me, "Here's a tidbit I picked up in the teachers' lounge. Did you know that this high school, in its thirty-year history, has never had a National Merit Scholarship finalist?"
I said, "What's that?"
Mr. Herman expelled a short laugh. "Perfect. Perfect rejoinder, Roberta. Right on cue. Now tell me you're joking."
"I'm not."
He winced. "National Merit is a test that you take your junior year. I know they give it here. I've seen it advertised."
"Oh. I guess I'll be taking it."
"Of course you will. And you will be the first to be a scholarship finalist."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"I'm not in advanced placement."
"Why on earth not? And if you are not, then who is?"
"The kids who have time to be, Mr. Herman."
Mr. Herman arrived at his classroom. But before he went in, he said, "As God is my witness, Roberta, you will be in AP
classes this year. And you will take that test, and do wonderfully well, and destroy this dubious distinction."
I headed off to my first-period class, PE. I don't like it much. Most kids really, really hate it, but I don't. I just don't like it. Second period I have Mr. Archer, Jr., for history. He's the principal's son. He teaches American history, and he helps coach the football and baseball teams. The football and baseball guys, and anyone else who wants to, call him Archie. I don't, though.
My English class is pretty boring. Junior year is American Lit. So far all we've read is stuff by Indians and Pilgrims. Third and fifth periods are when juniors are called down to guidance for RDT, random drug testing. I haven't been called yet. I think they're doing it in alphabetical order. Betty the Goth is in my English class. She sits in the back and twirls that black hair around her finger. She got called down to RDT last week.
Spanish is the hardest class I have. It's hard for me, anyway, and the three other kids who weren't born speaking Spanish. I like it, though.
Lunch is lunch. It's quick, crowded, and a little dangerous. Lunch is when kids who are going to get beat up get beat up. We had racial incidents last year that have carried over to this year. Some black guys jumped some white guy. Then some Spanish guys jumped a black kid. I think Hawg got into one of those fights. Then we went on alert. Sheriff's deputies were in the cafeteria and in the halls every period, so things calmed down.
Anyway, we only get twenty minutes for lunch. I spend them standing in the lines in front of a long row of vending machines, near the cafeteria entrance. I get in a line for chips, and then eat them while standing in a second line for a soda, which I drink while waiting in a third line for a Snickers, which
I just stand there and eat. By then, our twenty minutes are up, and it's time to go.
Fifth period, Journalism II, is my favorite class. I sit in the first row, right in front of Mr. Herman's desk. He keeps a wooden podium on top of his desk. He always stands behind that podium and delivers a lecture, from notes, for the first twenty minutes of class. Then he gives us an assignment from an old workbook called
Journalism Today.
Sometimes it's a writing assignment, sometimes an editing assignment, sometimes a page-layout assignment.
I should say, he does that for the kids who sit up front, like me and Betty the Goth and a few others. The kids who sit in the back are pretty much on their own. For some reason beyond my comprehension, about ten football guys signed up for Journalism II, Hawg among them. For all the attention Mr. Herman pays to them, that football group may as well be out on the practice field. Mr. Herman addresses his lectures, and gives all his personal attention, to whoever sits in the first two rows.
Today's lecture was about the muckrakers. They were a group of American journalists who worked on different newspapers in the early 1900s. They wrote about poor people getting exploited and killed by greedy rich people. Back then the rich people didn't care about the conditions in the factories and the
I said, "What's that?"
Mr. Herman expelled a short laugh. "Perfect. Perfect rejoinder, Roberta. Right on cue. Now tell me you're joking."
"I'm not."
He winced. "National Merit is a test that you take your junior year. I know they give it here. I've seen it advertised."
"Oh. I guess I'll be taking it."
"Of course you will. And you will be the first to be a scholarship finalist."
"Me?"
"Yes."
"I'm not in advanced placement."
"Why on earth not? And if you are not, then who is?"
"The kids who have time to be, Mr. Herman."
Mr. Herman arrived at his classroom. But before he went in, he said, "As God is my witness, Roberta, you will be in AP
classes this year. And you will take that test, and do wonderfully well, and destroy this dubious distinction."
I headed off to my first-period class, PE. I don't like it much. Most kids really, really hate it, but I don't. I just don't like it. Second period I have Mr. Archer, Jr., for history. He's the principal's son. He teaches American history, and he helps coach the football and baseball teams. The football and baseball guys, and anyone else who wants to, call him Archie. I don't, though.
My English class is pretty boring. Junior year is American Lit. So far all we've read is stuff by Indians and Pilgrims. Third and fifth periods are when juniors are called down to guidance for RDT, random drug testing. I haven't been called yet. I think they're doing it in alphabetical order. Betty the Goth is in my English class. She sits in the back and twirls that black hair around her finger. She got called down to RDT last week.
Spanish is the hardest class I have. It's hard for me, anyway, and the three other kids who weren't born speaking Spanish. I like it, though.
Lunch is lunch. It's quick, crowded, and a little dangerous. Lunch is when kids who are going to get beat up get beat up. We had racial incidents last year that have carried over to this year. Some black guys jumped some white guy. Then some Spanish guys jumped a black kid. I think Hawg got into one of those fights. Then we went on alert. Sheriff's deputies were in the cafeteria and in the halls every period, so things calmed down.
Anyway, we only get twenty minutes for lunch. I spend them standing in the lines in front of a long row of vending machines, near the cafeteria entrance. I get in a line for chips, and then eat them while standing in a second line for a soda, which I drink while waiting in a third line for a Snickers, which
I just stand there and eat. By then, our twenty minutes are up, and it's time to go.
Fifth period, Journalism II, is my favorite class. I sit in the first row, right in front of Mr. Herman's desk. He keeps a wooden podium on top of his desk. He always stands behind that podium and delivers a lecture, from notes, for the first twenty minutes of class. Then he gives us an assignment from an old workbook called
Journalism Today.
Sometimes it's a writing assignment, sometimes an editing assignment, sometimes a page-layout assignment.
I should say, he does that for the kids who sit up front, like me and Betty the Goth and a few others. The kids who sit in the back are pretty much on their own. For some reason beyond my comprehension, about ten football guys signed up for Journalism II, Hawg among them. For all the attention Mr. Herman pays to them, that football group may as well be out on the practice field. Mr. Herman addresses his lectures, and gives all his personal attention, to whoever sits in the first two rows.
Today's lecture was about the muckrakers. They were a group of American journalists who worked on different newspapers in the early 1900s. They wrote about poor people getting exploited and killed by greedy rich people. Back then the rich people didn't care about the conditions in the factories and the
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