School Contest (WIP)

This really challenged me to write something different. Hopefully it holds up so far.

His prattling never ceases to amaze me — another hour wasted on the supposed complexity of high-school football.

A few classmates are listening intently. Jacob, our amiable quarterback, is all ears, blue eyes gleaming with recognition. He’s not a bad kid, but I hate when the torture of small talk drags on.

The room blares hot-white; even the bulletin board is offensive, tacky with its medals of Greenwood High pride, the school mascot heckling with its cartoon grin. It only reminds me of the chirpy, sickly-sweet pep rallies I’ve withstood every year.

*Ring! Ring! Ring!*

For once, science class didn’t drag me to Hell.

I grab my black knapsack and shove in the day’s wreckage: erasers, gum sticks, crumpled papers. My stomach rumbles in sympathy.

Lunch was unbearably short — I’m stuck with the short block. The only thing I had to my name was an overripe banana.

I’m famished, but Mom is ordering pizza tonight. A small treat I’ve been looking forward to.

I sprint down the hall, nearly slamming into the lawn-green lockers. The crowd packs me like a guppy in a sardine tin. For a moment, I think about how scrawny I am—

“Watch it,” someone snaps. I tighten my pace but ignore them. I’ve got to get there before I implode.

Rounding the final lap, I hit the concrete jungle. At last, I slip onto Bus #9 just in time.

Ms. Clarke! I’ll admit, she’s a real treat — frizzy copper hair, indigo glasses, and the mole by her scowl just work. In my head it’s a cigarette; in her mouth it’s always a cherry lollipop.

I can appreciate that she runs a tight ship. We almost always get home on time.

She catches me in the mirror, hazel eyes narrowed.
“Hey, kid. Did the day eat at you that bad? You’re not looking too good.”

She always says it straight, no bullshit. That’s nice. Nicer than the monologues my science teacher, Mr. Barney, concocts.

“Sucked. You can see the eyebags, right? Up until five a.m. And I’m starving. I beg for mercy.”

In my head, I do the little orphan-beggar routine: palms out, muttering, *Please, sir? Another spot of porridge?*

Ms. Clarke just rolls her eyes with a smile and tosses me a small bag of chips.
“Here. Don’t make a mess or I’ll never forgive you.”

Score. Fuel for the trek home. I give her a dorky thumbs-up before I descend to the back row. As much as I love talking to her, I enjoy gazing out the big window at the back.

That’s usually when Lola glides in beside me. We play a more twisted game of I Spy — the kind where it’s not colors or shapes, but backstories we assign to inanimate objects.

The white minivan? Single father of three, struggling to get food on the table. Mr. White is a good, reliable car but he’s cheap.

The stoplight? Obvious anger issues. Can never start anything. *Ba-dum-pssh.*

Lola taps the window, landing on a busted trash can by the curb. “Ex-model. Still thinks he’s hot stuff. Prince-charming vibes — rust and all. Aged like fine wine. Lost the dog in the divorce.”

I lose it, bursting into that hideous, wheezing laugh that makes heads turn. But it’s no worse than when kids like Billy fling rubber bands into the aisle.

When I look at Lola, I see what I always see: someone effortlessly cool. Wavy black tresses, sharp black eyeliner, a regal hooked nose. Distinctive yet chic. People often wonder why she sits next to me.

I glance down at my phone’s reflection, moderately disappointed. Not hideous. Just plain.

Makeup doesn’t work on me. I always screw it up, so every flaw shines through: acne, pores. June humidity frizzes my hair into revolt.

Still, there are small things I admire. My charcoal eyes are big. My freckles aren’t bad. We’ve all got a thing.

The bus lurches to a halt, brakes screeching, and I bid Lola and Ms. Clarke adieu.

Untied shoelaces nearly sabotage my exit, but I manage to fix them once I hit the asphalt.

I don’t even remember the walk home, except the sun beating against my eyes, warm purple specks still galloping in my vision as I open the front door.

“Maude. You’re home.”

Her voice cuts like glass. Chills. I love my mom, but something about her can be robotic. Overt affection is rare; most of her time goes into crafting lawsuits.

I can tell by the tone: I’m cooked. Nothing slips past her.

Ruth is sharp, ambitious, always wanting the best for me. But I prefer when she doesn’t sneak up on me. Usually, that means homework is about to get grilled. Ugh.

The house is too quiet. Even Penny’s abandoned me for her sunspot upstairs. I barely get my sneakers off before the interrogation begins.

“So,” Ruth says, “I just got a call from Mr. Barney. He says you’re nearly failing his class. Care to explain?”

Remember earlier when I said I appreciate Ms. Clarke’s no-bullshit attitude? Yeah, I’m about to be a massive hypocrite and admit I hate it from my mom.

I shuffle around, eyes fixed on the pristine carpet. “I can’t learn in his class. Half the period is sports talk, not science. And the front row? You can *feel* his spit. It hit my glasses. I’m dead serious!”

Ruth raises her eyebrows clinically and pinches her index finger and thumb together. “Lower. Your. Voice.”

The pause feels heavy, like a stone. I have the right to remain silent, but I know I’m obligated to meet her stare.

I finally look up, and she sighs, long fingers dragging down her chin in exasperation. “Okay. I hear you. I agree he should stay on track, but this should’ve been brought to my attention sooner. Got it?”

I nod.

“Good. I’ll still order the pizza, but you know the rules. Go to your room and start your homework. Or do it in the kitchen, I don’t care. But you do have to stay focused.”

Fine. Ruth wins this round.

Pizza is a sufficient offering. It’s like she knows I’m dying.

She also knows I’ll retreat to the sanctity of my room. I’m a hermit crab, and that’s my shell: band posters, lavender walls, a cozy bean bag. This, she allows me. The rest belongs to her kingdom.

Flopping down on the bean bag, I stall my school duties. Penny, my floppy dachshund, finally trots over. I swoop her up and scritch her fur reaaaal good. She does that string-bean stretch, all limbs and trust, and nestles back on my lap.

“Penny, did you know Barney made me listen to touchdowns for an hour? And NOT chemistry? Then, I had the mushiest banana at lunch. You know how I feel about gross textures—”

Then my door gives a slow, long hiss. Jesus. I didn’t even lock it.

“Hey, chickie,” Dad says, stepping in like a badly timed sitcom entrance. “Heard you got wrapped up in some drama with good old Barney the dinosaur. I come bearing a slice of pepperoni for you.”

He’s got that cheesy grin I remember from birthday mornings and courtroom TV reruns. He means well; Dave’s loud where Ruth is precise.

I take the slice because of course I do — pizza is pizza — and because it’s him, trying to make amends. He knows Mom got on my tail.

I chew, taste pepper flakes and grease, and for a second everything settles: school fog, Lola’s laugh, Ruth’s clinical rules. The bean bag caves beneath me like a boat. Penny snores. Outside, the day bleeds into evening.

Finally, I dig through my backpack to start my homework. I make the effort to sit at my desk instead of flopping onto the bean bag — if Ruth caught me there, she’d snap at me to straighten my back.

The hours blur together, unceremoniously. Then: a sharper knock at the door.

That’s Ruth.

She peeks in, sliding through like a gazelle. Blonde, elegant. I get why Dad is still smitten sometimes. I wish I inherited her looks, but I have his goofy face.

“Maude,” she says, “If you’re serious about passing science, I’ll help you. I’ve got a few vacation days, and I want to make sure you complete your final project. Decision’s final.”

“Mom, no,” I say, harsher than I intend. “It’s not just about the project. I can’t learn anything from Barney. And I’m not the only one. Half the class complains about him trailing off-topic. It’s insufferable.”

Ruth plants her hands on her hips.
“Young lady—”

Ew.

“Don’t call me that.”

“—you listen to me. At the risk of sounding old-fashioned, your education is too important to gamble with. To you. To me. This is your last shot. Do you know how hard I work to keep this roof over us?”

Cue the working-mother sermon. I think: *Could the complaints at least be more original?*

“You’re not listening,” I shoot back. “The problem is him. Not me. Him. He spends half the period on touchdowns. Maybe listen to me, instead of focusing on work all the time?”

“I am listening,” she snaps, then falters. “I just—”

“Yeah, you just assume I’m lazy. Every single time. Nothing I do is good enough—” My voice cracks.

“Lower your voice,” she says automatically, pinching her fingers together in that tight gesture of hers.

The pause is heavy. I want to spit back, but the weight of her stare locks me in place.

Something in my silence must help, because Ruth exhales, shoulders relaxing.

“I’m sorry. Maybe that was a little harsh. Even I know I give that speech too often. What do you want to do, Maude? How do you want to handle this?”

The question stuns me. Agency. A gift she rarely gives me.

“Independent study groups,” I say quickly. “I can get Lola to help me set them up, and I know I can do this. We’ll get the work done faster that way.”

Her eyes flicker with surprise, then soften into the faintest smile.
“I like that idea, Maude. It shows grit. Just be sure to keep me updated. Got it?”

Her gaze drifts across the room, landing on my latest drawing. Just some lazy sketches of Penny, nothing special. But she picks it up, studying it.

“I don’t know why you hide these, Maude. They’re better than you think. Remember when you let me hang them on the fridge?”

I blush. I’m too old for that. But praise from Ruth is rare, and it warms something in me.

This reminds me of other times she’s not so distant, like when she plays fetch with Penny in the yard or waters her tulips. And sometimes, when the weather is perfect, she lounges on the lawn in peace.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

She lays the paper down carefully, almost tenderly, then nods toward the hall.
“Now, hit the hay. Or your father will come in and start talking your ear off before he’s even brushed his teeth. We both want to avoid that.”

On this, we agree. The snacks he eats before bed are disgusting — ham and ketchup sandwiches.

What monster puts that together? Obviously, ham is already married to mustard.

So, I hit the hay.
—
Morning. The eyebags are now permanent tenants. Stellar.

Since it’s Tuesday, I know Mom will be at her ballet class. That’s actually a dream she never fully gave up, and it shows in the way she carries herself.

That also means: Dad is in charge of breakfast. Hoo boy.
—
When I head downstairs, Dave greets me in a “Kiss the Chef” apron and Yoda slippers. Yeah.

He makes it a whole production, even though I’m sixteen now. It was cute when I was ten, but at this rate? Ridiculous. I think he slips into these moods because he wanted to be an actor. Real theatrical guy.

Smoke. Smoke from the pan. I cough.

“Maude! Look what I’ve whipped up. Your favorite!”

He presents a paper plate piled with burnt scrambled eggs. With ham.

Uh-huh. Charred eggs and ham. Gourmet cuisine. At least, there’s no ketchup.

“Thanks, Dad,” is all I can manage. Okay, maybe it is a smidge funny. I’ll give him his roses.

And here it comes: Jar Jar Binks voice activated. Please, God, no.

“Mesa Jar Jar Binks. Do yousa want orange juice?”

I almost bolt from the kitchen. I cannot do this. But, dammit.

I giggle. Fine. You got me, old man.
“Mesa want orange juice. Pulp free, of course.”

He beams, thrilled I played along, and pours me a glass like he’s just won an Oscar.