scrunch in the small backseat, while I got shotgun.
It's awfully nice to have friends.
Before they could take me home, however, J. and her dad had to stop by the bookstore to buy a calculus textbook. She had ordered one online, but it had gotten cancelled a few days before the start of school.
Once the book had been acquired, J.'s dad decided to take me home the back way, so as to avoid downtown traffic. He had forgotten, however, that one of the key roads on this route was now closed to automobiles, so that effort was unsuccessful.
And I got home and wrote this for three hours. Righto, time to do Econ homework now. Bye for now!