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Essay for English 10
Writing (or attempting to write) this essay has been a major turning point in my life. As I sit here, sporadically typing thoughts such as, "Ted Kennedy's nose looks like a big cherry," then, being struck by inspiration, revising the sentence to, "Ted Kennedy's nose looks like a big fat cherry with dimples," I realize that nothing much has happened to me. Yes, I'm fairly average; both my parents are alive and separated, so, that's normal; I have all of my limbs intact (whoo-hoo); and I have no life-threatening conditions (knock on wood).
It all started Tuesday in English 10. I was sitting at my desk, recuperating, having just finished the daily language exercises, when it happened: I was assigned this essay. I immediately turned to Larry, who sits next to me, and spewed forth my innermost feelings about the essay in a stream of emotion.
"Huh," I said, not quite able to maintain my normal level of nonchalance, due to my raging emotions.
"Huh," responded Larry. I could tell he was thinking basically the same thing.
"You reckon this'll be due Friday?" There was a pause as he considered my query carefully, picking out every word with painstaking care.
"I reckon so," he finally managed to squeeze out. I then proceeded to verbally abuse my desk, bringing to light its mental faculties, appearance, family history, and morals- I had bumped my knee.
The bell blared out, signaling the end of another day. I waved goodbye to my comrade and made my way through the crowds of angst-filled, My Chemical Romance-liking teenagers to the edge of campus and started for home. I had not gone more than two-hundred steps when I had the strangest feeling that I was being watched. I quickened my pace. There was definitely someone behind me. I tried to catch a glimpse of my pursuer in a puddle, but to no avail. Whoever it was, he was good. I rounded a corner, almost running, and heard clicking footsteps approaching. I whirled around, fists akimbo, ready to throw myself at whoever came around the corner. The footsteps grew louder, then, abruptly, stopped. The head of a chihuahua peeked around the bend. I relaxed and laughed at my own excitability. I gave the pooch a pat, made sure he had a collar, and returned to my original course.
I heard a car approaching from behind me on my left. I looked around to see if anyone I knew was driving it, and saw a familiar shape in the hands of the passenger: it was a gun! I dove into the bushes just as the vehicle passed me. I heard wheels screeching and then doors slamming, then the familiar sound of footsteps- someone was coming. I tensed, ready to pounce when I got a glimpse of my assailant.
"Hey! You in the bushes! We didn't hit you, did we?" I poked my head out of the foliage, spotting the speaker. He was carrying a wheel lock. Emerging from my hiding place, I dusted myself off and replied, as coolly as I could.
"No, no. You missed me. Thank you for your concern." I nodded as I passed, continuing on my way.
The rest of my journey was uneventful. I arrived at my front door, fumbled with my keys, and finally managed to open it, balancing my backpack on my knee. When I had entered and closed the door, I realized that no one was home. It was odd; my step-father was usually home by now. I felt my muscles tense and grabbed a broom leaning against the wall, starting to make an agonizingly slow advance into my home.
"Hi, Ben!" I leaped into the air, letting out a yelp and dropping my makeshift bludgeon. My mother had been in the kitchen, just out of sight.
"Afternoon, ma'am," I shot back, smoothing my ruffled ego.
"Have any homework?"
I grimaced. "Just some stupid autobiographical essay for English, it's not due until Friday, so, I'll do it Thursday night." It was her turn to grimace, and I had a sense of foreboding...
I found myself at the computer soon after, unable to remember much of my long detainment, grueling torture, and daring escape under the pretense of using the restroom.
"Well, what am I going to do," I asked myself. "Nothing ever happens to me." My mind wandered over the events of the day, passing over the chihuahua, killer car, house scare and mother custody as if they were commonplace, and, living in a town like this, I guess they were. "All in a day's work for the Shadow," I chuckled quietly. I was rather surprised at myself; I had handled some dangerous situations calmly and efficiently. Now, all I had to worry about was my essay. "Not a nice thought," I groaned, leaning back in my chair. "I don't have a thing to write about, besides cars, mothers, tiny dogs, angst-ridden teenagers and yelling! LOUD!"
This went on for quite some time, when, in a fit of anger, I attacked my desk with my head and remembered no more. When I regained consciousness, or maybe before, these words were ringing in my ears: "We're capable of more than we dream, Lemont Cranston." I had no idea what it meant, but, I had a fairly good idea...
(Stay tuned to Benjamin C.: Private Eye! Next week's episode: Benjamin C. and the Killer Kazoo of Kuwait!)