Where was I going with this? I stopped typing to bang my forehead on the keyboard,
making it buzz angrily at me, “Error! Error!”
“Hmmmm.” I mumbled. The computer ignored me, and kept shouting its annoying monotone. I thumped the keys a couple of times to make it shut up.
“Error! Error!”
“Error you.” I seethed.
When I finally dragged open my eyelids, I found that my entire essay had been replaced by gibberish. I sighed. It was a bad one anyway.
“Error! Error! Error! Erroor! Errrrrroooorr. Clunk.”
Just like that, my computer had gone to computer heaven. I knew my mom would not be happy. Ah shucks.
I whipped my spiky blond hair out of my gray-blue eyes. Unfortunately, it just fell over them again because it’s only about 4 inches in length. Long story. So I stomped over to the mirror, snapped a few barrettes in, and called it good, although I looked like I had just survived the most chaotic thunderstorm ever. Sand-colored hair burst out in all directions as if I had been electrocuted. My nails were grimy and bitten. I stuck out my tongue at the reflection and smirked.
Then I turned to stare at my newly broken machine in fury. I destroyed everything I touched. This must be caused by my “lack of precision” as Mr. Gerald, my newest middle school’s principal, puts it. I decided there is only one solution to a problem like this, and the cookie jar in the pantry held the answer. Essays could wait. A 13-year-old girl in desperate need of sugar? Not so much.
The next day at school was pretty much normal. I sauntered into my English class and sat down at my oh-so-squeaky desk. Sometimes I wonder if Mrs. Seagram gave me this one on purpose. Glancing around to see if she was watching, I pulled out my math homework and began to work on it. Soon Mrs. Seagram came around to collect essays, so I hid my math under my desk. When she questioned where my essay was, I replied to her raised eyebrows with a shrug. “Computer exploded,” I said nonchalantly. She ripped out my math homework and slapped it on top of my desk.
“And why were you doing this in my class?”
“Didn’t wanna waste my time with it at home.” The class was starting to giggle.
“You are in a lot of trouble, young lady.” She managed. Her face was swelling up like a beach-ball in that way it did when she was annoyed with me.
“Apparently.” The class was really laughing now.
“One more smart remark and you will visit Mr. Gerald. Do I make myself clear?”
“Clear as pea soup!” And I could no longer suppress my laughter. I let out a little snort and grinned. Next thing I knew I was in the principal’s office for “missing homework, disrespectful behavior, and not paying attention in class.”
“What’ up Mr. G?” I slumped in a chair and smiled at him, hoping my “good-nature” would persuade him to excuse me.
Instead he pursed his lips tightly and blinked a couple of times. It was creepy.
“Ms. Kayla,” he drew out in that slow, dramatic way that genuinely scared me.
“Yep, that’s me.”
“Jordan Kayla,” he repeated. “Tisk, tisk. You are in a lot of trouble, young lady.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.” I replied coolly. I hid my smile by facing the desk, remembering just 15 minutes earlier when Mrs. Seagram had said the exact same thing. But being in this office was nothing new for me. Been there, done that.
Suddenly, he jerked himself upright, eyes wide like an owl, and I’m guessing he saw my sneer. “Stop this nonsense immediately!”
I couldn’t resist. “Whatever ya say, boss.” I mimicked in a perfect Boston accent.
The rest of the class period was filled with a lecture, (yawn!) and a call to my parents.
I walked home bracing myself for impact. Of course my mom would be angry; this was the 3rd time I had been to see Mr. Gerald this week. But my problems ran much deeper. We had moved 2 times now to accommodate my behavior, trying a few schools at each house. I had been expelled from all of them. And before I could try more schools in the area, the ones who have had me would tell the other schools to keep away. This forced us to move. I had been rejected so many times I couldn’t count them. It made me sad, and I couldn’t figure out why I couldn’t just be normal. I really wanted to, for my parents and Alisha, my big sister. Our family was running out of money from all the moving, and my mom had cancer, so she couldn’t homeschool me. Dad had to work all the time to try to keep enough money in the family. And it was all my fault. But of course, Alisha was adored by all her teachers with her perfect grades. She had lots of friends, but I had never made a single one. Whenever I got mad at her, she just smiled sadly and gave me a hug. “It’s ok Jordan. It’ll all work out.” She’d say. It was like she knew something I didn’t. She was so angelic.
“All A’s.” My mother cooed at Alisha when I walked in the door. “Oh, hello Jordan. And where’s your report card?”
I shoved it into her hand and slunked upstairs. I knew I had failed every subject. I didn’t even have to check. And after my talk with the principal, I also knew deep down I had been expelled. I put all my blank homework that I was supposed to be doing through the paper shredder and sifted through the scraps that were so much like the pieces of my tattered life. I didn’t want to stay like this forever: so defiant and disobedient and cruel. I know I can improve. I just have to work on it. But I have a long way to go.
“Jordan?” It was Alisha’s voice.
“Go away!”
She cracked the door open and peeked into my fresh orange room that still smelled like paint. I hid my face in a pillow and threw the other at her.
She laughed. But not in a mean way, in a kind way. Carefully she came over and sat on the edge of my bed. She smiled at me and picked up Pickle, my teddy bear, to make him dance.
I smiled back. She couldn’t see it because the pillow covered my face. But I knew she knew. I grabbed Pickle from her and hugged him against me. I felt like a baby even though I loved times like this; when it was just me and Alisha. She was the only person in the world who loved me for the kind of person I was. I gave up my angry face and gave her a hug.
“It’ll be ok, Jordan. But you need to help me.”
“What do you mean? It’s not going to be ok! Mom and Dad need me to get good grades. I’m letting you all down! We’re going to have to move again! Aren’t you mad?” It was the first time I had cried in a long, long time.
“Do you know about Mom yet?” She responed carefully. She knew she was treading on thin ice. “She’s not doing so well.”
This made me snap out of my anger. Mom wasn’t well? Was she dead? Oh please, don’t let her be dead. I tried to convince myself that it couldn’t be true. She was probably just sicker than usual.
“She’s not dead, Jordan,” Alisha read my mind. “But she will be if you don’t shape up.” Something changed me that moment. Alisha, my perfect, sweet sister, who was never, ever mad. This was the equivalent of a regular person screaming at me with all their might. She meant that if I couldn’t behave, we would have to move again, and couldn’t afford medicine for Mom. This was the first time I had ever heard her say something to me that wasn’t just pure kindness. This change in her caused a big change in me: an incentive to be good. And I knew, right then, that I had to do something about my attitude. It would be extremely hard, but I was ready. For Mom. Alisha had helped me yet again, and had done it so easily. I could never repay her.
“Thanks Alisha,” I whispered and skipped from the room happily. I didn’t look back but I know if I had I would have seen that sad smile change to a happy one, because I finally figured out my place in the world. I would start next week after we moved repairing the damage I had caused. It would not be instant. Like rebuilding all the homes after a hurricane, one brick at a time. But guess what buddy: I was just born to be a construction worker. I charged past Mom in the kitchen cooking dinner.
“Hi Mom!” She stared at me like I had turned green or something. Cheerful greetings like this were rare, or should I say nonexistent from me until now. My first brick had been placed. I added a second one by giving her a big hug. Soon a whole house would be done! I smiled at my metaphor. So, I decided that it might be a good time for a cookie. And then I’ll go redo that essay.
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