In a Pickle

Maybe a little darker black in the corners, or some red in the chest plate. Oh yeah, some stormtroopers in the background. I looked at my picture of Darth Vader. Before I could even edit the details, the bell rang. Ugh. Reading with Mr. Jon. I remembered the time the doctor told me I had dyslexia. Not a happy day. I’d rather swallow a dozen thumb tacks than read or write. 

“How much longer till it’s over?” I complained. I’d rather stay here in the commons than even do school. Sixth grade was hard. I guess I would just have to accept that.

After a long, painful walk to reading (did I mention that I hated school?), savoring every last bit of it, I dragged myself into Mr. Jon’s classroom of pure torture. “Why do I even do school? I’m not learning anything,” were my last thoughts before Mr. Jon clapped his hands and said, “Okay kids! Clear off your desks and meet in the back with your ‘Talk to an Apple’ books and a pencil!”

What a stupid book name. I know to “not judge a book by its cover” or “all books should be treated equally” but with a title like “Mustard in Your Pants” (our previous book), I think my point has been made. After everyone had gotten to the back, we started our life-draining routine. We reviewed our answers from yesterday, and since I never did them, I could just copy off of Max’s paper. Hey, last year, Mrs. Becky let us do it.

Then Mr. Jon said the most dreadful words, “Jonathan, why don’t you start us off?”

“Because I have dyslexia,” was what I wanted to say. Why did I decide to sit to the left of Mr. Jon? That’s where he always starts asking for readers. 

“Uh, Jonathan?” Mr. Jon asked.

“Oh, right,” I said, doing a lousy job hiding my disbelief. Time for a little fun. “Page 60?” I asked, trying to stall.

“Yeah,” Mr. Jon said with an unreadable face.

Well I guess I should try. “Kristine l-looked ar-arou-around the room. Time to start the pan. I mean, plan. Se-she qui-quietly snuck iton-into Mr. Perpep-Pepper’s dek-desk”, I said. How could anyone read letters that move? “She pikc-picked up the pesrement?”

“Peppermint,” Mr. Jon assisted.

“Peppermint cady-candy. Iricon-ironic, thought Kristine,” I read. Whew. Short page. Thank goodness.

After a long period in reading, we have writing. Whoever made up this schedule has got to be messing with me. As more and more kids filed into Ms. Stephans’ classroom, she assigned us to proofread each other’s papers. She thinks it’s good to learn to proofread too. I was assigned to correct Matt’s paper. Great. I couldn’t wait to get scolded for messiness or spelling or grammar.

“Okay, let’s do this,” I told Matt. He handed me his paper and I handed him mine. 

“Um, ‘protect’ is spelled with a ‘c’ not a ‘k’,” Matt said matter-of -factly.

“Well, ‘carried’ is spelled with a ‘ch’ not a ‘c’,” I threw back at him.

“No, it’s not,” Matt said skeptically. Of course, I knew he would be right, but I looked it up on an iPad. It’s spelled c-a-r-r-i-e-d, not c-h-a-r-r-i-e-d. It’s these little things that make me hate school.

At Writing, Ms. Stephans assigned us a six-page report on a big accomplishment in our lives. Maybe mine will be me finding out that I hate school. Even on the weekend I can’t enjoy myself because I dread Monday. The only thing I like about school is leaving. At least tomorrow I don’t have school.

“Hey Jonathan,” someone said. I’ll have to ignore whoever it is. “Hey Jonathan, I’m speaking to you,” the voice says. A hand landed on my shoulder. I looked up. Bennet, the school bully, looked down at me.

“Yes,” I threw back at him.

“What was your problem at reading?” he taunted. Time to show him what I’ve got.

“Sorry, l don’t have time to argue right now. I’ve got an assignment due on Monday. I really don’t have time,” I said.

“You can do that later. What was your problem at reading?” he asked. I looked up. His face was all flushed.

“Well, I don’t know the cause of my dyslexic function. Maybe you could ask a scientist?” I said. His face became even more flushed. I could see more and more students crowding around us in the hallway. “Kid (it seemed to have an effect on people to call them ‘kid’), I really have to get to facts class,” I said. 

“Okay then. I’ll shove your puny little face in there,” he said. Just as he gave a punch, I ducked and kicked him in the back. It wasn’t much of a help. As he turned around, he slipped and fell into the wall. The crowd cheered and I ran, trying not to get caught. I ran right into Mr. Dickens, the principal.

“Meet me in the office after school, Jonathan Hackson,” he boomed.

As I walked into the office after school, Mr. Dickens was glaring straight at me. “Let’s talk about what happened in the hallway, “he said, still glaring, as he stroked his beard. “So, you attacked a student–”

“No, he was making fun of me, he tried to punch me, I used a tactic of self-defense, and he fell, and I didn’t want teachers to think it was me,” I interrupted.

“No, he was taunting me,” a burly figure who was patiently sitting next to me said.

 “No, I didn’t,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Yes, you did,” Bennet said.

I couldn’t keep in my anger any longer. I jumped on Bennet, and we wrestled. Before we got too far, Mr. Dickens stopped us.

“Jonathan, detention now. Bennet, watch it,” Mr. Dickens said calmly.

After a long dreadful hour in detention, Dad picked me up. As I leaped into the vehicle Dad said, “Just so you know, Jonathan, I’m not going to punish you, but can you tell me why you did that?” 

I told him my side of the story, and he actually believed me, unlike the principal.

“Okay, I’m just glad you happily go to school and are always hopeful the next day will go well,” he said proudly.

“Hopeful? Wow. Thanks a lot Dad,” I said as we pulled into our dull, gray driveway.

I unpacked my backpack and a load of dread fell on me as I pulled out the writing assignment. “There goes my weekend,” I thought. I hadn’t even started it in study hall. I could imagine hours of staring out the window thinking of one accomplishment I had done in my life.

“Well, the paper isn’t going to do itself, so you better start it now!” someone said. I whirled around, and there was Dad, looking cheerful and carrying a colossal load of laundry downstairs.

“Fine. I guess he’s right,” I thought to myself. If I hold it off until tomorrow, I’ll decide to do it on Sunday, and I’ll be too lazy to do it then. And then I’ll get an even lower grade than I have right now. If that’s even possible.

I went upstairs to my room and thought of important stuff in my life. Maybe in third grade when I won second place in a Pinewood Derby contest for design. Or the time I won third place on Mario Kart Rainbow Road track. Or when I got my first “F” as a grade in school. Oh, I’ve got it. My drawings. I’ve actually gotten one of my sketches on the Google search page. A long undisturbed day will do it. Well, I better get to it.

On Monday, I was ready. I breezed right through Reading (I made sure I sat farther away from Mr. Jon’s normal starting spot) and turned in my assignment. The rest of the day went by pretty well. Bennet didn’t try to mop the floor with my face. No run in with Mr. Dickens or anything like that. I must’ve gotten off easy today.

On Tuesday at Writing, Mrs. Stephans called me back. Was there something wrong with it? Had I turned in the wrong assignment? Mrs. Stephans opened her mouth and began to speak.

“Jonathan Hackson, what is this? Never have any of your teachers ever seen anything like this from you,” she said. “You must have had a lot of hope and courage to complete it. You probably put lots of productivity and effort into this. Being an optimist and looking hopefully towards the future is very beneficial and good. Hope is a very powerful word, you know.”

Well, I guess she’s right. Hope can mean running towards the goal and being optimistic about it. Wait, even about school?

“Yes, Jonathan, yes,” I said to myself.