Young Writers Society

I’ve never liked Miss A. Not only was she an incompetent teacher and a world-class idiot, but this time she’d gone just a little too far.

I’d worked long and hard on a play for the drama club. It was structured on a student-run basis. How that woman became in charge of anything of importance in the first place was completely beyond me. But she was head of that department, and sure enough my submission was rejected, thrown aside, and forgotten. Miss A was kind enough to personally let me know that she’d chosen another student-written play over mine, and that maybe I’d get it next time.

She’d probably had a brain malfunction after reading words with over three syllables or something. It’s the only plausible explanation.

It was a lazy Friday afternoon, and the sun was still luminous, gleaming through the large back window of the classroom. The students were only half awake as the drama professor stood up on the podium to introduce our next musical. I was seated in the front row, poised and expressionless.

She was petite and blonde, her smiling face oddly round. All she needed was uniform and she could easily impersonate a student.

Really. She hardly even looked old enough to have a license.

“First, I’d like to thank everyone who submitted a play for this Spring,” she began. “We have many talented writers. But there was only one true winner”--I sighed at the ceiling--“So I now congratulate a Miss Marnie Grant for her play ‘Shadows of the Sun’. We are very fortunate to have such a gifted author in our midst”

There was light applause. A girl with glasses and wildly curly hair shuffled uncomfortably in her seat two columns over from me. She smiled shyly at no one in particular, her eyes glued to the floor.

Let’s make one thing crystal clear. Marnie Grant was not an author. Not even close. Wouldn’t recognize originality if it slapped her in the face and threw a party. I read her play. And it was, to put it simply, crap.

Shadows of the Sun?! That--that doesn’t even make sense!

“I hope you’re all as excited as I am,” Miss A continued as soon applause had stopped. “The drama club will be working on this for seven weeks. I hope you all will do your best to help us this”--I raised my hand--“Yes, April?”

“Not to be disrespectful, Miss A, but most of us aren’t in the Drama club,” I leveled my gaze onto her, quite aware that I wouldn’t even be there if the school didn’t make it a point to place us into pointless electives. Something about broadening our horizons in humanities and science.

Like I said. Utterly pointless.

Anyway, theatre was a humungous program of which I was not a participant in. I wasn’t an angtsy drama student. I was an angsty literature student. Huge difference.

Unsurprisingly, she completely misunderstood my comment. “Oh yes, I’m aware. All the more extra hands to help out!”

“Well, yes. Helping out is no problem. It’s just...I feel that maybe what’s asked of us is a tad unreasonable. I mean, we’re required to attend rehearsals after school and participate in the stage crew for just one elective class. We’re as good as in the drama club.” While I was speaking, someone from way in the back had heaved a sigh so obnoxiously loud it drowned out most of my sentences.

My eyes flew to him, and as always, his behavior was accompanied by a series of sniggers from his lot--and more surprisingly, most of the class. Why he generally got so much support from a relatively intelligent and decent group of students I’ll never know. Can’t say I didn’t expect it from a bunch of self-important, melodramatic Johnny Depp-wannabes. But even though he was a well-established asshole, it still made my blood boil to have him mock me in the middle of class.

Miss A frowned disapprovingly, “Enough of that, Leo.”

The lean, dark-haired boy coughed, “I’m Sorry, Miss A--”

“Right,” I muttered, rolling my eyes.

“--That you can’t speak in your own class without being so very rudely interrupted. She clearly knows no better--”

“Leo.” Miss A’s eyes were shut.

“--As we all know.”

I shook my head, my expression a mixture of incredulity and anger. He clearly knows no boundaries! God, he was such an instigator.

“I am not going to repeat myself,” Miss A warned, only continuing when the class responded with silence. I found myself stuck somewhere between anger at being interrupted, and amusement at Miss A serious face, her features pinched, her big blue eyes staring at nothing in particular. Most kids enjoyed being on her good side--and not just because getting kicked out would earn them a nice call home to Daddy, whom sure as hell was not paying forty grand a year so his child could fart around in class.

No, Miss A liked to be friends with everyone like it was some sort of social event and she was the host. Her students usually obliged to her pretty easily. Therefore very soon afterward, she continued to happily blabber about audition dates and costumes and stage crews--which I happily tuned out.

In lieu of actually doing anything productive, Miss A had us each design promotional flyers for the rest of the class, even though the actual production had not begun. Real logical, that one.

When the bell rang and the students were filtering out, I caught her just as she was about step out.

“Miss A, can we talk?”

She set down her briefcase. “Shoot.”

I exhaled, “It’s the play,”

“You don’t like it?”

No.

“Not…exactly.”

“What’s wrong then?”

Just say it. Just--

“I don’t think it’s fit for an entire production. I think the story lacks prose.”

She frowned, “I’m not sure I know what you mean, April. I think it’s a great story,” she chirped.

I sighed inwardly. She wasn’t going to change her mind. She was really going to put Grant’s ridiculous writing in a show. I started to get desperate.

“I’m sure it has all the makings of one…all it needs is a little--“

“I know you’re probably a little disappointed,” she said in a pitying tone that irked me, “But just give it a chance. You’ll probably end up loving it--just as much as I do!”

But--

And she turned on her heel, turning left into the parking lot. Grunting furiously, I pulled the strap of my bag onto my shoulder and stepped out into the sunlight. There was a grassy hangout just outside, the surrounding building a sleek, brick rectangular courtyard in the very back of 70 acres of school ground. Possibly ten students spotted me as I made my way down the walkway. I didn’t fail to notice, however, that Marnie Grant was sitting on a bench reading, just yards away from the classroom entrance. She didn’t look up or act like she heard any of our conversation when I exited, but something about the way she was blinking down rapidly at her book, made me think that she did.

“Charming, isn’t she?” said a soft voice.

Nope, not now. Not now.

I turned to find him with casually leaning against the wall. He was flanked by two other very skinny girls whose uniforms were at least two sizes too small. They snickered at him, but he was not smiling, though clearly amused. He stood with his hands in his pocket, his wavy dark hair falling into his spiteful eyes.

“Save it, idiot. Not in the mood,” I said, beginning to walk off.

“Aw, rough day? Maybe next time you’ll do us both a favor and keep your unwanted opinions to yourself, yeah?” He was nodding.

I snorted, “Didn’t know I was of such interest to you.” The girls exchanged amused looks.

He raised his eyebrows and smiled as he was enjoying his own, private joke. “You are about as interesting as a brick,” he stated simply, “The drama department, on the other hand, is different matter entirely. Meddle all you want, but please do it somewhere else. For god’s sake, you’re not even in the drama club,”

“I know that, genius,” I snapped. “But if I’m forced to be in this stupid class then at least--“

“You know what, whatever. Excuse me,” he rolled his eyes, cutting through me to get to his car, the girls trailing behind.

Painfully aware that this was the second time that day he managed to render me speechless, I huffed and walked the other way.