Staring incessantly at the paper wasn’t going to change anything. The background noise of other students thundered around her, reaching an almost fortuitous pitch. She blinked several times as if it would change the outcome, change the grade in red…”F”. Yes, the assignment had been easy. Relatively speaking, it was a breeze, completed in less than a half hour. She deserved an “A”. Yet, here she was, staring at the other end of the grade spectrum. The red ink seemed to seep into the paper, mocking, snickering at her, etched like a carving on a wall. She perused the paper quickly. Her glances were without depth or purpose. Scralled in large letters, right side, top right, at a slant –
PLAGERISM WILL NOT BE TOLERATED!
Plagerism? Her breath oozed from her body in a slow sigh. Ms. Wilkens thought she had plagerized her assignment? Was she kidding? What the fuuu…? She hadn’t copied anyone, but it was a rush job, no big deal. It had taken her twenty minutes tops, to jot her feelings on paper, sitting on the backyard cold cement, last step, opening her legs comfortably and placing her hands on her knees, head between her legs, alone, after school, watching and so engrossed by the ants beneath her. The heavy line of black slowly inching by with goodies for the Queen. The prompt had been simple…just her thoughts on paper.
She closed her eyes and opened them, as if doing so would make the grade change. Her thoughts ran rampant, disjointed, one after another…how could she possibly think Journalism was a major she could entertain on a good day? Surely Ms. Wilkens thought she had no interest in Literature. She squeaked by Composite Writing, but Creative Writing? It was an elective. A course she had convinced herself would be easy and fun. She thought this class would allow her strengths to surface, bleed through. But a freakin’ F? SHE. DID. NOT. DESERVE. AN. F!. This was HER work she had written, not copied! What kind of an imbecile would think she would try and get away with plagerizing an assignment?! Ah yes. The crazy lady, some called a teacher, standing at the front of the class.
Maybe most would think the prompt she assigned was hard work. But, what did that have to do with her? It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t even a little difficult. It was easy. Pure, unabashed enjoyment. If she kept getting F’s however, it was going to turn into misery. Isn’t this the same thing she thought about Linguistics her Sophomore year, and Criminal Justice her Freshman year? How about you quit changing the majors, and realize you don’t really have too much you’re actually good at?
She bit the cuticle of her index finger, wondering when her finger had reached her mouth without her knowledge. She pulled the skin back with her teeth roughly and then glanced at the blood pooling and coagulating at the corner of her finger. The sting and nagging throb made her wince slightly.
Ms. Wilkens’ voice hovered, barely audible with its droning cadence. On, and on, and on, and on, never stopping like the steady drip of a faucet. Torture. Sixth period…Drama. Not exactly a class she enjoyed, but escapism was easy there. It was the end of the day, and this “F” fiasco was pushing her to be alone, to crawl into her cage, alone, alone, alone, to lecture and criticize herself just one more time, just one more time. If she was more secure, maybe even confident, she would march over to Ms. Wilkens desk and have a word with her. If she was more secure, Ms. Wilkens would listen and nod her head. She would say it was her mistake, and change her grade on the spot. She would comment on her absolute lapse in judgement and ask for forgiveness because that’s what intelligent people do when they make an error. They admit when they’re wrong. What did that make Ms. Wilkens? Unintelligent? Stupid? Intimidating, certainly. She yielded her bravado like she held a sword, slashing and stabbing at unsuspecting victims, catching them without warning. She never stabbed just once, she lunged again and again with equal force, never letting her opponent recover. Quite a feat. But as a bully, it made her a coward, one in which Myra refused to face on her land. She had a high proclivity toward her “favorites”, her pet rabbits, who watched, as others were devoured by her powerful will. Better to let it go (like always) and move forward. Perhaps convincing herself that Journalism was a pipe dream, like everything else, was the best way to go. It wasn’t rocket science, just safe preservation, and she felt her anxiety shift, as she embraced her decision.
She listened as the bell shrieked loudly, and she vaguely caught sight of her fellow indentured students shuffling out of the classroom, laughing, talking, oblivious to her, as her feet seemed to be magically glued to the floor. Her backpack had been kicked by the stampede herding towards the door.
It now lay strewn on its side, balanced by the leg of the desk, next row over. Her straggled strawberry blond hair hung in her face, covering her pimpled forehead, her eyes darted towards the carved heart on her desk.
STACEY AND LUKE FOREVER
They were probably long gone from high school. Lucky them. How many places had this desk been before she sat in it, learning the history of Stacey and Luke. She pulled her eyebrow, pinching and twisting it between her index and thumb until it hurt. The pain, a familiar reminder of failure and death to succeed. Dreams come and lost, gone in a moment.
Tucking her hair behind her ear, she slowly gathered her books, silently leaning down to scoop up her backpack. She languished as she unzipped her pack, stuffing her books inside with purpose. She glanced once again at the paper she clutched tightly in her hand, the “F” still taunting and teasing her unmercifully. She crumbled it slowly with one hand as she stood, hoisting her backpack over her shoulder.
She faintly heard Ms. Wilkens addressing her as she slothed her way to the door. “Myra! Did you need to speak with me?”
She shook her head quickly, her hair rustling around her like a horse’s mane. Her eyes remained downward, never forcing herself to meet Ms.Wilkens’ eyes. There at the door exit, she noticed the hard Rubbermaid black plastic wastebasket. It was brimming with papers, food wrappers, a plastic cup, and a blackened banana peel dangling on the brim of the can.
“Myra?” Ms. Wilkens beckoned as she stood at her desk, pulling her sword ready for death. “We can talk about this young lady. Running from something like this never solved anything! In college, this is cause for immediate dismissal! I don’t accept plagerism in any form. You are a junior and it’s high time…”
No more. No more words, please! Her ranting and raving, brandishing her sword with her vile words. The need for quiet was closing in, heavily, like a yarn spindle whirling and moving, tighter and tighter. Her voice was like her mother’s, never stopping, never listening, always right with indignation, always smarter, more gifted, more knowledgeable, more successful, with a lack of sensitivity. It was an undercurrent of friction, like an electric current striking its victim over and over until there was no life left in them, until death. The remains? A carcass, the leftovers, waiting for the vultures to feast.
Myra dropped the crumpled paper from her hand into the wastebasket hoping to avoid her teachers yell. “Myra! Are you ignoring me? Plagerism is a very serious offense!! Myra?!…
Head down, eyes closed, she pushed on the knob of the door ignoring the yelps from her rear, stepping into the hallway, she closed the door gently behind her. She blew out the breath she never knew she was holding. Her puff of air released, it seemed to revitalize her as she walked quickly to her last class of the day. Her final thought towards Ms. Wilkens…
To fear death my friends, is only to think ourselves wise, without being wise: for it is to think that we know what we do not know. For anything that men can tell, death may be the greatest good that can happen to them: but they fear it as if they knew quite well that it was the greatest of evils. And what is this but that shameful ignorance of thinking that we know what we do not know?
Socrates
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 