The Absence of My Cupcakes

                I think the focal point of every birthday is one word: cupcakes.  When I awoke in the morning, my dad was half-way out the door.  As he went, he called out, “I bought you some cupcakes.  They’re on the counter.  Eat them for breakfast!”  I would have preferred to stay in bed…

                And I tried to, which was a bad idea.  By the time I  woke up, I had roughly twenty-five minutes until it was time to leave for school.  Somehow, I managed.  I grabbed the cupcakes as I rushed out the door five minutes later than (but still early enough to be on time!) I usually did.

                I never actually got the chance to eat any before first period.  Or during first period.  And I refused to eat any during second period.  (Really, what kind of girl wants to eat a cupcake with five starving teenage boys breathing down her neck, and nowhere near the right number of cupcakes to feed everyone?  That would be ridiculous…and possibly deadly!)  And so I waited.  When third period rolled around, I took them along with me.

                We had been assigned a “work day” for our final papers on The Crucible, so it was supposed to be a fairly relaxed day.  I still didn’t think I could give them away because we still had too many for everyone to get one.  That is until I was schooled in mathematics.  Apparently we typically had seven people in our class.  (Honestly, I have no idea where I got the number eight!)  With one girl absent, the boys (Napoleon, Juan Carlos, Alfred the Moon Cat, and Copperhead) were practically drooling over the cupcakes.

                It should have been no surprise to me that when I returned from grabbing a laptop that the package of cupcakes had been removed from my desk.  I stopped in my tracks.  “Where are my cupcakes?”  There was silence and then a quiet giggle from the other side of the room. Alfred the Moon Cat.  I looked over and saw the package poorly hidden under a stack of papers on Napoleon's desk.

                Rolling my eyes, I snatched them off.  “Honestly,” I shook my head and tried to suppress a smile, “did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

They gaped at me until Napoleon finally spoke up.  “But…but there are enough for all of us!”

                I grinned.  “I realize that.  And maybe, if you’re good, you’ll get one.  But you’ll have to wait.”  And wait they did, until after lunch.  By that time, their ridiculously pouty faces and furtive glances became too much for me to handle, and I gave in.

                Even on our birthdays, when we expect to be the center of attention, when we expect everyone to celebrate “just me,” we are reminded that everyone else wants to be treated special too. Unless we are living in a cave or a cabin in the woods, there will always be someone who wants to “share in your experience.”  Sometimes you just have to give away your cupcakes.  

Je ne parle pas bien français.

I was ready.  Pen in hand, an empty desk beneath my elbows, and sheer determination to ace that French test.  I’d studied the verbs.  I knew it.  Twirling my pen between my fingers, I leaned forward on my elbows as she grabbed a stack of papers from her desk.

I was ready.

She came around with the stack and dropped the packets on to the desk of the girl next to me.  Turning to look at me, she smiled.  (I must have looked rather bug-eyed.)  She placed three on my desk.  I stared at the top sheet.

I could do this.

“Ahem,” a voice sounded behind me.  “Jena, could you maybe pass those back?”

I nodded my head.  “Oh, right.”

Cringing, I passed back the other two.  I could do this.  I just had to wait for the go-ahead.

But it never came.  Instead, a sharp, blaring noise bounced off the walls around us.  Of course.  A fire drill.  Perfect timing…but, I’d been ready!  Dropping my pen on the desk, I stood with everyone else and filed out the door.  The exit nearest to us was blocked off and we panicked like ants about to be stepped on by a big boot.  (We’d always used that exit.)  Mr. Science’s chem class came out and had the same reaction. 

Someone finally pointed us to the front door of the school.  We strode out into the biting autumn air where we quickly formed what we like to call the penguin huddle.  No longer than a minute later, we were waved back inside. 

Up the stairs, back in our seats.  Miss French was the last to enter the room. 

“You may begin,” she told us.

I looked down at the first question.

Translate these sentences from English to French.

      1.)    We are travelling to Paris this winter.

What?  What?  What was the word for winter again?  I couldn’t remember.

I wasn’t ready.

In Memoriam: an ode

            Last week, there was an article in my local newspaper.  Cursive writing is being removed from our public education system in order to make room for everything future generations need to learn to pass state tests.  So, maybe they’ll pass the tests, but what will this do for their futures?  How will they be able to sign for a package or cash a check?  Having already learned the artistic trade of cursive, I can honestly say that I have benefited greatly from learning this “formal style of writing.”  It is a tool, a reference point, a staple to my everyday life, and I’m sad to see it go.  In light of this recent tragedy, I’ve put together a little ode in honor of this old friend of mine.

Cursive writing:

‘Tis me, old friend, saying goodbye.

Your end – it’s so biting

like the frosty chill of winter

or the stab of a freshly sharpened pencil;

your death can only hinder.

We had so much fun, you and I.

From the little loops here to

the slants there, we thrived.

My black inked pen always raced

across the page – left to right –  

and my thoughts held on with the same speedy pace.

My wrist is strong now, thanks to you;

I wiggle my fingers in fine movements,

but trust me when I say it’s not out of the blue.

I practiced and learned all the loopty-loops;

I turned my paper,

and now my handwriting’s slanted, not soup.

But above all else, I can sign my name

on the dotted line or

that paper check, and it’s always the same.

You take the stage in my education,

providing me with increased critical thinking,

comprehension, and participation.

Because of you I have a chance.

As for the rest – you’ve been banished,

And they’re left in a useless trance.