Creative Writing: Idaho City High School

1 I wake with sweat drenching my pillow. As always, night terrors are a recurring part of my morning. One, wake with a sweaty pillow. Two, take pillow cover and possibly pillow to the washing machine for later cleaning. Three, skin care routine. Hygiene is important, no matter what the rest of the guys in our grade say. Four, put on makeup. My mother doesn’t know what I do every morning, for she wakes at 7; me at 5. If only my father was here. He would know what to do. But he left us, and there is no coming back from abandonment. Five, wipe off makeup and hope Mother doesn’t notice my face is red from aggressively wiping it. Six, breakfast. Fruit, mostly. If I feel up to it, I’ll make some vegan pancakes. I try to stay as healthy as possible.
Idaho City High School. Such an original name. Home of the Wildcats. Even more original. The students here are even more stereotypical than the name of the school itself. The jocks are top dogs, and the Goth weird-os are no names. I lay somewhere between the Goths and the Stoners. But my rep has raised since I am the most commonly used target to locker slamming, tripping, and taunting. My favorite joke was when this one person gave me a bendable ruler and said I was about as straight as it. Jokes on him. The ruler was new and wasn’t even bent yet. Idiots. My first class if Creative Writing. It’s the one class I feel safe in because none of my top offenders go to this class, and I am free to express myself without any judgement because only my teacher reads it, my uncle, Mr. Figgett. I’m surprised he hasn’t told Mother yet, because they seem to talk nearly every day. Usually about me, but if I’m lucky, I get to hear the teacher gossip going around, such as the gym teacher, Mr. Shanken, and the art teacher, Miss Abboth, are seeing each other secretly. But here’s the kicker: Mr. Shanken is still married! Apparently he’s getting a divorce, but I’ve met his wife, and they’re all but conjoined by the
Most days I just want to disappear. To evaporate like water does on a hot summer day-quick and unnoticable. But, I like this class, and others already notice I’m here. Everyone loves to snitch on each other, best friends or not. I try to convince myself I will understand it someday, just not today.
“Yep,” is all I manage to say. My mind is wandering off to other things. Other places where I can be treated like an equal. But those places don’t exist, not in this world.
“Today, we are going to start by writing how our morning has gone so far. You have fifteen minutes. If I see anyone’s pencils stop writing for longer than ten seconds, we add one extra minute. Understand?” I’ve never heard Figgett sound so uninterested. It must be his monotone voice that makes him sound boring, but I think he is just sick of us. Sick of this life he has as a high school teacher. I wouldn’t blame him. Hearing the same stuff every day and repeating the same lesson every day, then reviewing several answers to the same question every day must get tedious.
“Yes,” the class says. Mocking his voice in nearly perfect