Another Freak’n "F"

One more freak’n hour to go and I could get the hell out of here. Seventh grade English with Sister Mary "Ejaculate" was the LAST place I wanted to be on a Friday. Math or Science I could have tolerated, but English!? What the hell did I care about diagramming a sentence? Who would ever diagram one and what the hell for? Besides, I had more important things to do. BIG things. It was the 1960's already and the freak’n Russians had a Sputnik in outer space. What did I care about freak’n English? I had Big things to do!

It took me all week to cure the rocket nozzle. It was a new formula that just had to work this time. The other formulas just couldn’t take the heat or the pressure. They would either swell shut from the heat and cause the rocket to explode or they would crack from the pressure and blow out the end. This time I was sure I got it right. This baby was going to FLY!

One more freak’n hour and I could light the fuse. That is, if I could live through seventh grade English with that freak’n nun. I knew she hated me. She hated all boys; but me in particular. I hated spelling. I hated composition. I hated punctuation. I hated reading and I hated writing. I hated English class and she hated me. One more freak’n hour!

That is what I was thinking before it happened. Nobody ever told me about things like this. How was I to know?

I was just sitting there at my desk seventh row, right at the end. Right next to the window. You would think a window seat would be a blessing. But when you’re in seventh grade and want to be anywhere but there, it isn’t; it’s torture. She must have known what I was thinking. She always did. That is why she did it. I’m almost sure. She announced that we were going to write a composition, an essay on "FUN." Oh, the cunning cruelty. I had to hand it to her, she was a master of inflicting torture.

There I sat. Pen in hand, paper on desk and nothing in my mind. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I was accustomed to it though, I always got an "F." Summer school here I come. Again.

My hands were clammy and I could feel my stomach turning over. I was going to fart. There was no doubt about it. That is why she seated me in the back, right next to the window. I was always farting in her class. I couldn’t help it. That freak’n nun gave me gas. My head began to feel dizzy and I thought I was going to throw up. Man, if I could only get her to come a little closer. I’d give her a "composition."

And then it was over! She was collecting the papers. The Freak’n hour was up! I lived!

I looked down at the paper and I swear to you, I never touched a pen to it but there it was. Filled with writing and in my own misshapen, half scribbled, half printed scrawl. But it wasn’t mine. Hell, all the words were spelled correctly, even the words of more than three syllables. No way could I have written this. She is going to think I copied it or something. But I didn’t. Maybe if I told her an angel made me write it. But no, she wouldn’t buy that for a second. A devil maybe, but she would never believe an angel. Now I know I’m going to fart.

I started to read the writing when it struck me. The paper, the writing, it was a poem! A Freak’n POEM! OH NO! Boys don’t write poems. Only the "cootie carriers" write poetry. I’m dead. If any of the guys find out I wrote a poem . . . Shit, I’m Freak’n dead. I will never live it down. They are going to murder me, tear me to pieces. Maybe if I hide it! I’ll give her a blank sheet of paper, no one will ever know! Oh man, too late. She took it. I should have eaten it. Well there it goes. I farted. A really loud one too. Well it’s not like I never farted before, get over it.

That weekend was one of the loooongest of my life. I didn’t go out of the house. I couldn’t take the chance that someone already knew. I hid in the basement and built more rockets. I was going to beat those Russians to the moon, even if I had to do it all by myself. Maybe if I got to the moon, people would forget I wrote a Freak’n poem?

Monday came. I couldn’t hold it back. I was resigned to my fate. I slowly shuffled my way to my execution. Go on, somebody say something, I’ll punch your lights out.

To my surprise, nobody knew. No one said anything. It was going to be ok. The only thing Billy said was "Hey, nice fart." If he didn’t know about the poem, nobody did. Well nobody but Sister Mary "Ejaculate." Just what she might have planned for me had my stomach turning all over again.

It didn’t take long for me to find out. As soon as I got to her class she called me to her desk. With sweetness just oozing from every pore, she told me she liked my poem so much that she was going to have it published in the school newspaper. The implications of this hit me like a punch to the gut. Not only would my classmates know, the whole freak’n school would know. The whole neighborhood would know. Hell, the whole freak’n town was going to know. Even my sister was going to know that I wrote a poem. You guessed it. I farted. I told you she was a master. 

To add insult to injury, she handed my poem back to me. Right at the top in nice red letters she wrote, "poetry "A", composition? ." Yep, another Freak’n "F."



A note here. Actually a confession; this is not fiction. It’s autobiographical. The events actually did happen, exactly as I described them. I did change the name of my best buddy. I didn’t want to embarrass him by using his real name. 

That was my first experience with writing and what a change it made in my life. After the poem was published in the school newspaper Sister Mary Immaculate ( yes, that was her real name.), and I became the best of friends. I became the BMOC, and had the respect and admiration of the whole school. All the girls wanted to date me and that beautiful redheaded girl ask me to autograph her copy of my poem. And best of all, I never farted again.

There, now it qualifies as fiction.

C.C.Keiser