[b]Hey guys. At school about a week ago (Don’t start singing that dumb rap song, or so help me!) I was assigned a writing project. I was to write a short story and I have finally finished. Can you guys read it and give me some constructive criticism? I would love it if you could.
Anyways here is the story:[/b]
The 9th hour bell rang. Students shuffled to their desks as quickly as possible. The other, less punctual, students bolted down that hallway to the classroom door flailing last nights homework assignment out in front of them. I had been in my seat before anyone else. There was no real reason to stay out of it if there was no one to talk to. Then our teacher stepped in front of the class. She was a tall woman. Kind of hunched over as if she had been leaning over a desk grading papers half her life. Which she has. She is 55 and has been working as a history teacher for 30 years. Her voice was loud. Hardened from all the high schoolers before us. However, now, her outer shell of “toughness” shields her from the torture most high school teachers must endure. I could go on about Mrs. Crampton for hours on end, but what I really was looking forward to seeing was out test.
I had worked hard on that test. Studied for hours and did flashcards with myself in my free time and I had been waiting in apprehension throughout last week waiting for the day that Mrs. Crampton would step in front of the class and say, “Alright class, Shut up! It’s time to pass back your history exams.” She always spoke so rude to us. Like we are somehow inferior to her. Nevertheless, I waited for my paper to be handed from hand to hand back to me at my seat. I was hopeful, almost sure that I had passed that test with flying colors. Then from a distance I spotted my paper. It looked as if Mrs. Crampton had bled onto it. Circling everything and crossing out the rest. I lay my head on my desk. Not even bothering to see my actual letter grade. The paper lands on the back of my head and slides off and onto the floor. Rather than picking it up, I dosed off, sleeping for the rest of the hour. (Maybe this could be a reason I failed?)
The bell rang. Sending a chill of realization down my spine. Had I really slept that entire hour? Any how, I proceeded to grab my things, purposely leaving the history test so my mom had no evidence of my terrible grade. She was a stickler about those things. Partly because I was failing practically all my classes and also because my little sister was always doing better than me. Always exceeding my mom’s expectations, as she put it. She was always getting rewarded for the dumbest things and it seemed it was always about her. “Stacey, Stacey, Stacey!” I think mockingly. But secretly I was hoping that one day it would be a, “Trace, Trace, Trace!” kind of lifestyle, but I knew the chances of that were slim. My mom was to strict to understand me. It’s just something I have to accept.
The bus chugged along like a train. Not! It seems that this hunk of yellow metal stopped at everything. Trains, Stoplights, Stop Signs, and I know these are all necessary things that a bus should stop at, but It gave me all the more time to worry about the horrors I will face when my mom asks what my grade was. Truth is I never looked at the grade so I could always say I didn’t know, but in my gut, I knew what the grade really was. And, besides even though my mom gets on my nerves ALL the time, I have to love her. She has never done me wrong. Or well most the time never does me wrong. But I’m a teenager I’m bound to disagree with her and complain about how she is unfair. Thats what we are supposed to do right?
As the bus continued along it’s route of many stops my mind began to wander. I am the third to last stop on the bus route and the 15 stops before me gave me plenty times to think. I continued thinking about my mom. Running through every possible situation that could happen in my head so that I would know how to react and what to say to her. Then, all that thinking on mom brought me to my dad. My dad was a smart fellow. He had a good job going. Very secretive about it though. Never really talked much about what he did or who he worked with. But I knew he worked for something special as he always was dressed nice before my mom and the rest of the family would see him off to work. I hadn’t seen him in months no (5 to be exact) because his work had brought him else where. Japan to be precise. He had been called to the corporate head-quarters and as much as we didn’t want him to go, we knew he should. It was his big break. His chance to get in the big times. Make some more money for us and himself. And as much as I wanted him back, I was glad he was over there in Japan, succeeding, doing good. I was proud of that, but none-the-less I still worry he will never come home.
Soon the bus creaked to a halt at my driveway. Swooshing the tattered old doors open and letting me off. It spit exhaust as it sputtered away down my street to eventually take the turn up ahead. I inhaled. Looked towards my door and locked on as if I was a fighter jet locking on to an enemy Arado Ar 65. (Did I mention I was a Air Force nerd?) I knew what lay just beyond those doors. I knew I would have to face my moms disappointed look while I tell her my grade.
Thoughts of running away shot through my head like Surface to Air Missiles (SAM) shot through aircraft. I quickly barreled rolled to avoid being hit by these terrible ideas. I was not going to evade because of a malfunction in my history class.
I started towards my door. And before I knew it I was there. I inhaled again. This time deeper. I pulled my arm forward and wrapped my hand around the doorknob, twisting it. The door opened and the warmth rushed towards me. The smell of something sweet was in the air so I looked in towards the dining room, and there, I found Stacey and my mother, eating a cake. “What’s this for?” I ask, gesturing towards the neatly, iced white cake. It looked good. “Well in honor of Stacey’s out standing grades, of course!” Mom said. “Oh…” I say with a look of disappointment. My mom never rewarded me for anything. Maybe there was nothing to reward me for, but day after day Stacey was babied and pampered. A new phone this day, a new pair of jeans the next. And for today, a big ole’ white cake. (Which happens to be my favorite kind of cake at that.)
I start towards the cabinet to grab a plate when my mom blocks my passage with one of her arms. “What do you think your doing?” she said.
“I’m getting a plate. To get a piece of the cake, you know?” I said.
“Oh really? Well that cake is for people who earned great grades. What did you get on your History test?” She queried.
“Oh, you know, the I’m not hungry anymore.” I said.
However, I really was hungry and a white cake sounded really good right about now, but I would sacrifice my chance at the melt in your mouth, fluffy, delicious cake hovering in front of me than tell my mom my grade, but she knew what I was thinking as soon as I said I wasn’t hungry. She has knew my grade. She saw it in my eyes. She asked again, “What was your grade on your History test?” A little more assertive this time. I stuttered. “Um… It wasn’t that bad.” I lied. “You failed it didn’t you?” She pushed. “Well…”, I glanced at my toes, “Yes… I failed…” Grief took hold of my body and a lump worked it’s way into my throat. A flash of disappointment went through my moms eyes before it was replace with anger. “You told me you had that test in the bag!” She exclaimed, “You told me you had it under control! Now look! You failed. I should’ve made you study longer.”
“Mom I tried. I tried hard” I attempted to reason with her, but it was ineffective. She continued her anger spree, “Bull crap. If you would’ve tried you would’ve passed.”
“Mom! Stop yelling!” I sassed, and she did not take that lightly. Her eyes lit up. She was surprised that I had talked to her like that. Even I was. It slipped out, but I was still angry at her. I hated her right now.
“Go to your room. Get out of my sight.” She commanded. And I followed, mumbling vulgarities and curses under my breath.
I was angry. Really angry. And if my mom dropped dead right now I probably wouldn’t even care. I wouldn’t even mind!
I slammed my door, and quickly grimaced as I realized that it had it the frame too hard. “Had my mom heard it? Who cares! Not me! I don’t like her. She doesn’t care about me why would I care about her!” Thoughts of anger ran through my head and my lips parted and these 3 words came out: I wish she died.
Right then and there, I scared myself. I didn’t think I had the ability to say those words and even worse, I meant it. I say on my bed, grabbing my guitar off the wall and flicking on my amplifier.
I strummed out songs of hate and despair as footsteps came up the stairs. Could it be my mom coming to apologize? No, these steps were too light to be hers. It was Stacey, of course. Which only made the hate songs flow out even louder. And soon. I dozed off.
The phone rang in the night. It was late. 3 a.m. or so. Trace’s mom got up and proceeded to the living room to answer it. She was surprised that it was ringing so late. A bit worried too. She looked at the number on the tiny LCD screen. She could tell it was foreign by the area code. She was excited! Was it her husband calling finally? Their last contact was 2 days ago and she was dying to here from him soon.
She pressed the green button on the keypad of the phone. Causing a little beep. She quickly pressed the phone up to her head, saying hello in the most flirty voice possible. She instantly was embarrassed when she realized that another man was on the line. It wasn’t her husband. He said hello. And began explaining something in a sympathetic tone. “Is this Debbie Margret?” The man said.
“Yes, yes it is.” Debbie said in a concerned voice, “What wrong?”
The man paused for a split second. Yet it lasted an eternity between Debbie and him. You could tell he was going to regret what he was about to say. “My name is Rodney. I… I worked with your husband Tim in Japan. I’m sorry to say that I have some bad news.”
Chills ran down Debbie’s spine as she realized that the words ‘Bad News’ and her husband’s name was used in the same sentence. She responded with silence.
“I’m sorry to say… Ma’am… Your husband is dead…”
She dropped the phone in the living room running into the kitchen. She was crying now. Freaking out. She had no idea how she would go on. Her husband, her love, her only love, now gone. Dead. Killed. And at that he was away. Over-seas. Cross an ocean. She urned to see him. Her mind couldn’t think rationally. “He can’t be dead. This is a prank. This is a joke. This… this is real.” She realized. Tears rushed even harder down her face as she knocked a glass off the counter. It shattered as it hit the ground. Breaking into sharp shards of deadly glass. She looked down at them. Then back up towards the kitchen counter. More specifically towards the steak knives. She walked over to them. Letting glass cut her bare feet. Blood quickly came, but it didn’t matter to her. Her life had been crushed. She pulled the knife out of it’s wooden sheath. Then pushing the blade to her wrist, she pulled it across her veins. She winced, as It hurt her. And as soon as she saw the blood, she regretted what she had just done. Then blackness stole away her vision and she collapsed backwards into the glass spread across the floor.
My alarm rang. 6 o’clock sharp. My eyes burned from crying last night and they were red and puffy as I looked in the mirror. I was better now. I was in a good mood. A positive mood. I was ready to prove to my mom that I was a good kid. That I could get good grades just like Stacey does. I felt really sorry about what I said. What I thought. I felt very guilty.
I brushed my teeth and sniffed my jeans to see if they smelled. They passed the test and I proceeded to put them back on. (Typical teenage boy) I then sat in my desk chair and pulled on each sock.
I stood up, ready to face the day. I opened my door and began down the hallway. My stomach growled as I put my foot on the first step, and I got the feeling that something was wrong. No, not because I was hungry, but because it was eerily quiet downstairs when usually at this time of day, my mom would be awake. Watching TV or reading a magazine ready to see us off to school. I dismissed it to the back of my mind as my feet clambered down the steps.
I finally reached the bottom and at my feet was the home phone. Lying right there in front of me was OUR phone. “Why is this here?” I thought. My mom was neat freak so this was an unusual occurrence. Then at that instant, I knew something was wrong. I continued my way to the kitchen.
I scream at the sight of her. There lied the cold body of my mother. “Mom!” I screamed. Tears distorting my vision. I ran to her, dropping to my knees. I was crying hard now. Warm hot tears dropping onto her face. Warming the affected area of her skin. I couldn’t help but think that this was my fault. That maybe, just maybe, my wish had come true.
