6th Period Blues by Megan Jayaraj Age 16 March 2004
"Doesn’t it seem incredibly odd that anyone whose job is
to predict something is usually wrong? I mean, think about the weathermen, they say that
there was supposed to be a 100 percent chance of showers. They should just take a look at
it outside now. It's beautiful. The perfect shade of sky blue with the occasional dab of
cumulus clouds. Oh, and then there are those psychics who can interpret your goals and
predict your destiny by reading you palm. They said that I was destined for a career in
medicine. But the fact that I’m sitting here writing this story as well as getting a
B+ in AP Bio definitely dictates otherwise. It all seems a little ironic, I mean people
actually make a living tell people the wrong information, just like those beefy men who
purposely make a bet on the losing team in a football knowing all too well that they are
going to lose, but they still hope that someday in the blue moon the underdog will
actually vanquish the favored opponent and they would make a killing.
But then you can’t always blame those people they are just doing
whatever they can to make an extra buck and buy that 62 inch plasma display with surround
sound. You can always place the blame on those naïve people who (to define it) really
lack common sense. I mean if they just stopped to think rather than worry about how they
are going to fit in homework within talking on the phone and watching The OC (even though
that show is addictive) they might not get played for stupid so often…"
She put her mechanical down and sighed with relief, then it occurred to
her, "Wow, I wonder if some people may find this offensive? Oh well, the only people
I could have possibly offended are those who are too absorbed in their world, which is
frankly the size of a pinhead, to even notice what is written on the article."
A subtle grin emerged upon her face. She learned back in her chair and
then once again continued counting the foam squares on the ceiling. By the time she got to
the 64th square, she felt a presence behind her, by the time she actually
realized that she might want to turn around and see who it was she heard an nagging voice
asking, "Are you really thinking about submitting this?"
She didn’t even have to turn around. She knew that a voice that
annoying could come from none other than the preppy, straight-laced brown-noser, Bradley
Patrick Wright. Irritated, but not ready to lose her cool over this, she haughtily spun
the swivel chair around and said, "Well yes, Bradley. I’ll be submitting this as
soon as I’m done criticizing the entire student body."
Her words reeked with sarcasm. Brad, pausing for a moment, tried to
ignore what she just said and continued, "You have too many tangents, your knowledge
of grammar is that of a third grader, it is as if you have just discovered what a compound
sentence is and…and… who adds those random adlibs in quotations anyways? This
newspaper reflects the intelligence and dignity of the student body, not a sullen teenager
who likes to write about nothing, Neha."
Extremely vexed by this rude remark, Neha blurted out viciously,
"Well I’m sure the people who are actually compelled to read this thing will
find my blabbering about nothing much more fascinating than your interview with the
principle, Part 2!"
" That’s enough Neha, I’m the editor here and I say you
stick with the subjects I give you. I want a new draft of your supposedly television
review on my desk by tomorrow morning, if you don’t do this there will be
consequences."
"Like what Brad? Are you gonna fire me? Well both you and I know
that I’m the best dam…darn writer you got on this staff. If you don’t have
me than you don’t got anything!" she snorted.
"Well what we don’t need is any more of your rock star
attitude, that is for sure."
"Well fuuu…fine if you don’t want me around I’ll
just leave!"
"You can’t leave now school doesn’t end for another 20
minutes."
"Can’t I? Just watch me."
As she spoke, Neha picked up her black leather jacket and her Dolci
Gabana shades and walked right out the door. As she left she grabbed her flip phone and
softly muttered, "Hey baby, I’ll be around in a minute…yeah the meeting I
had got cancelled…sure the movies sound great."
She walked out the door and forgot to close it. Brad stood behind by
her empty desk and just stared at the swinging glass door. Scott, an athlete and writer
who wrote a weekly sports column, walked up to Brad and said, "Why do you let her
push you around, man? Is she really that good?"
"Yeah man, she really is… she could be famous. You know, one
of those writers for cosmopolitan, but, dude, that girl has her nose so high that you
wonder if she trips over things in front of her. She thinks she is all that and already
fails to remember the little people she had to step on to get her where she is."
"But hey she has got that Joan Rivers additude already? So I guess
that’s a plus," sniggered Scott sarcastically.
"Yeah, if you call being a high class snob a plus than she
definitely has something," replied Bradley as he kept staring at the glass door.
Email the author
main / photos
/ jokes / stories / health / books / opinion / submissions / links / awards / e-mail to editor