I should explain that my chemistry teacher thinks I'm some kind of crazy genius. Irrationally.
I don't really like chemistry, and he's not helping. I try to just sit there and do my work. Nothing special. But every time he asks a question to the class, he'll either single me out to ask me, or say, "I know Laura knows. Does anyone else know?"
And he's just so impressed that I know what a benzene ring is. Nothing about it, really, just what it is. Which is something he taught us maybe two weeks ago.
I should add that he's an awful teacher, so benzene rings are one of the few things I've learned this year.
Anyway, the kids in my class kept a "Laurometer" of how many times he'd say something about how I'm a genius, or single me out to explain something to the class, or congratulate me for something I didn't do, or things like that. The highest it ever got in one day was to 8. If it ever were to get to 10, I don't know what would happen, but I'm thinking a standing ovation. The kids in the class love the whole thing, so they'll give me two or three rounds of applause a day, on average. Mostly, again, for just sitting there. It's okay, though, because they also clap for other people.
Anyway, it's an awful class. Yesterday, I didn't have to go. I had to go to the eye doctor's in the middle of calculus, and I just didn't come back to school that day. I didn't tell any of my friends why I was leaving, but I didn't think there would be a big deal about it.
Later that evening, my little brother comes into the kitchen where I'm eating dinner with some friends and asks me, "Laura, you're doing okay?" I say yes, he says okay, I ask, "Why?"
"Oh, some kid in my 7th hour said you were in the hospital for heart trouble."
"Wait, who? I went to the eye doctor's"
"You don't know him. You didn't get taken there by an ambulance, did you?"
My class told my chemistry teacher that I was in the hospital, in intensive care "because my head exploded or something." He had the class make me a card. A huge card on a huge piece of paper.
It got around to the whole school, I guess. I don't know what I'm going to do on Monday.
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12 comments:
Hm. How compulsive is compulsive? Let me know when you get this message... :D
PS: Please tell me your eye(s) is(are) fine.
Compulsive is so compulsive. So, so compulsive.
Ha, I'm fine. Well. I think. I have to go back tomorrow. But I can see and all, which is good, because it means I'm not blind.
Oh man, Laura. I'm impressed. Really, really impressed.
And thank God/Allah/Buddha/Jehovah/whoever about the eye.
Ha, no joke. Except I don't know what to tell my teacher. I mean, the class will lose ALL credibility when I'm not dead tomorrow.
So, how was it today? Your return from death? :O)
Your school seems...interesting!
I'm glad your eye has not failed you.
Wowee. Your teacher loves you so much. The only thing is, maybe there's some poor kid somewhere whose karma you're stealing, who never gets credit for things he does and whose teacher thinks he's stupid. I hope not, because that would be terrible.
I'm sure it's not true. Don't feel bad.
A giant construction paper card because they thought your brains blew up (= heart trouble? Ah, the high school gossip telephone...)? Clearly, the way to cope with this incident is to tape the card to your locker so everyone can see it forever.
Gosh, that must have been so anticlimactic when you walked in with your non-exploded head.
They wanted me to pretend I couldn't walk, or that I could only speak in Spanish, or that I needed an eye patch. They tried to physically put the eye patch on my head. Then they ended up giving it to the weird asocial kid.
You guys, the card is five feet long, at least.
And it has the weirdest stuff written on it. "You have to come back so I can blutooth your knoweledge." "Life isn't worth living when you're not around." "You're a damn good football player. DAMN GOOD. --Coach."
And it just goes on and on. And then the nice quiet girls in the class signed, "Get well soon, Laura!" and stuff.
Well, are you a damn good football player?
Pff. Yes. Yes I am.
Of course.
I'm a damn good football player, too. I tell my teammates NOT to throw the ball at me, then I run around all over the field so my P.E. teacher thinks I'm part of the game. It's fool-proof!
beautiful.
Man, I HATED P.E. So much.
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