Short Story Contest Winner

Smiling sweetly and fakely, I stared at my teacher. This was just great. School sure hadn't gotten off to a good start. Actually, that was an understatement. What happened was . . . well, let me start at the beginning.

It had been summer. There was nothing wrong with it. I wasn't even bored with it, like the books say kids get by the end of that wonderful season. Beautiful, glorious summer. Of course, I could have done without the heat.

But you can't have everything. Then school started. There was everything wrong with that. I was bored with it, like the books say kids usually are.

At least the authors got that right. Ugly, disgusting school. And of course, as it had to happen, I was new. My family had moved from St. Louis, Missouri, the Show Me State, to Austin, Texas, the Friendship State. I hadn't liked school very much in St. Louis.

But that was only because it had been too easy. It just wasn't my level. The teachers were, on the whole, fine. These teachers were . . . well, let's say . . . less than fine. But tomorrow I did have TAG to look forward to . . . . Smiling sweetly and fakely, I stared at my teacher, Mrs. Wiese.

"Now, class, I am about to give you your first essay assignment! Isn't that wonderful?" My face contorted strangely. I had a weirdo for a teacher. In big, sweeping letters, she wrote on the board, "What I Didn't Do This Summer." "Have you all read that, class? That is what we are going to write about. I know ya'll hate those 'What I Did This Summer' assignments, so I just went ahead and switched it." The other kids, my "peers" as Mrs. Wiese called them, were chattering excitedly. At least, most of them were. I certainly wasn't. "What I Didn't Do This Summer." What an assignment! There were any number of things I "didn't do this summer." Such as . . . float down the Nile, or go on a rocket ship to the moon. Read A Suitable Boy (my mother wouldn't let me, "When you're older"), or learn to play a lute. I would like to do that, though . . . .

"Children, listen up! This essay must be no more than 100 words, spelling and grammar do count, and it must be in . . . Oh, dear, there's the bell. Well, go home children, children, go home. You wouldn't want to be late! Good-bye!" Grinning, I realized I had a great idea. It was fabulous! It was superb! It was . . .

"Garbage. Katie, this is abolute garbage. Remember, it was an essay. Not a poem. Not fiction. And if you will recall yesterday, the subject was "What I Didn't Do This Summer." This work will be . . . an F."

An "F." With a capital "F." I had never gotten a grade that bad. What if my TAG teacher was like that? "OK, Katie, you can go to TAG now. Ask Mrs. Flanagin what's wrong with your writing, I can't be bothered." My nose prickling, I rushed to the TAG room. As I was the first one there, I went right up to Mrs. Flanagin. A plump, round woman, with a sweet, grandmotherly face. "Maybe this won't be so bad after all," I thought to myself.

Gathering my nerves, I quickly asked, "Mrs. Flanagin, I'm Katie Van Winkle. Mrs. Wiese is going to give this poem an F. Do you know what's wrong with it?" Mrs. Flanigan quietly scanned my writing. "Why, Katie, this is a wonderful poem! I don't see what in the world could be wrong with it. I'll go over to talk to Mrs. Wiese right now." As she left me with my poem in my hands, I smiled sweetly. Not fakely. I had found the perfect teacher for me.