narrative Date: September 2 Who: Lizzie Warnings: None Subject: Lizzie turns in her summer reading "essay" and gets more than she'd bargained for.
"And don't forget your chapter journals for tomorrow! I'll be collecting them," Ms. Prescott called over the din of the bell. Lizzie heaved a sigh of relief. This was exactly the time that she hoped for every single "red" day. An hour and fifteen minutes of study hall, followed by lunch and Cheerios, then environmental studies. Could anything be better? It was basically like getting to goof off for three and a half hours and then take a class she actually loved. As usual, she was one of the first students out of her seat; today she had her two-paragraph essay on Good Girls in hand, ready to be turned in. So she'd half-assed it by not reading the book or bothering to write a decent essay. What was the difference? The essay wasn't worth much of her final grade, and all she was looking to do this year was pass. As long as she could get a cheerleading scholarship to a decent state university with a Tri-Delt chapter, she didn't care.
Or at least, she didn't want to care. It was so much easier that way.
She slid the single sheet of paper onto Ms. Prescott's desk and was about to bolt for the door when the teacher spoke up. "Hold on, you have study hall next, right? I'd like to review this essay with you." She smiled warmly at Lizzie, but it was not reciprocated; how did this teacher know her schedule? And why was it any of her business to pull her out of the only unmonitored free-for-all texting time she got all day? Still, she knew better than to argue with a teacher, so she slid back into a seat in the front row, waiting until the classroom emptied out. "So?" she asked after a moment, watching Ms. Prescott scan the sheet of paper.
The teacher sighed, and Lizzie sat back in her seat, preparing herself for the usual lecture on how she needed to be more prepared for class and how she needed to stop texting and all the things she supposedly needed. All she really needed was to be allowed to enjoy her senior year the best she could, but somehow other people thought differently.
"Lizzie," Ms. Prescott said, with a hint of sympathy in her voice as she shook her head. The English teacher was a tiny woman, barely topping out at five foot two. Her boring brown hair was cut in a boring bob that was streaked with gray, her clothes were boring skirts and blouses that were probably bought at boring Talbots, and her shoes were boring loafers. Could there be a person Lizzie was less inclined to take advice from? "I asked Ms. Pillsbury for your ACT scores and your OGTs from sophomore year." The teacher paused and shook her head again, holding the essay out to Lizzie. "I know you can do better than this, and I know you belong in a more advanced class than this one. Listen, you might think that boys will like you more if you pretend you're stupid - "
"Oh God," Lizzie muttered, rolling her eyes.
"- but you aren't stupid," Ms. Prescott continued, ignoring her pupil's comment. "And you don't have to pretend to be. Lots of well-liked girls are intelligent." She sat down in a desk near Lizzie, giving the girl a smile. Lizzie could tell her teacher was hoping for some kind of tearful revelation - Yes! I do pretend I'm stupid so boys will like me! But from your one encouraging talk that you probably learned at a conference over the summer, I'm going to become the high-achieving brainiac you want me to be! - but she wasn't about to give it. And why the fuck was her guidance counselor, whose job it supposedly was to keep things confidential, giving her information out behind her back?!
Lizzie shrugged and tossed her blonde ponytail. "Awesome, thanks," she said dismissively as she stood up, shouldering her bookbag and smoothing out a wrinkle in her skirt. "Well, I gotta go. Coach Sylvester wanted me to help set up the mats today. Great talk, though." With her fakest smile, she waltzed out the door and toward the guidance office. Ms. Pillsbury had a lot of explaining to do.