9/20/13-"One of the worst at this school."

Guess who didn't finish her Econ homework?

Guess who really couldn't care less?

When I got to school this morning, I made a rather half-hearted attempt to complete said Econ homework in the library, but there wasn't enough time.  About half of the questions involved making a sketch, which I wouldn't mind so much if the concepts they were asking me to illustrate were remotely sketchable.  They weren't.

The bell rang, and I crossed campus to the choir room for our last rehearsal before the concert tomorrow.  It went mostly well, I think.

In Econ, I handed in my half-finished homework, then we took a quiz.  Mr. S. then informed us that we would be having a test next class, and we would have the rest of the period to study.  I turned to the glossary of my book to glance at key terms.  Then I suddenly became aware that L. had appeared in the desk in front of me and was staring at me, waiting to be noticed.

"I really hate this class," L. informed me, voice scarcely above a whisper.  "I mean, the subject could have been fascinating, it's just the way he teaches!"

"Yeah," I replied.  "I have absolutely no motivation to do my homework or anything."

L. nodded vigorously in agreement.  "I know!  I mean, I want to work hard, I want to have an A--I'm a good student.  I just can't.  Not for this class.  It was the same thing for American Studies--I had him for that, too--and seriously, I didn't learn anything all year.  I remember thinking I could have taught the class better than him.  At least now I'm learning a few knew things, but in American Studies--nothing.  And I love history--mostly world history, but still.  Mr. S. is just a terrible teacher.  Definitely one of the worst at this school."

I ate lunch with the usual group, minus the cross country folks, who were gone for another meet.  J. had brought her laptop and she and a boy named G. used the time to work on their senior project, which involves music notation.  I helped with the chords.

In Spanish, we wrote to prompts, did an accent-mark pretest, which I aced, and danced disco to another Spanish-language, 5-a-day exercise video.  Rather that picking coconuts, as in the hula lesson, we made rainbows.

During our five minute break, we discussed who we wrote about for one of the prompts, which was to write about an important person in one's life.

"I wrote about my boyfriend," remarked L., who is FTM and formerly went by the name of C. (same L., by the way, as from Econ).  "Said he was kind to everyone and polite to the ladies...which he is, but in a gay-best-friend kinda way.  Didn't say that though.  I can't just say I'm a gay guy."

"Señora R. probably would be fine with it," M. said.

"I know.  And it's been hard--I want to put an -o on the adjectives when I'm describing myself...it's not like in English where I can just avoid pronouns."

"You really should tell her," the other L., a girl, instructed him.

"Yeah.  I think I will next class."

When break was over, we returned inside and watched a music video, in which people held up signs describing the various ways in which society discriminates against them.  Yes, Sra. R. will probably indeed be fine with it.

In Anatomy, we corrected a worksheet that we had finished last class, and were given time to study for the test we will be having next class.

"C.," N. began, "since you're a good friend...and because you are smarter than me...and a better artist...you should work with me.  We'll draw bones on flashcards."

He really has a thing for flashcards.

It took most of the class period to copy the various skeletal bits onto index cards, during and after which we practiced identified lefts and rights.

After school, I waited around for a while on the Quad before heading up to my piano lesson.  I still arrived twenty minutes early.  Afterwards, my mom and I picked up pizza, and we went home.

The End

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