Does She Know?

(Thank you so much for liking my story! I will be sure to keep writing, and if you want me to put up my astronomy essay please comment! Also, if you have an idea for me, I will try to get back to you and write it! This story is centered around a real life class and teacher that I have that is actually for writing. All names/genders etc. are kept anonymous, and are made up. I have some stories that I'm writing from that class, so like this one if you either want more stories like this or one from my creative writing class! Don't forget to follow me! Thank you and I'll stop now.)

:)

On the first day of school, you usually do something like introduce yourself, read some rules, and go over the syllabus. The teacher may tell you what to get. That's been my last two days actually. This is one of three of my electives for this year. My first one I had last period. Spanish 2. And next period I have orchestra. This one is creative writing.

Mrs. Parabens was an older woman who seemed to know what she was doing. The moment the bell rang, she started telling us about the mood of a story, and plot. How to put them together. And instead of writing it down or making us take notes, she slowly paced and walked slowly. Awkwardly. Actually, the class was silent. Nobody was very interested in learning. Nor was she making it interesting. Half the class was zoned out and the other half was dozing away to sleep.

"Remember to hook your reader..." She seemed to have no clue what to do with her hands, or make an interesting statement. Then she handed out paper. We wrote, then she made us trade. This was a continuous project until the bell thankfully rang. Finally, it took way too long. I went about my day, completely forgetting all about that class, enjoying my last few of the day. And the second day of school was over in what felt like seconds.

But the next class period came all too quick and seemed to last even longer than the day before. To introduce herself further, she just had us go around and have us ask questions about her. If we had anybody. Half the class had a question. The other class had none and were just skipped. Including me. My friends talked after school. The class was something I wanted to take. But it is so difficult to remain interested or engaged. Writing is a pass time for me. And it was fun. As long as she wasn't attempting a lesson. Which barely taught us anything.

For a high school writing class, this seemed far from what we should be doing, like this was for a sixth grade course. Not people ninth grade to twelfth. But what did I know? While there seemed to be no clear syllabus or units or lessons, it was fun to just sit and write. It seemed just like an extension of english, and I love my english class.

After about a week of this, we found out that we had already done three units. We didn't get a syllabus, so it made sense. And we moved on to reading short stories. Mrs. P. never wanted to read. Offered, but never wanted to. While the first time I didn't read, I always felt compelled to. So I did. Like she will stand over my shoulder, reading what I'm writing and ask to hear about it. I just gave it to her. I don't want to disappoint her. But I refuse to read my own works aloud. I love annotating, and when I was she asked what I'd annotated. It's not specific. This was a classic, one of my personal favorites. "The Tell Tale Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. I just said I liked it and thus I annotated it.

Instead of just letting it go, later in the class she brought up to me all the things I should read. I don't usually like horror, and the only one that really interested me was another by Poe. "Leave me please! I'm trying to write, like we should be!" my brain silently cried. Thank God the rest of the class distracted her by asking about what she read and liked to read. Sometimes I can't help but wonder if she knows that she's so odd and out of place.

After two weeks of this class, I've gathered she likes older short stories, and actually just having us write short stories. We talk about hooks, plot, mood, and how to create those from other websites or off of videos from online. I love writing. I love what we do. But the silentness, and the amount of times she reads our works or a published authors' work, and asks if it "resonates" with us. Constantly. I'm pretty sure she needs a dictionary on the word. Please learn it I beg you. Most can't, we're too young to understand on an adult level the topics.

Once, I was eating lunch and she just stood there watching us. She said hi to me when I went to get a napkin. I felt so out of place, I grabbed a napkin, and speed walked to my seat. I didn't know what else to do, and if I needed anything else from behind her I just went around her. Not to be mean, but because I didn't know what else to say to her.

I like my teacher, but sometimes she feels a little bit out of place or like she may not quite fit. She was so awkward. It felt odd.

One day, Mrs. Parabens had an administrative visitor. She passed out an assignment, and taught us a very interesting lesson about setting, and how to use it effectively. We took various notes, and filled the assignment. The best lesson yet. We were all engaged, everyone having fun and raising their hand. It was so different. At the end when we were done, she asked if we liked it. And we did. From that day forth, we only has lessons as good as that one.