Tyler glared at his detention slip and then at me. “What are we going to do?”
I stared at my own slip. My stomach churned. Getting in trouble was new to me. I didn’t like it. “Detention is the same time as practice.” I sighed wondering how things went so badly so quickly. “No practice means we can’t play in this week’s game. We go to practice.” I shrugged trying to convince myself of my own wisdom.
Tyler shoved the paper in his pocket. “Okay,” he said with a nod. “Let’s do it.” We turned and headed towards the locker room, each step taking us away from our appointed punishment.
The day had unfolded like any other. We slogged through our classes and watched the clock tick down to the end of school and start of practice. But in fifth hour, where we expected the unexpected, Mrs. G. opened with a rhetoric-filled monologue about the superiority of women that reduced us guys to a little lower than dogs. She tore apart each one foolish enough to take her bait and try to debate the issue. One guy finally snapped. “You hate men and don’t want us here!”
“Well, if you boys don’t want to be here,” she said with a smug smile, “feel free to leave.”
The male half of the class stomped out. We flocked as a group to the library but the librarian kicked us out for being noisy. Next we headed to the gym and the phys ed teacher kicked us out of there, too. It was in the hallway arguing over our next move – perhaps a bit too loudly – when our principal, Mr. Cooper, intervened.
“Mrs. G. kicked us out of class.”
He shook his head. Well-known for her unorthodox methods and protected by tenure, our report didn’t faze him. He let out a slow sigh.
Surely she’d have some explaining to do to correct our blatant misrepresentation of the facts. But she could more than hold her own against Mr. Cooper – or any other man for that matter – and would relish the opportunity to do so.
He wrote down our names and assigned us all detention for being in the halls without a pass. Then he sent us to the cafeteria to wait for the bell with a stern warning to not “cause any more trouble.”
In the end Tyler followed my lead to ditch detention and go to practice.
“Don’t let her get to you,” one of our teammates advised. “She just wants to get under your skin.”
As if we had a choice.
The next day Tyler and I were slapped with a double detention, along with the implication that if we missed this one we’d be sitting out the rest of the season. I begged Mr. Cooper for a creative solution that would allow Tyler and me to serve our punishment without missing practice.
I must have been convincing. Mr. Cooper offered that in lieu of detention we could write a 500-word essay – handwritten, to avoid copy-and-paste plagiarism – on the necessity of rules in relation to education. I grabbed his offer.
“Have it on my desk by the end of sixth hour, and you can go to practice.”
“We’ll do! Thank you!” We scooted out of his office before he could change his mind or add another stipulation.
Tyler glared at me. “You know I can’t write. I haven’t written that many words all year.”
“It will be easy.” I tried to sound upbeat, realizing I was an honor roll standout while Tyler struggled to pass.
“Yeah, for you. You’re the writer.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re the only one I know who actually likes essay questions.”
“Well sure. Give me an essay question, and I’ll ace the test.”
“See you are a writer.” Tyler smirked.
I wanted to argue, but he cut me off.
“Who else writes poetry for fun or book reports they don’t have to? I rest my case.”
* * * *
By third hour I had my paper done and then some. But Tyler stalled out at 117 words.
“Tell you what, I’ll dictate, and you write what I say.”
Tyler rolled his eyes but nodded. His shoulders sagged as tension escaped his body with a deep sigh. For the first time that day he smiled. We worked through lunch and resumed during study hall. At about 450 words Tyler declared it was good enough and wrote “The End.”
We presented our work to Mr. Cooper. He glanced at my submission and nodded. Then he scanned Tyler’s paper, thumbing through the pages. “I’m impressed,” he said to Tyler, who was holding his breath. “Well done boys. Have a good practice.” Mr. Cooper even smiled.
I was hoping for some feedback, maybe even a grade, but at that point I knew he would just toss our papers into the wastebasket.
That day was the first time I ever wrote for someone else, but it wouldn’t be the last. Getting out of detention birthed my career as a ghostwriter.
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 