This is for English and it was a lot of fun to write. I had to choose between various prompts and I chose the one asking us to write about a time when we had misconceived notions about a person. I chose this girl. Now, read.
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“I pooped!”
Our heads snapped up as a screaming Hannah came hurtling down the side of a hill, auburn hair flying wildly behind her like long underwear in an Alberta breeze. The words were waltzing music to our ears, dancing on the off-beat, the popping letter ‘P’ the lifting chord. Again she yelled the words.
I pooooooped.
The ‘oo’ sound she dragged out; it cooed over the hills and marshy land, fluttering through the trees. It was toilet paper that had escaped from the stall by hitching a ride on some unfortunate soul’s sticky shoe.
The moment she was past the make-shift kitchen-upon-rocks and had sprinted head-on over the creek, we were upon her, slapping her on the back, shouting words of appraisal and encouragement and joy. The tents lay abandoned and half pitched. They were not our concern at the moment. Hannah had pooped – the first in four days – and we were very happy for her.
It hadn’t always been this way. Let’s talk six days earlier. That’s the day when everyone had arrived at this camp called Educo. It was a camp void of flushing toilets, running water, electricity and pretty much anything else before the Industrial Revolution. For some – people like me – Educo was going to be an adventure that challenged wits, strength and emotions but we would find it fun. For others, it was a prison, a corrections facility, a place where hopeless parents had sent their juvenile delinquents, shopaholics and drama queens. Hannah was among the latter group. She was from Vancouver. The most depth she got out of life was probably her signature BCBG/Max Azria purse.
I, along with the other girls there for Educo, immediately judged this girl who was constantly whining that there was no cell-phone service and that she had been forced to leave her cosmetics at home. In addition to all this horror, she was also only to wear the clothes her mother had packed. And none of these clothes were fashionable whatsoever. She even had to wear a rain jacket. It was made very clear to us within the first thirty minutes talking to Hannah that Educo was sacrilege – a British Columbian Hell – and that she would never, ever enjoy herself. She would not be cooperative and the baked oatmeal was absolutely inedible. (It was, actually, but after you actually get past the disconcerting texture, it’s not too bad, really.)
I think that every single one of us girls was along the same wave-lengths: This was going to be a very long ten days indeed.
And it was long, thought only for the first two. That first night we went swamp running in a cold, muddy marsh where the mud stuck to our bodies like congealed oatmeal stuck to a bowl. It was in our hair, in our eyes and, worst of all, down our throats. I’m sure one could hear Hannah’s screaming cusses all the way to China. But we put up with none of it and eventually it was just Hannah, her words only her own and our ears not hearing the blasphemy. No one listened.
Soon, when Hannah’s two day rampage was calming down and she was beginning to smile, her cheeks starting to flush a healthy pink (or maybe that was illusion – many of us were already sunburnt as it was), we began to talk to her more than the few basic syllables we’d forcefully exchanged previously. Eventually, she proved to be a person possessing an admirable humour and one who could easily make an awkward or challenging situation into merely a comedy. She became an asset to our team of eight girls and three leaders. She contributed when our morale was down and we broke down in tears, calling for home and our families. We began to love her like she truly deserved and, before long, she became close to us all. She wasn’t just a shallow girl from North Vancouver who liked to shop until her bank-card ran out. She was something much more.
And when she pooped for the first time, it was the sign. The sign that she fit in, that she was our friend and ours alone for another four days.
This was well written and all, but I'm not sure what the significance of Hannah pooping was? The beginning, with her screaming and running down the hill, made me think that she was a very small child, perhaps five years old, but then you mention her mother's bank cards and makeup and stuff. Pooping might be a big deal to a kid, but I'm not sure why it's so special for someone older? 
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