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Got my test back in geometry and I got a 63, I think. Who cares, I passed and that’s all I wanted. I don’t need all A’s or anything, I just want to pass. It’s a small goal, but highly reachable and aside from algebra last yeah, I always achieved it. But who cares really? I’ll never use math so I’ll just pass it and then forget it like everyone else. It’s fine.
Ms. Meiggs passed out the report cards, even though we were supposed to be dismissed five minutes early to get them. She handed them out and then we would give them out only to come back at the end of the day to get them again. I know it’s weird but just work with me here, the truth never makes sense. I got all B’s and B+’s. Hey, I passed and got honor roll in honor’s classes. I’m fine. But a B+ in English? I don’t understand. I pass all my tests, in the 80s or 90s, get all A’s on my journal and I did the best key question in the whole class (the autobiography was for second term so the four A+’s don’t count yet) and so that equaled a B+ how? I was going to see her before school on Monday because I couldn’t talk to her about it Friday since I wasn’t even supposed to see my report card, but something came up now and I should be busy Monday morning.
I sat in English class for 80 minutes, looking at Ms. Leary, secretly wanting to scream at her, wanting to know how the fuck to I earn an A? Work to my fullest capacity? Never have, and I never will. But Jesus, I don’t get B’s in English class. I know this sounds whiny and people are probably like “Suck it up, it’s a good grade” but it isn’t good enough for someone who genuinely loves the language and loves the multiple emotions it can produce. Without language we’d be nothing but savage beasts, all the art and history would be gone and we’d be forever groping in the darkness looking for a way to better ourselves. And if I supposedly have “the gift” and a “refreshing vocabulary” without the thesaurus, then it doesn’t make sense. Then again, I just said nothing makes sense. Strangely, it makes sense that nothing makes sense. Think about it, you’ll understand eventually.
Renee’ was taking the MCAS so she wasn’t in Spanish class. I sat alone, quiet, staring straight forward in a trance as the teacher (new goal-learn how to spell her name) talked to some other teacher outside the classroom. Everyone was talking and laughing and I just sat there, hearing it all and not making the slightest effort to join. Mohammad asked if I was alive so I slowly looked at him and nodded. Something my mother had told me the night before weighed heavily upon me and I tried to make sense of it, even though I knew I never could. Mohammad said he noticed how lately I just still, hands on my knees, just staring at nothing. I didn’t know how to respond so I didn’t. I just went back to staring at nothing. Giovanni had fallen asleep, Kevin was absent, Jeff wasn’t there, Renee’ was at MCAS and Tanga, Mohammad and Elvis had their own group. I could have worked on my story but even that seems pointless.
Finally Jeff came in and the teacher told him to sit near me. Trying to get me to smile Mohammad says “Oh, here comes Kristine’s worst nightmare” and it worked, I did smile. Jeff started talking, making me laugh uncontrollably. Even though he had never seen Malibu’s Most Wanted (which was a GOOD movie. Shut up, hata) he reminds me of B-Rad, always saying “Damn B!” and talking his squeaky white boy voice. We worked together since Jeff forgot his books, he did some of the work and I did whatever was left. Renee’ came in with ten minutes left of the class but she sat in front of me in Kevin’s seat. It was fine; it wasn’t horrible being by myself. As much as I love being surrounded by people, I also love being alone.
In chemistry Shemere and her little clique would not shut up. They filled the room with tone deaf “singing”, and I use that term extremely loosely, and Mr. D could not control them. So he piled on the work. No one understands balancing, which is what we’re doing so I was stressed and after ten minutes I answered one problem. They didn’t take the hint and continued singing and talking loudly. More work. More idiotic mindless chatter. More work. More screams of “Nigger please!” “Bitch what!” More work. More talk. Homework. More talk. I was getting so annoyed. And then there was Michael calling my name every so often so that when I looked up he either flicked his tongue at me or flipped me off. I hate Michael and it’s no secret. I make it known if I don’t like you, whether it is me directly telling you or using subtle hints. I have done both to Michael and he fails to understand how utterly serious I am. He thinks it’s all a big joke and I know I’m quiet and I do take more than I should but if he keeps pushing me I am bound to snap and do something.
I remember one day in eighth grade I had a group of girls at my house to do a project. One of them took my sister’s bike across the city to get a pizza box because we needed it for our project. She was still missing two hours later and a friend who went with her on my sister’s scooter called us and told her she had lost the other girl. First I was nervous, pacing around wondering what happened? Who took her? Did she fall? Why the fuck didn’t they stay together? I should have gone with them. I am most responsible; I should have gone by myself. Then I became enraged. How dare she worry me like this? Who the fuck does she think she is just taking off like that? Any idiot knows to stay together! And to leave on my sister’s bike? Could she possibly know the trouble I would be in? I was so mad, so upset, so emotional; I took out a huge steak knife and stormed out of my house.
The other girls finally managed to get me inside, with soothing voices and reassuring words while I repeated “I’m going to fucking kill her. I mean it. I’m going to stab her in the chest then shove the blade down her throat. I’m not joking.” And the scary thing is I wasn’t joking. I was so fucking angry that if she were at that very moment to walk through the door I would have stabbed her. I know I would have. They took the knife from me and I realized what I did. I burst into tears, covered my face and slid down the wall, curling up in a corner, rocking back and forth crying.
It scares me even know to think of that day. I was ready to murder over a tiny misunderstanding. And I don’t like violence! I don’t like death, I hate suffering and yet over nothing, over a fucking material possession, I would have stabbed her in the chest and shoved the blade then her throat. I was so sure of myself, so worked up that I could have carried it out and that scares me more than anything in the world. I would face E.T. himself and stand in a roomful of spiders before I killed someone else, but that instant life and death didn’t matter.
What I meant was…I don’t remember anymore. I think I was ranting about Michael and somehow I felt the need to tell that half-assed story, just a bunch of words in a rambling. Oh well. I never said I was any good at telling stories. Ok, but I hate killing and I hate Michael. There, I’m back on track.
After school I came home and when I opened the door my mother was standing there smiling. I was mad at the homework I had in my messenger bag (it’s still there, untouched. I shouldn’t have to do it since I honestly wasn’t talking and when I was it was about the work) so I just said hi and threw my bag on the loveseat. I was also mad the injustice of the world and how nothing makes sense and it’s pointless and so unfair and just not right, when my mother showed me a printed piece of paper. She thought she was going to be out when I got home so in her trademark blue ink she wrote me a letter.
I know have a job! The library on Meridian Street has a shelving position open and they wanted to know if I wanted it. It’s only six hours to start off with but that’s fine. I’ll do two hours three days a week. Hey, it’s about $40 a week more than I have now. I called the boss back, told her I wanted it then some lady from Boston called and I set up a meeting with her on Tuesday at 1:00. I need to get a letter from school saying I attend there, two bills, a letter from my mother that says I live at the address on the bills, my social security number and birth certificate. Lord, it’s just a city job! I’m just putting books away and they get all dramatic. My guidance councilor should write the note but I’d need an appointment and in a school with over 1,000 students it’s impossible so I’m just going to ask Ms. Meiggs to write me one. What the hell does it have to say? All they need is “Kristine Voce attends East Boston High School” on a school headed paper.
Then I went and got my eyebrows done but it was a different lady and she did it differently. They’re ok, but I like the other lady better. I’m trying to convince my mom to let me dye my hair black again (I did it in eighth grade, eighth grade was very eventful) and now she won’t let me. I don’t understand why. I’m trying to get her to let me go brown. Then once I’m brown I’ll shoot for black. I’ll take things gradually, its fine.
Mom and Kevin were going Christmas shopping but not me for me, I’m all done, so I went with them. At The Christmas Tree Shop they had this pretty glass penguin and I wanted it so bad! Mom bought it and said she would put it out for Christmas but then she ended up giving it to me and now it’s on my desk. Pretty penguin! Ooooh! They had my name on pens! Ok, you know how stores sell personalized thing? Well, no one ever has my named spelled right. My mom swears up and down it was popular in the 80s but so far, in sixteen years I have never met another Kristine, one who spells her name my way. They had thick pens and with my fake nails I find I write so much neater with thick pens because my nail isn’t digging into my skin. They had odd names like Savannah, Jasmine, Allie, weird names that I have never heard before. I find one that says “Spoiled Brat” and I was bout to get that when I see “Kristine.” So I look at it again, it still says Kristine. I pick it up and look at it closer. It says Kristine. I read it three more times and it said Kristine! Now, the only place that sells things with my name spelled right is Canada, so I was shocked because I was still in Massachusetts. Of course I had to buy them since my name is only spelled right once in a millennia.
Then we went to Target and I got Marie Claire because it has Tom Cruise on the cover. Um…since when is he 41? Now that I think about it, he has to be old because he’s been around for as long as I can remember, but 41? And Brad Pitt is 40! What the fuck is up with them? Take away Brad Pitt’s lips and we have one cute man. And Tom Cruise’s nose…oh, he has the perfect nose. I want his teeth! Is that odd? I am in love with Tom Cruise’s teeth, capped or not.
Hahahaha! Today in the mail I received an apology letter from Claire’s. This line cracked me up, and I quote “I can imagine that you’re a little nervous about shopping at our store again. Though I can certainly understand why you feel that way, I want to try and reassure you that you shouldn’t be worried about shopping at Claire’s.”
And it goes on! They make it seem like I’m some little innocent hick girl who is easily scared of getting in trouble. Oh man, I laughed at those few lines in particular for at least five minutes straight. I as crying I was laughing so hard. I cannot get over that! I am not scared of death or of dying or after death or getting arrested. I’m not saying that to sound cool, hardcore or tough, it’s just the truth. It’s going to take much more than some snotty little teenager accusing me of stuffing my fitted jeans with cheap ass merchandise that I can’t even wear, to scare me. Well, I got $15 out of them at least.
I’ll end this on a good note.
Always the religion...always.
Damn religion
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calm
weird
cold
thoughtful
relieved
satisfied
drained
listless
relaxed
jubilant
uncomfortable
ditzy
restless
bored
mellow