I sat on the bench outside the principal’s office. I had already waited for twenty minutes for him to call me in. Apparently, the principal thought that my attitude problem could wait – my teacher did not.
“Dear, the essay was due today,” she had said, pointedly slowing her words.
“Do you think I care?” I had replied.
She was taken aback, but continued. “Why did you not write the essay?” She then raised her voice so the rest of the class could hear. “Is there something going on at home?”
“Yes, I bully my parents into giving me five dollars every week.” Ms. Feist did not find my clever remark entertaining. I have diagnosed her to have a lack of humour.
She was not deterred, and persisted. “Dear, did you forget to do the essay? You should have been—” she paused for dramatic effect, “—responsible.”
I hate patronizing people. “I’ll be responsible when you realize that essays waste paper and kill trees. That intensifies global warming, and despite your beliefs expressed in yesterday’s seminar, it is real. Then we will all die when the elephants take over to save the environment. Furthermore, I do not think that you want ‘died of wounds inflicted by a paper cut,’ written on your tombstone.” She then demanded that I go to the principal’s office.
And here I am, waiting for the principle to call me in so that we can discuss my attitude problem. I wonder what will happen. I am a great actor, and situational improvisation is my forte. I shall make a long speech about why I am the real victim in this situation, climaxing in a fit of indecipherable shrieks.
I can imagine myself towering over the principal as he cowers in the corner, telling him of how Ms. Feist has emotionally abused me since the beginning of the year. If he gives me detention or suspends me, I will call my lawyer, and sue the school for psychological damages.
If he is in a bad mood and begins to yell at me, then I will dramatically break into tears. I will make up a lie about my parents getting a divorce, my best friend moving away, or that I didn’t make the soccer team.
I begin to laugh to myself as I formulate more clever plans. I’ve already written the script in my mind, and I am ready to perform.
The door opens, and the principal, a stocky bald man, ushers me into his office. I crack my knuckles as I walk in. This will be fun.
