Milk: The Story Continues Even Further!

We loaded 18 little milks into our plastic crate and started back for our classroom.  As we rounded the corner and prepared for our imaginary trip back through the carpet squares, James stopped. The discolored patch had disappeared.

“James,” I breathed.  “Where is it?”  We looked down the long hallway at the continuous grey blue of undisturbed carpet.  I glanced over at him.  His eyes were wide under his floppy blonde hair.  James was the kind of boy I could never have a crush on.  We had been friends for way too long.  And he was kind of gross.  He was nothing like Grant Jensen, the sixth grader who once talked to me at the drinking fountain.  But James was still ok, I guess.

“That’s weird,” James said, handing me the crate and jumping onto the place the patch should have been.  He shuffled his feet back and forth, jumped around. “Come on, let’s get back to our classroom.”  We sped down past the rows of backpacks on hooks and colorful posters.  One poster caught my eye.  It proudly declared “Welcome to 5^th grade! You fit right in!” and various names were written on puzzle pieces.  I didn’t recognize the poster. I didn’t recognize the names.  James walked up to the door of our classroom and peered in the window. He gasped and motioned me forward.  Holding the milk crate in front of me, I approached the window.  Everything was backwards. Our desks were facing the opposite wall, the whiteboard had flipped sides, Mrs. Sinclair’s desk was turned the wrong way.  Seated at her desk was a woman with Mrs. Sinclair’s kind face and short hair, but she had entirely blue skin.

Screaming, I dropped the milk crate and began to run.  James snatched up the scattered cartons and came after me.  “Molly! Did you see them, did you see them?” He panted as we rounded the corner. 

“James, they were blue.” 

Milk: The Story Continues

The white board at the front of my third grade classroom brightly displayed the Special Students of the week. Each Monday the chart was updated with the names of the new line leader, line ender, calendar person (who had to know the days of the week in English and in Español, por favor), and milk people.  Line leaders and enders were the envy of the class, and the calendar person got at least three minutes of his classmates’ attention each morning.  Being a milk person held no glory.  The task of the milk people was to carry the correct number of little milk cartons from a malodorous milk fridge to our classroom for lunch.  It was a thankless job, noticed only by the kid who used to drink all 8 ounces in under 2 seconds, but someone had to do it.

“Ten whites and eight chocolates” I read off the chart on the skinny metal refrigerator door. Colby reached into the chilly space and grabbed the designated number of milks, doing his best to avoid the wet cartons; a wet carton was a leaky carton.  I caught the milks in a plastic milk crate which we carried between us on the way back to our classroom. We talked a little during the short walk.  It went the same way on Tuesday and Wednesday.

By the middle of the week we had created a little game for ourselves.  Our school’s blue carpeted hallways had one rectangle of miscolored carpet.  It was as though some irreversible stain had been fixed by patching in a piece of the same carpet which lacked the wear of the surrounding floor.  We pretended that Deerborne Elementary was out of milk and that the brighter patch was a portal to an identical school where we could get the milk we needed.  Colby and I paused on the patch, closed our eyes, and were transported.

“Molly,” Colby said as we reopened our eyes and started walking toward the milk room. “What do you think we should name this new school?”

I laughed, “Um, Milk Elementary!”  We pushed open the swinging metal doors and I reached for the fridge. “They must have cleaned in here last night, it doesn’t smell so bad.”

“Maybe they actually take care of their milk room at Milk Elementary!” Colby replied, making me giggle. We loaded 18 little milks into our plastic crate and started back for our classroom.  As we rounded the corner and prepared for our imaginary trip back through the carpet squares, Colby stopped. The discolored patch had disappeared.

Introductory Paragraphs: An Assignment for Creative Writing Class

Staying true to myself, I have not really written anything since the last assignment in my last writing class last spring. I am happy to say that I am back in a writing class and producing stories once again. Here are two opening paragraphs that suggest plot situations, which have arisen in small part from my own experience.  That was the assignment, and that is all I have for now. I hope you enjoy!

Hannah feigned confidence as she stepped out of the car.  “Bye, Mom.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”  Shrugging her bursting duffle bag over her shoulder, Hannah took a deep breath and approached the doors to the bowling alley.  She knew that a dozen giggling girls were perched inside, lacing up their black and red shoes, and twittering to each other about the horrible crimes against fashion they were committing. 

Getting invited to Katherine’s birthday party was no small thing.  Katherine was easily the most popular girl in 8^th grade.  She wore confidence and flirtation like a sundress.  Her stunning red hair paired with her knock-your-socks-off straight white teeth left the boys feeling a good kind of strange and the girls feeling desperately inadequate.  Her ultra-rich car salesman father could afford to rent out an entire bowling alley for a few of Katherine’s closest friends.

Hannah had been astounded and baffled by the invitation.  She knew that Katherine had not invited all the girls in the class and was surprised that she had chosen Hannah as one of The Few.  Hannah smacked her bag filled with mockably unattractive clothes and thought to herself, “Maybe I am finally getting cooler.”  She pushed open the glass doors having never even considered Katherine’s true intention in inviting her.

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The white board at the front of my third grade classroom brightly displayed the Special Students of the week. Each Monday the chart was updated with the names of the new line leader, line ender, calendar person (who had to know the days of the week in English and in Español, por favor), and milk people.  Line leaders and enders were the envy of the class, and the calendar person got at least three minutes of his classmates’ attention each morning.  Being a milk person held no glory.  The task of the milk people was to carry the correct number of little milk cartons from a malodorous milk fridge to our classroom for lunch.  It was a thankless job which took away precious Lunchables time.  There was one week of my third grade experience, however, in which being a milk person held more excitement than I ever could have imagined.