Read Online Lessons I Never Learned at Meadowbrook Academy by Liz Maccie - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Liz Maccie
Tags: Juvenile Fiction/General
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think my personal aversion had something to do with the fact that I had been overweight for the majority of my formative years, and in elementary school, a âbigâ kid and a kickball just donât get along.
When I was in fifth grade, I had a gym teacher named Mr. Sneakers. No lie. He was French or from Wisconsin or something, so he pronounced his name âSnek-eh.â The ârâ and last âsâ were silent. He had slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, and he reeked of Old Spice cologne. The sweat suits he wore were always far too tight, and I caught him more than once checking out the pretty girls as they climbed the ropes during the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. Mr. Sneakers taught gym and sex education. I have to admit, I had my own sneaky suspicions that he probably took some of those âeducational videosâ home with him at night.
When my class would play dodgeball, Mr. Sneakers would purposely position me in the front row. Inevitably some kid would peg me as hard as they could, Mr. Sneakers would die laughing, and I would be called âoutâ right from the start. It was horrible. This one time someone pegged me, per usual, but then a most unfortunate thing happened: my pants split wide open, exposing my ass. Pants, might I add, that belonged to Anthony because I couldnât fit into clothes for girls my own age.
I ran off, humiliated, embarrassed, and hysterically crying. I hid behind the cafeteria for what seemed like an eternity, until Anthony found me. He was carrying an extra pair of his sweatpants. Coincidentally, he had been looking out his classroom window (the middle school was located on the same property) at the precise moment I was pegged with the ball. On his way to my rescue, Anthony made a less-than-calculated decision when he stopped and punched Mr. Sneakers right in the face. Anthony was suspended for a week, I got an âFâ in gym, and Mr. Sneakers eventually got fired.
I turned to tell Mervin about Mr. Sneakers, but he wasnât standing beside me anymore. I looked back and saw that he was still at the gym entrance, visibly shaking.
I rushed over to him. âMervin, are you okay?â
âItâs justâ¦Iâm feelingâ¦a littleâ¦â and then he fainted, with his backpack still on, right there on the shiny gymnasium floor.
Our gym teacher, Ms. Dalton, was a tall, slender, extremely fit woman. She had pretty blonde hair that bounced right above her shoulders and a cute button nose, the kind someone would pay to get during plastic surgery. She quickly sprinted over to us, her toned legs engaged and her white tennis skirt swishing back and forth. With purpose, she put her hands on my shoulders and moved me aside. Then she leaned down to Mervinâs limp little body.
The kids who were playing volleyball stopped their game and came over to see what all the commotion was about. I felt horrible and wished there was something I could do to help. Ms. Dalton shooed the kids away and told them to go back to what they were doing, but no one listened. She grabbed a navy blue bandanna from her skirt pocket and asked me to get it wet over at the water fountain on the wall next to the bleachers. I threw my paper and pen on the ground and did as she asked, just as Mervin was coming to.
I handed Ms. Dalton the moist bandanna, and she put it across his forehead. She helped him slowly sit up, although his backpack made things a bit awkward, and told him not to stand just yet. The entire gym class was staring at Mervin. A few dumb-ass guys made some jokes at his expense, and most of the other kids laughed. Ms. Dalton told everyone, very sternly, to go back to the volleyball game and this time they listened. I felt so bad for Mervin. I knew this incident would definitely leave emotional scars, the kind you discover during a therapy session when youâre 40.
Ms. Dalton finally helped Mervin to his feet. He looked pale, disoriented, and
When I was in fifth grade, I had a gym teacher named Mr. Sneakers. No lie. He was French or from Wisconsin or something, so he pronounced his name âSnek-eh.â The ârâ and last âsâ were silent. He had slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, and he reeked of Old Spice cologne. The sweat suits he wore were always far too tight, and I caught him more than once checking out the pretty girls as they climbed the ropes during the Presidential Physical Fitness Test. Mr. Sneakers taught gym and sex education. I have to admit, I had my own sneaky suspicions that he probably took some of those âeducational videosâ home with him at night.
When my class would play dodgeball, Mr. Sneakers would purposely position me in the front row. Inevitably some kid would peg me as hard as they could, Mr. Sneakers would die laughing, and I would be called âoutâ right from the start. It was horrible. This one time someone pegged me, per usual, but then a most unfortunate thing happened: my pants split wide open, exposing my ass. Pants, might I add, that belonged to Anthony because I couldnât fit into clothes for girls my own age.
I ran off, humiliated, embarrassed, and hysterically crying. I hid behind the cafeteria for what seemed like an eternity, until Anthony found me. He was carrying an extra pair of his sweatpants. Coincidentally, he had been looking out his classroom window (the middle school was located on the same property) at the precise moment I was pegged with the ball. On his way to my rescue, Anthony made a less-than-calculated decision when he stopped and punched Mr. Sneakers right in the face. Anthony was suspended for a week, I got an âFâ in gym, and Mr. Sneakers eventually got fired.
I turned to tell Mervin about Mr. Sneakers, but he wasnât standing beside me anymore. I looked back and saw that he was still at the gym entrance, visibly shaking.
I rushed over to him. âMervin, are you okay?â
âItâs justâ¦Iâm feelingâ¦a littleâ¦â and then he fainted, with his backpack still on, right there on the shiny gymnasium floor.
Our gym teacher, Ms. Dalton, was a tall, slender, extremely fit woman. She had pretty blonde hair that bounced right above her shoulders and a cute button nose, the kind someone would pay to get during plastic surgery. She quickly sprinted over to us, her toned legs engaged and her white tennis skirt swishing back and forth. With purpose, she put her hands on my shoulders and moved me aside. Then she leaned down to Mervinâs limp little body.
The kids who were playing volleyball stopped their game and came over to see what all the commotion was about. I felt horrible and wished there was something I could do to help. Ms. Dalton shooed the kids away and told them to go back to what they were doing, but no one listened. She grabbed a navy blue bandanna from her skirt pocket and asked me to get it wet over at the water fountain on the wall next to the bleachers. I threw my paper and pen on the ground and did as she asked, just as Mervin was coming to.
I handed Ms. Dalton the moist bandanna, and she put it across his forehead. She helped him slowly sit up, although his backpack made things a bit awkward, and told him not to stand just yet. The entire gym class was staring at Mervin. A few dumb-ass guys made some jokes at his expense, and most of the other kids laughed. Ms. Dalton told everyone, very sternly, to go back to the volleyball game and this time they listened. I felt so bad for Mervin. I knew this incident would definitely leave emotional scars, the kind you discover during a therapy session when youâre 40.
Ms. Dalton finally helped Mervin to his feet. He looked pale, disoriented, and
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