Wales Middle School: The Rise of J.Peters

By J. Peters

Sand-filled suburban schoolyards are seemingly one of the safest places for kids growing up. Indeed, that is what the community thought about the playground at Wales Middle School. However, the guidance department, schoolteachers, and administration couldn’t have been more wrong this particular year, as there was a war between two rival factions, the stingies and antistingies—and, to make matters worse, the stingies had taken over the playground.

The stingies controlled the slides, monkey bars, and every inch of the yard. The school needed a leader, and someone willing to take a stand.

One such preteen is a young J. Peters. He will fight against the bullies and want-to-be tough kids on the playground. He organizes the antistingies and starts down a path that would not just retake the playground, but would lead to student council president.

In Wales Middle School: The Rise of J. Peters, school bullies, and teachers without respect for their students get a first-hand taste of their own medicine. J. Peters will stop at nothing to ensure his fellow students are happy, content, and able to play on the swings without fear of harm from others.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781728366197

Book preview

THE SCHOOL BUS AND

ITS MONITOR

September 1996

S EAT BELTS! SEAT BELTS! BUCKLE up, kids!, Margie yelled out each time the bus stopped in the neighborhood and let more Wales students on: Take a seat!, she screeched, as Bus 17 rolled down every street on my side of the school district.

The streets were neither too long nor too short. The town had zoned out construction of all blocks down to the inch, so each street was the perfect length. Meaning, the streets were not so long that you couldn’t get to know all your neighbors, but they also were also not so small that you felt as if you were living in a crowded one-way street with just enough pavement to make a U-turn if you got lost.

In fact, if someone was lost and roaming around the Wales neighborhood, it would have been glaringly obvious. Most everyone knew everyone else, and everyone else knew someone in the adjoining towns of Robbs Rerry and Mastings, which were almost identical to Wales in every way. This is the heartland of wealth outside the big city, and it is reflected in the vehicles parked in every driveway. Each house was owned, not rented, and every property had on average two to three cars parked in its driveway. Well-manicured lawns with a team of underpaid and underclass people were hired to cut and trim the properties throughout the predominantly Caucasian neighborhood.

The school bus usually stopped at least twice on each street to pick up students bound for Wales Middle School. My stop was at the top of my block. I would leave my house, walk a few houses away, and wait on a neighbor’s lawn with a few other kids. Today, as I got on the bus with my brown paper bag lunch, I walked back as far as I could before the seats were filled with other students. I was the model passenger, buckling up the moment I sat down. After all, I was also a well-behaved student, and that behavior was studious and gentle-mannered.

Margie had been also my bus monitor back in elementary school, and Bus 17 was always my bus. I can remember her now, walking up and down the bus aisle. Peering down at everyone’s lap. Bus safety! C’mon kids! Buckle up, Margie would say, as the driver continued picking up students across Wales. Margie was in her sixties, Caucasian, somewhat gentle, and very keen on passenger safety. While I didn’t know her well, I knew her for four years throughout my elementary school career.

The bus driver, African American and somewhat younger, didn’t speak much, but he sure knew the route and never missed a stop. By the time I graduated from Wales Middle School, between the late bus home and days when Margie or the driver were absent, I experienced a wide range of bus workers. Monitors of every shape, color, and language. A wide range of drivers just as diverse, from their choice of politics, to how much crap they took from their passengers when trouble reared its head on Bus 17.

LOCKERS AND ODOR

E VERY DAY, MY DAD MADE me lunch. Usually, it was a complete surprise. He didn’t ask my preference when making it. I would watch him the night before, creating a sandwich with deli meat and bread. Then he wrapped it in tin foil. The sandwich was usually a mix of turkey breast, ham, or