Ms. O’Brien’S Class

By Tara M. Tamasi

Ms. OBriens Class is a book from the perspective of a 5th grader. The experiences of friendships and seeing people in another light is not always the way they appear to be. The growing pains of these tender years and how they help mold us into becoming better people. How people appear is not always who they are and may surprise you as you get to know why people behave the way they do. Thrown into a situation is sometimes for the better. Of course, being in the city a kid grows up faster than in the suburbs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469193458

Book preview

Chapter 1

Trickles of my sweat dribbled down the back of my neck, and I could feel my tee shirt sticking to my back. It had been stifling in class today, which I think further tested the patience of my embattled teacher. Heh. The thought of her wallowing in constant frustration instantly cheered me.

It was the Wednesday before Memorial Day, 1984, and I was stuck walking home alone because my best friend was absent. So I had plenty of time to think about the past three weeks, which while boring and stressful, had also provided much glee in that my teacher Ms. O’Brien persisted in a fruitless witch hunt. It was her own fault for warning us of her cruel intentions.

O’Brien hated me and my friends simply because we’re the cool kids, and in testament to her hatred, she persecutes us constantly for the smallest of offenses. Three weeks ago Friday, she flat out told us that if anyone exhibited any signs of bad behavior, that individual could kiss his or her fieldtrip goodbye.

My crowd immediately waited for the rest of the school kids to disappear into the freedom of Friday. When the last kid ran down the school’s side stairs, we marched back over and gravely sat down, heedless of the filthy steps that would surely leave a patch of dirt and God knows what else on our butts. We had far more serious problems than mothers made upset by dirty laundry. O’Brien was serious about canceling our fieldtrip, because she lived to harass us. Preventing us from spending an afternoon at Canobie Lake would be a bonanza for her. She really hates us that much.

Well, we couldn’t let her get away with it, and the best way was to present a united front. My best friend Jackie Shanley, fondly known only by me as Jacks, came up with the obvious solution; clearly, we were going to have to behave ourselves from that moment on until the fieldtrip passed.

We sat on the steps, huddled around her as she gravely stood. For the next three weeks, we MUST be on our guard. O’Brien will be looking for any excuse to nail us.

She’s low enough to make something up, Joey Petruzzella spit out his gum. I made a mental note to watch for it when I walked down the stairs at the end of the meeting. All I needed was gum stuck on my sneakers.

That goes without saying, Jacks said, annoyed that she had been interrupted. So here’s what we do, no matter how hard it gets. Azzie?

It was Azzie’s cue to take over. After all, he was our true leader. We all stood solemnly.

Okay. No matter what, whenever O’Brien leaves the room, we don’t throw spitballs at each other or Maria Bambora. We do not whisper to each other. We do not even look at each other. We do not burp or pretend to fart. We don’t pass notes. Instead, we sit like Maria Bambora, and we stare straight ahead at O’Brien’s stupid desk.

Artie doubled over laughing. This is gonna kill her.

Azzie grinned.

Pet said sullenly, I bet she leaves the room all the time, just to try and set us up.

I took charge. Okay. All in favor, raise your right hand and solemnly swear you will follow these rules.

But after the fieldtrip, all bets are off, right? Pet seemed a little worried, and he had good cause. He was preternaturally opposed to good conduct. His temper often flared in O’Brien’s class, especially when she was unfair to one of us, which was just about every day.

As far as I’m concerned, you can do whatever you want on the bus ride home. Just as long as you make the fieldtrip. Now, do we all solemnly swear to be outstanding for the next three weeks, no matter what?

We all pumped our fists into the air and yelled, No matter what! Camaraderie ensued, and I felt excited, as we all slapped five with each other’s palms, thinking we could actually pull this off.

As we filed down the stairs to leave, I stepped in Pet’s gum.

*     *     *

I smiled at the memory of slapping five, especially because Azzie had touched my fist with his. As I stopped at a curb, an old pickup truck passed by, spewing me with hot, noxious fumes. I cursed the driver and continued across the street, anxious to get home and kick off my sneakers. Trapped in sweat socks and sneakers, my feet felt soggy and gross. Plus it had taken at least five minutes to scrap the gum off of my right sneaker. God, I wished I were home right now, barefoot and drinking lemonade as I complained to Mom about O’Brien, instead of facing another ten minutes of walking in this heat. If only Jacks were with me, it wouldn’t be so bad.

I flipped my hair to stir up a little breeze for my neck. As I hurried along, the girl walking ahead of me who had been a mere speck just five minutes ago materialized into Micki Zeller, the biggest loser in school. Ugh. I was happy to see her take a left onto the street where I would be going right.

I gathered all of my hair into a ponytail and fanned my neck. I prayed Mom had thought ahead and made lemonade and had a special after school snack prepared. My mouth was so dry, there was nothing in there to spit at Micki. Ok, ok, I would never spit at Micki. It was fun just to pretend though.

When I spied Mom’s white minivan in the driveway, I almost cried in sheer gratitude and anticipation. I pictured her serving me a cold drink and snack as I captivated her with the only good thing that happened today—the homerun that I had kicked at recess.

Unfortunately, I had no idea my day was about to get a lot worse.

Chapter 2

Mom! Hey Mom! Guess what?! I burst through the front door and practically ran to the kitchen. What, indeed, said the one voice I never want to hear. Phyllis-the-Pillus.

God! After spending a dull day behaving myself and desperately fighting the lull of sleep brought on by O’Brien’s interminable lectures, the last thing I expected when I reached the sanctity of home was company. Mom’s two best friends, Sue Ellen and Phyllis, sat at the kitchen table, which meant they were having a gabfest.

I groaned inwardly, wanting so bad to give in to the temper tantrum that threatened to erupt. I mean, I could only take so much, right? Somehow I managed to quell my rage and settle for flipping my long, dirty-blond hair, which I do whenever I’m impatient, bored, mad, or frustrated. Mom says it’s my most annoying habit.

Instead of basking in Mom’s undivided attention now, today’s exploit at kickball would have to wait until dinnertime, when I would have to compete against my older brother and sister for Mom’s attention. At least I didn’t have to give her friends the obligatory cheek pecks anymore, which suited me fine, because Phyllis’ breath always stank of cigarettes.

Mom smiled at me like she always does, which made me twinge a little with guilt. Jacks practically lives over here, so who was I to begrudge Mom company? Have some milk and cookies, Honey. Then why don’t you go watch TV, while we talk? She nodded at Sue Ellen and Phyllis, then sipped her coffee.

But Mom— Tiffany. No buts. I have company.

Colleen. I’m not company, Sue Ellen protested to Mom even as she winked at me. Sue Ellen was my godmother, and I definitely considered her family. Phyllis, on the other hand… I couldn’t resist peeping at her, and her forehead scrunched into an amused leer as she sipped her coffee. I swear, sometimes Phyllis can read my mind.

I sighed loudly, thinking that this was going nowhere fast, especially with Mom now frowning at me. Aside from her impatience with me, Mom looked relaxed in a blue tee shirt, acid-washed Sasson jeans, and white leather sneakers. I wore a similar outfit, minus the designer label, but after two recesses and the hot walk home, I felt stuck to my back, and I pulled at it impatiently.

Mom and Sue Ellen laughed at something Phyllis said, which I missed because of my tee shirt. Sue Ellen’s short, wavy blond hair frames a round jovial face. Her brown eyes crinkle at the corners, and she has laugh lines around her mouth. Lately, Sue Ellen has a lot of time on her hands, because her only daughter is a freshman in some out-of-state college.

I don’t mind when Sue Ellen comes over, because she’s fun, and Mom always has some special treat available like today’s cookies. Plus, Sue Ellen never cares when I join the adults’ conversation and even takes my contribution seriously. Phyllis either interrupts me or complains to Mom that I should leave the adults alone.

It’s uncanny just how much Phyllis is the opposite of Sue Ellen and I often wonder, like right now, how Mom could be friends with her. Phyllis never smiles unless she’s made a wise remark directed at kids. Her short, straight black hair parts on the side, she’s skinny (but prefers to be called svelte), perpetually tanned to the point of looking fake, and a chain smoker.

One thing I really hate about her is that her top lip curls up under her nostrils, and you see more gums than teeth. She looks almost mannish except that she wears too much make-up. Purple lipstick, purple eye shadow, and black liquid eyeliner, all plastered over foundation that’s far too dark, even for her tanned neck. The foundation, generously applied, actually accentuates the wrinkles at her eyes. Crow eyes, I think they’re called.

If I could tell Phyllis she looks terrible with all that makeup on without some kind of punishment being thrust upon my altruistic shoulders, believe me, I’d help her out. But adults just never seem to think kids are capable of giving sound advice.

Phyllis holds a pretty prestigious position at our local bank, Assistant Treasurer or something, but she must’ve taken the afternoon off as only executives seem to be able to do. Face it, you don’t see a lot of bank tellers or secretaries on the golf course during the week. Unlike Mom and Sue Ellen, Phyllis isn’t married and doesn’t have children. Which is probably why she’s so hopeless with kids, although she always seems to have plenty to say on the subject, usually to my detriment.

Mom, Sue Ellen, and Phyllis are all about the same age, but Phyllis looks at least ten years older, especially with her cake-face and the fact that she’s a smokeaholic. Whenever she lights up, I leave the room because cigarette smoke makes me cough and I get nauseous.

The three of them continued to sip coffee and shoot the breeze while I kissed Mom’s cheek. I sighed again, with more gusto, hoping Mom would relent and give me the floor for a few minutes. Instead, Mom kept talking and Phyllis smirked at me again. I wrinkled my nose in defeat, flipped my hair in defiance, and turned my thoughts to junk food.

A plate heaped with homemade chocolate chip cookies lay in front of Sue Ellen, who shoved a cookie in her mouth, masticated, and then shoved in another. Her coffee brimmed with cream, a light contrast to the black contents in Phyllis’ cup. Mom’s coffee was a normal tan.

For this impromptu social gathering, Mom used her everyday china set, with its matching sugar bowl, which of course was strategically placed in front of Sue Ellen. Pale blue and pink lines streak the white ceramic cups, plates, and bowls. Purple lipstick smeared the rim of Phyllis’ cup. Ugh, ugh, and ugh. I fervently hoped Mom wouldn’t make me do the dishes tonight.

With Phyllis taking a break from smoking, I decided to hang out even if I wasn’t going to be the center of attention. After all, Mom had only suggested that I go watch TV. It wasn’t a direct order. And Phyllis hadn’t complained about my presence yet. Besides, I wanted to grab a few cookies before Sue Ellen inhaled them all, God bless her. Chocolate chip cookies are my absolute favorite, just a notch above oatmeal.

As I disdainfully tossed my Social Studies book on the counter, I noticed Pickles, my Bulldog, sprawled at Sue Ellen’s feet.

Ahem.

Nothing.

Ahem! Not even a glance from his eyes or a wag from the stump that serves as his tail. Only food could supercede me in his affections.

Pickles!

His eyes lazily regarded me and just as quickly returned their adoring attention to Sue Ellen, whom he knows from experience is an easy mark. The brat lay in his most pathetic begging position—on his stomach, with drool dripping on his massive brindle chest. Pickles has a smushed-in white face with wrinkled jowls hanging over his lips. His stern visage, typical of Bulldogs, belies a happy doofus, eager to please anyone for a tid bit of chow. Stubby legs support a chubby, wrinkled brindle body. When he walks, his stomach practically drags on the floor, and Mom is always after us about his diet.

His two worst habits are particularly gross—his farts can empty a room quicker than the spread of a grease fire, and he drools. Constantly. So much that I avoid walking barefoot in this house. The one time I stepped into a slimy mass of drool was the last time I forgot to wear slippers.

With the scent of cookies tormenting Pickles’ sharp sense of smell, enough drool had collected to form a small puddle on the white and yellow diamond-shaped tile below his chin. Disgusted, I scrunched my nose at him. Well, he wasn’t going to get anything today, because everyone knows dogs can’t have chocolate. Evidently, everyone but Pickles.

The color scheme of yellow and white dominates our kitchen—white curtains with dancing yellow lemons hang in the bay window next to our table and the small window overlooking our sink. Our cabinets are light maple, with yellow Formica counter tops. I love hanging out in our kitchen because it’s bright and cheerful and smells like lemon wax, except for when Mom cooks. Mom is a fabulous cook, which is why Sue Ellen shows up a lot.

Today the odor of cigarettes lingered, spoiling the otherwise inviting smell of warm chocolate chip cookies. With the lazy atmosphere, it didn’t appear as though Mom was planning on cooking tonight. Mmmmm, maybe we’d get pizza. With extra cheese, peppers, and onions, yum. If we used paper plates, well, then I wouldn’t mind doing the dishes, even with Phyllis’s disgusting lipstick smear. I would just use a paper towel to wipe it off so I wouldn’t ruin the sponge.

As I grabbed a couple of cookies, I realized that they were discussing Micki Zeller, of all people. I rolled my eyes, remembering how slow she had walked today because she was a fat, lazy loser. Through six long years of elementary school, Mom had nagged at me to be nice to Micki, but it was impossible.

Micki is a geek, although I have to concede that she probably could be somewhat pretty with her blonde hair and her… hmmm. I didn’t even know what color her eyes are. She’s certainly not worth paying attention to. Like I said, Micki’s overweight, and timid, and she has consistently exhibited these undesirable attributes since Kindergarten. Lucky-me repeatedly gets stuck in her class year after year. But she’s so quiet, sometimes I forget she’s there, even though she sits behind me in class.

Really, after all these years, the only memory of Micki that stands out is that she used to suck her thumb. Maybe that’s why her top teeth protrude a little. I remember she stopped sucking, (heh) her thumb anyway, in third grade because Joey Petruzzella made fun of her. He stuck his thumb into his mouth and made loud sucking noises like a pig. Well, our teacher flipped out on him, and Joey Petruzzella had to stay after school for a week.

Incensed at the severe punishment, he blamed Micki and threatened to beat her up. When Micki cried, I actually felt sorry for her, because Joey is one of the toughest kids in school. But by the time he completed his sentence, Joey was already in trouble again for something else, and he forgot all about Micki and her thumb. The moral of this story is that Micki never sucked her thumb again.

She has no friends that I ever noticed. She never raises her hand in class and is always the last person picked for any kind of team activity, whether it’s kickball or spelling bees. Getting stuck with Micki on my spelling team particularly irks me because I know she purposely spells words wrong so she can sit right away.

I always captain a spelling bee, and I have never willingly picked her, but I’ve gotten stuck with her a few times when she was the last choice.

God, Mom, I said, strategically attacking first to avert the same old tiresome why-can’t-you-be-nice-to-Micki-Zeller-lecture. How do you expect me to be nice to someone like her? Like today in kickball, she ducked instead of trying to catch the ball! As usual she made the last out of the game, because she can’t kick the ball past the pitcher. So we lost again. Again! Even though I kicked a homerun!

I paused for effect; actually, I paused so Mom and Sue Ellen could gush over my amazing talent in kickball. When Phyllis’ lips quivered, indicating she was probably about to say something snide, I continued quickly.

And then, this afternoon, I get stuck with her on my spelling team, and she immediately spells ‘medicine’ wrong! But last week, she spelled it correctly on her spelling test, and I should know, cause I checked!

I remembered it distinctly because I had gotten it wrong. But Phyllis-the-Pillus didn’t need to know.

As I stated before, Micki sits behind me in class. Our row abuts the windows, which is the most preferred row in class because it’s harder for O’Brien to see us pass notes. Plus, I can look outside whenever I’m bored, which is often. Anyway, I always check Micki’s papers before I pass them to her. I guess I’m either nosey or just plain intrigued at how smart she is on written exams and stupid in verbal games.

Tiffy, Mom sighed dramatically (I guess that’s where I get it from). Maybe she’s just a little anxious under pressure. Perhaps she simply forgets how to spell words she’s normally acquainted with.

Mom is a brain and uses