A Diary of a Private School Kid

by Penn Brooks

  I contend that it not only provides a source of entertainment during life’s most boring moments, it is also somewhat educational. My parents told me that I have to actually watch educational programming for me to make that argument.

  I contend that The Real Wizards of Beverly Hills teaches valuable lessons in social interaction.

  I find it very hypocritical that my parents have taken such a negative stance toward television. Whenever the first of the month comes around, they do nothing but encourage the watching of it.

  During the week, most of my free time is ruined by homework. Since I don’t have any reliable friends, I have to do it all by myself. Most of the other kids use their bus buddy to divvy up the workload. It’s a smart tactic, but one that I can’t use (since I lack said buddy).

  When there is a light amount of homework, I can typically fly through it in a half hour. My mom or dad check it and then I can go on my merry way. On nights where I have a heavier load, especially with harder material, I am parked at the kitchen table until supper.

  I try to enlist the help of my parents and trick them into giving me the answers.

  But they picked up on that long ago. I feel like I’m a smart kid, but my homework certainly doesn’t reflect that. After 6 hours of school, my mind needs to rest and charge its battery. Homework prevents this from happening. I get home and all I want to do is relax. My little sister will bounce all over me and want to play. I’d almost consider playing dollies if it got me out of homework, but it’s no use. Within minutes of coming home, I have my papers out and ready to start.

  My dad owns a business where he divides a lot of his time between the office and home. When he is working from the house, he sets up at the kitchen table and works right alongside me while I’m doing my stuff. I’m not quite sure what he does exactly, but usually it’s very intense.

  My mom is a part-time nurse and works three nights a week. Those are usually the same days my dad works from home. It’s kind of funny that it’s either one or the other who is home during the week. Actually, now that I think about it, I rarely see them together. I’m sensing some type of secret identity happening here.

  Those times when the family does manage to get completely together, it’s always somewhat awkward. My mom insists we sit down and have a family meal (that nobody else wants to have) and talk about each other’s lives. What makes it so uncomfortable is that she goes to these index cards filled with conversation topics. She’s not limited to using them at home either. She will pull them out at a restaurant too.

  My dad always ends up either talking or texting on his cell phone about halfway through dinner because of business. Mom will go crazy on him that he is not engaged in the conversation.

  Then he will go on talking about how these calls and emails are what enable them to have meals like the ones we are currently eating. Then my mom will say that she works too, and pretty “darn” hard. So they end up fighting and Sam and I giggle at each other across the table because we know we don’t have to answer any more stupid questions.

  Over the summer, my mom strives to do more than just have a dinner to bring the family together. She spends months in advance planning a vacation for the four of us. This always results in a huge backlash from the rest of us, because our ideas of vacation vastly differ.

  The word vacation sends images of huge roller coasters and water slides racing through my head. I can’t contain the excitement of a road trip to Florida.

  But as my mom’s planning unfolds, she starts sensing the need for more “education” to make the trip worthwhile. So our road trips typically bring us back in time.

  On a more regular basis, it’s difficult for the family to agree on a group activity. On the weekends for instance, everyone scrambles to fit in all of the activities that they wanted to do themselves. For my dad, that is work on house projects.

  My mom tries to find a quiet place to read her books that we’re not allowed to touch or sometimes even look at.

  My sister’s routine is not all too different. She runs around like a maniac no matter who is home and no matter what day it is. Her behavior is slightly more magnified on the weekend, because no one else is paying any attention to her. The house becomes as wild as the jungle.

  She is not the average four year old. She is regularly starved for attention and struts about the house banging pots and pans so we notice.

  However, my parents instruct me not to give her the attention she seeks. The theory is that ignoring undesired behavior will encourage the person to stop doing it. Does that work? Nope. She just bangs louder.

  So while my parents try to escape somewhere and hide, I am usually left keeping “an eye” on my sister. But if I decide to build things with my Legos, she finds a way to break them apart. If I decide to doodle on some paper, she nudges my arm so I mess up. If there is a video game I want to play, she usually interrupts with random button slapping or remote control nabbing.

  My pleas for someone to intervene are usually not heard.

  Which means that I am the only person in the family who never gets to do what I want to do. This has become my life, week in and week out.

  When Have Your Actions Led You Astray?

  I once had the brilliant idea for getting out of the house on a Saturday and have the day all to myself. For weeks, I hinted at a BIG science project that was coming up, and I had to do some research for it. I suggested to my parents that on one of the upcoming Saturdays they drop me off at the public library to work on it.

  The library happened to be down the street from a huge electronics store. My plan was to ditch the library when the coast was clear and mosey on down to Good Buys to play their demo video games in peace.

  That Saturday finally came and my dad volunteered to bring me. He dropped me off out front. He told me that he had errands to run and would be back in two hours. Perfect! I filled my backpack with a bunch of books just to make sure I looked good and ready to study. I probably went overboard, because even the short walk into building made my back ache. I waited five minutes for good measure (my dad likes to check his cell phone for emails and messages whenever he has the opportunity). I peaked my head outside and he was gone. Time to go play!

  I got about a hundred feet from the exit when I realized a small monkey wrench in this plan. There was no way I would be able to enjoy myself for two hours with the huge bag on my back. Plus, Good Buys doesn’t have any chairs set up at their store for video game play. I didn’t want to be standing around with this thing on for that whole time. I had to go back.

  I set my stuff up on an empty table and made sure it looked like I could come back at any second. I even started writing a paragraph on a blank page in my notebook and left the pen on that page. This was a nice touch. Thirty minutes had gone by, but there was still plenty of time to play.

  I didn’t anticipate the distance to be quite so far. Usually when we drive downtown, the distance between the library and Good Buys whizzes by. I thought it couldn't be more than two blocks. Maybe it was the humidity taking its toll. Perhaps it was the fact I miscalculated and the distance was more like five blocks. Whatever the case, it took like fifteen minutes to get there.

  When I entered the store, I wasted no time and made a B-line to the video section.When I got to the game section, I found the coolest demo possible and grabbed the controller. No one would be taking it from me for the next fifty-eight minutes.

  I played for a solid three before I heard the worst possible set of words you could hear in my situation.

  My dad was there! Good Buys was on his errand list? Maybe he was shopping for me? Nope! There wasn’t a holiday or birthday in the foreseeable future. This trickster of a father of mine was using my study time for his personal gain. How dare he!

  I freaked out. I couldn’t make it down to the other end of the aisle before they rounded the corner. The only thing I could do was dive behind some video game chairs set up across from the demo.

  There I sat as my
dad and the salesperson walked down the aisle. My dad seemed to take some particular interest in the video game that I had just been playing. Maybe interest is too weak of a word, because my dad became engrossed with the demo.

  I spent the next forty-five minutes crouched behind the boxes across the aisle, waiting for my dad to get bored and to move along. He never moved. Actually, it was pretty impressive how well he did on the game. In that time, he beat three levels and unlocked a few hidden treasures that I never even heard of. I’m starting to wonder if the reason why he’s always telling me to get off the video games is so he can play himself.

  The salesman urged him a few times to see other set-ups and even try other games, but my dad had none of it. He was like a man possessed on that controller. The whole time, my back was growing sorer from crouching under the shelf and my butt was starting to go numb.

  Finally, as it came closer to the time he had to leave to pick me up, he graciously thanked the salesman for his time.

  When they walked away, I burst out from behind the boxes ready to sprint. I needed to beat my dad outside, but the first stride I took sent me collapsing to the ground.

  Both legs were fully asleep!

  I shook them like crazy to get the blood flowing back into them. A man walked by with a frightened look on his face, shielding his young son from the sight of me.

  By the time I got my feet to stop tingling, it was too late. I ran to the front of the store just in time to see my dad get into his car. At that point, I should have cut my losses and admitted to the charade. At least this way, I would have had a ride back.

  But that’s not how it happened. At that moment, I was sure I could sprint back to the library faster than he could drive there. Three traffic lights stood in between Good Buys and the library. I was counting on a little help from the big Guy upstairs to make those lights red for as long as possible. And so, without any more hesitation, I darted off down the street.

  But then it began pouring...

  Do you know how hard it is to run in the rain? First, your clothes get wet, which is uncomfortable in itself. Then as they become soaked, they get incredibly heavy! It’s like five extra pounds thrown onto you. When it starts flowing into your shoes, you have another problem entirely. The water that soaks into the inner padding turns each step into a suction cup against the bottom of your sole.

  So sprinting the five blocks back to the library was hard enough before, now I have to do it wet and weighed down.

  I got a really good head start on my dad. He just got into his car when I started my run. With his usual sequence of checking messages and adjusting mirrors three times over, I figured I would have been three quarters of the way by the time he pulled out of the parking lot. I was wrong. With about two and half blocks left to go, I looked out to the road and saw him driving by. I had to duck behind a mailbox to remain unseen.

  Avoiding my dad wasn’t my only problem. As I came closer to the library, I noticed something in the hands of someone leaving the building – my backpack (my really really nice backpack)! I recognized the face. It was some dirtbag 5th-grader from City Side who rode our bus to a friend’s house on one occasion. He ran out to a car parked in front, using my backpack as an umbrella.

  “Hey!” I shouted, but the kid didn’t grant me the courtesy of a response. He got into the car and it drove away pretty quickly after that.

  There was no use in chasing the car. It cleared a city block in a matter of seconds. There was another issue I had to contend with. My dad’s car was parked right outside the library and he wasn’t in it.

  I hurried inside and found the study table that I had set up. But before I could situate myself to start "studying" again, my dad showed up.

  There were a couple of details that I didn't consider. Firstly, I was literally dripping water like a faucet. A big sloshy puddle pooled beneath me.

  Secondly, I was panting and still trying to catch my breath from the run over here.

  Even though I avoided eye contact with my dad, I could sense his furrowed eyebrows clench tighter and tighter as he glanced over the scene.

  Surprisingly the first words out of his mouth weren’t too bad.

  When I finished stacking my books, my dad lifted up the pile and took it to the car. Surprisingly, he doled out no punishment. He just demanded that I go dry off.

  I went to the only place in the library I could accomplish that.

  Surprisingly, the hand dryer worked pretty well. The location, however, wasn’t the best place to be stripping down.

  When I finally dried off, I left the building and got into my dad’s car. I thought he was going to lay into me at that point and lecture me on the importance of trust and responsibility. I was wrong. He simply put the car in gear and drove off.

  The entire ride home, my nerves grew shakier and shakier. The longer he drove without speaking; I knew the punishment would be that much harsher. The scowl on his face never relaxed. It was like he was having a hard time deciding on what to do with me.

  The stormy weather added to the tension. It was my own mental horror movie. What is he going to do with me? The more he could think about it, the harsher he would be.

  I couldn’t take it anymore…

  My dad’s reaction to this confession was slightly unexpected.

  My dad pulled the car over immediately so we could talk. It turned out that he was completely oblivious to everything that happened to me. He never realized that I was out of breath or my bag was missing. And while I was soaking wet, he said he figured I got caught in the rain while stretching my legs.

  His overly dramatic reaction to my confession was due to his surprise that I was at Good Buys and saw him playing video games for nearly an hour. Apparently, he was supposed to be out running errands that he was able to finish at the local hardware store in a matter of minutes.

  We struck a deal with each other, agreeing to keep it secret between us. It turned out that dad was just as afraid of getting in trouble as me. Our agreement tied up every loose end, except for the missing backpack.

  Part of our agreement was that I would try to retrieve it back from the pubby who took it. In the meantime, he would cover me as I took an old one out of retirement.

  

  What Item Empowers You?

  What is this supposed to mean? Like an iron suit that can fly and shoot lasers? Or a hammer that destroys everything around me? Because if that’s what you’re getting at, I have nothing of the sorts.

  I don’t have any weapons of any kind, actually. My requests to have a BB gun were swiftly shot down (no pun intended). Same goes for a bow and arrow. I once made a slingshot out of sticks and a thick rubber band. That was confiscated as soon as I nicked the paint job on my mom’s car.

  I had a baseball bat, but I had to donate it when I stopped playing the sport. The old broomstick in the garage can be used as a ninja bo, but I think it might snap in 14 different pieces if I connected with any target. Do water guns count as weapons?

  Maybe if I took some coffee cans, some old toothbrushes, and a deck of playing cards, I could...

  What Item Empowers Your Mind?

  Okay, Sister Ellen. You stopped me in the middle of my awesome idea to explain what you meant by something empowering me. It sounds like you want me to talk about something that empowers my mind or emotions - not something that actually gives me an edge in battle. You can see the confusion. Your explanation would have been useful before I started writing.

  Let me think. Can a fear empower you? The thing that usually keeps me out of trouble is the fear of being in parochial school forever. I have seen glimpses of older kids in college. They always seem very happy.

  My cousin is in his second year at school and he talks of three hour school days, wearing sweatpants all of the time, sleeping until noon on a regular basis, eating as much as you want, and playing video games for as long as your thumbs can handle it.

  This is the life that I strive for. I don’t want to be
in this school forever. While I despise homework, the thought of a better life keeps me trudging through it.

  Outside of learning and school, my life has been made better by a little book that Santa put in my stocking one year. “Sarcastic Replies and Insults” was something I saw advertised on TV in between cartoons. The commercial for it was hilarious.

  You see what they did there? “S’cool” is short for “so cool.” And it sounds a lot like “school.” It was s’clever.

  The commercial also claimed over a hundred new insults to help you get back at bullies.