Young Writers Society

I stroll to my favorite and first class, Creative Writing. I want to be an author or a journalist of some kind along with an artist. However, I cannot even draw a stick figure correctly, much less draw a tree. I find the colors of a painting and the smooth movement of the pencil or paintbrush soothing. Being able to express myself through words or pictures speaks volumes to my heart and mind.

Sitting in the first row, some students are already in the classroom. I settle in and someone behind me launches a spitball. The spit soaked paper lodges itself in my thick, curly brown hair, tears burn the rims of my eyes. I attempt to shake the spitball from my hair; I do not want to touch it. I see it fall onto the floor; I dare not look back for I know the person would shoot another one in my face.

I exhale and push the tears back just in time for the other students to flood in. Half of them are wearing their military uniforms with a red stripe on the sleeves of their jackets, stating they are a part of the Youth Group.

The Youth Group is a group that looks at young teenagers who are struggling in life and try to create order for them. The Youth Group has some of the higher classmen in as well for military purposes and to enforce the school's policies and rules. The Youth Group also makes majority of the rules for Angelwood ---with the Principal's acceptance of course.

The Professor, Professor Yakcori Mitchell enters the rowdy classroom and calms the talkative class down with a few hand gestures. Professor Mitchell wears square glasses and hipster clothing, and probably hangs out in Starbucks while he blogs on his Tumblr account, or at least that is what I imagine him doing on his days off.

"Creative writing students, I have got some of your papers graded . . . well . . . all." He goes around and passes them out. "Some of you did exceedingly well. While others need to do a lot better than what I have seen." He hands me my paper and compliments, "Excellent job, Sirrah." He goes on handing out the other papers.

"Smart ass!" Someone coughs and the class titters.

"Class! At least, she is passing unlike half of you noobs in here. It is writing and elementary school grammar, I do not understand how some of y'all are not passing. Like, how do you get a period and a comma mixed up?" He flips through some of the pages and picks one, "Oh, how do you not know how to spell the simplest of words? You people, are what? Eleventh and twelfth graders? Right?"

He gets a nod from some of the students.

"Alright," He continues, "then why do I have to explain periods, question marks, commas, and exclamation marks? And you people have the audacity to pick on Sirrah. But, hey, like some of you say, that's none of my business." He snaps a little.

I smirk a little at Professor Yakcori's rant. Secretly thanking him for standing up for me. I normally stand up for myself, but it would result in the bullies coming back to me with worse things to say about me and to me.

Therefore, I just quit and ignored them, most of them. Sometimes it works, other times it does not.

I look at my paper on being alone and scared; a personal experience I go through every single day. The only difference between the girl in the paper I wrote and me is; the girl actually finds friends in the end who love and respect her.

I smile at my grade of 100, set my paper to the side, and wait for Professor Yakcori to go on with the class.

Professor Yakcori stands behind his desk which is to the left of the classroom, just as he is about to open his mouth, the classroom door burst open. In comes, the secretary of the front office, Mr. Eastwood.

"Mr. Yakcori?"

Mr. Yakcori shifts over to Mr. Eastwood in his chair, they whisper some words, and Mr. Eastwood peeks his head out of the classroom.

Enters a new student, a male nonetheless.

Seems like we get more troubled teenage boys than girls around here, I think to myself.

I can hear the girls murmur and swoon over the new, Hispanic male student. I identify the male as the young man who face planted in the doorway when I went to get Sydnie last night. My eyes widen in hopes he does not remember me.

"Thank you," Mr. Yakcori says.

He did look a whole lot better than when he was drunk and disorderly last night. His round cobalt-blue eyes, luxurious, straight, jet black hair is neck-length, athletic build, and skin is nut-brown. I can understand why the females are acting like straight fools.

Without the drunken way he looked last night, he did not look too bad. My mind whirls at the new student's charming manner.

Mr. Eastwood leaves and closes the door gently behind him.

"Okay, class. We do have a new student." Mr. Yakcori says as he stands up and pats the young man's back. "Take it away."

"Uh. Hi, my name is Cole Santiago. I am 17 years-old and I moved here with my family three weeks ago. Uh . . . t- that's it." He stammers nervously.

Mr. Yakcori went on, "Great, let's see." He looks for an empty seat.

Some of the girls' wave their hands wildly for Mr. Yakcori to have Cole sit by them.

Mr. Yakcori sighs, "Just pick a seat somewhere." Not wanting to be bothered to help him find a seat.

I can hear the girls now shouting for him to sit by them. Cole sits behind me instead and they groan in disappointment.

"Hey, Santiago. You might want to move. Don't wanna catch a disease." A female says and some of the students laugh uproariously.

My face burns with embarrassment at the comment.

"Tannya Turner, front office now," Mr. Yakcori demands, his face red with anger. "You know better than that. As a matter of fact," Mr. Yakcori stands up, "you all should know better. You, youths are old enough to be able to understand that bullying is not allowed here. No matter how much you dislike the person. No matter how different the person is. If you have nothing nice to say to them, then do not say anything at all." He lectures.

Mr. Yakcori puts up with many things from many students. However, bullying is the number one thing that he and all the other teachers at Angelwood Academy do not tolerant, jokingly or not.

Tannya mumbles angrily as she gathers her things. Before leaving the room, she stops at my desk. I look up at Tannya who is holding back the tears that threaten to fall from her amber eyes.

"I am sorry for what I said, Sirrah." Tannya apologizes then leaves the classroom.

The apology shocks the students that know Tannya inside and out because Tannya never really delivers a true apology to anyone. Even I am in shock; no one ever apologized to me for making me feel bad. I do remember her and I speaking at one point, she told me she only apologizes when she knows she is wrong or when she is forced to do so. Now, everyone wanted to know why she decided to apologize to me.

Bullying around Angelwood is a lot popular than many of the teachers actually believe it is. Due to the increasing of students and decreasing of teachers, the population of students is just too big to be constantly watched over. Knowing this, the students began their reign of terror on the weak and unsuspecting.