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Authors: M. Molly Backes
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Chris were still laughing loudly.
“All three of you may go to the guidance counselor to get your schedules changed,” Mr. Tremont said evenly.
“What?” Brian asked angrily.
“Yeah man, we didn’t even do nothing!” Chris said.
“If you’d like to discuss this further, you may see me after class,” Mr. Tremont said. His tone was neutral, his expression calm. “For now, though, I’d like you to leave.”
The boys stood and grabbed their stuff, grumbling and muttering their way out the door.
Mr. Tremont surveyed the room. “I said before that the point of freewriting is to get past the voice inside your head that tells you your ideas aren’t good enough, your words aren’t good enough, you’re no writer, and so forth. But getting past your internal editor is kind of pointless if you’re just going to treat your own work — or the work of your classmates — as a joke.”
The class was quiet, and people seemed to be listening to Mr. Tremont. I saw a couple people jotting notes in notebooks, but most people kept their eyes on the teacher, nodding seriously.
“So basically, our class motto will be the same as Google’s was, back in the day: Don’t Be Evil. If there’s anyone else who can’t work within that basic guideline, I’ll write you a pass to the guidance office. Anyone?” He surveyed the room, smiling. “Good. Let’s get to work.”
Our class would follow a similar structure every day, Mr. Tremont explained. The first ten minutes would be a warm-up write, and then we would either discuss a published work, write, or do a peer-review workshop for the rest of the period. Mr. Tremont asked for volunteers for the first round of workshopping, and both Shanti and the Freshman raised their hands. “One more?” he asked. “Volunteer . . . or victim?” The rest of us remained silent, looking everywhere but at him. “My high school Spanish teacher always used to say that,” Mr. Tremont said.
“Voluntario . . . o víctima?”
A few people laughed nervously and he shrugged. “Okay, victim. Let’s see. . . .” He scrolled down the attendance list. “How about Paige Sheridan?”
A bunch of people turned to stare at me. Shanti gave me a thumbs-up, which I hoped no one else noticed. “Oh,” I said, “um . . .”
Mr. Tremont looked right at me and smiled. God, he was beautiful. “You can do it.” A pathetic protest got caught in my throat, but he didn’t seem to hear. “Paige . . . Sheridan,” he said, writing. “Okay, Shanti Kale, Ethan James, and Paige Sheridan are up for workshop next Friday, September twenty-fourth. I’ll need your pieces by that Wednesday so that I can make copies for everyone.”
I snapped to attention. The twenty-fourth was the day of the big homecoming week kickoff bonfire, where the members of homecoming court would be announced. The JV teams would spend all afternoon gathering wood pallets donated by local businesses and Bee Boosters and piling them in the parking lot behind the practice fields. Normally it would be held after the varsity football game, but this year the team had a bye that week, so the bonfire was scheduled to start slightly earlier than usual. It would be weird to just show up and immediately go to the fire without sitting through a game first, and some people worried that the break from tradition meant bad luck for the team. Usually the football coach would light the fire after the game, but I wondered if this would be different, too, without the game. Once the bonfire was lit, everyone would gather around the giant fire — parents, teachers, coaches, a few bored volunteer firefighters, and students — and the varsity football coach would stand on a flatbed truck and announce the names of the football players, and then Dr. Coulter would cough into the microphone and announce the names of the court. Lacey and I had a tradition of squeezing hands as Dr. Coulter named the court, as if we could capture the magic of that moment and hold
“All three of you may go to the guidance counselor to get your schedules changed,” Mr. Tremont said evenly.
“What?” Brian asked angrily.
“Yeah man, we didn’t even do nothing!” Chris said.
“If you’d like to discuss this further, you may see me after class,” Mr. Tremont said. His tone was neutral, his expression calm. “For now, though, I’d like you to leave.”
The boys stood and grabbed their stuff, grumbling and muttering their way out the door.
Mr. Tremont surveyed the room. “I said before that the point of freewriting is to get past the voice inside your head that tells you your ideas aren’t good enough, your words aren’t good enough, you’re no writer, and so forth. But getting past your internal editor is kind of pointless if you’re just going to treat your own work — or the work of your classmates — as a joke.”
The class was quiet, and people seemed to be listening to Mr. Tremont. I saw a couple people jotting notes in notebooks, but most people kept their eyes on the teacher, nodding seriously.
“So basically, our class motto will be the same as Google’s was, back in the day: Don’t Be Evil. If there’s anyone else who can’t work within that basic guideline, I’ll write you a pass to the guidance office. Anyone?” He surveyed the room, smiling. “Good. Let’s get to work.”
Our class would follow a similar structure every day, Mr. Tremont explained. The first ten minutes would be a warm-up write, and then we would either discuss a published work, write, or do a peer-review workshop for the rest of the period. Mr. Tremont asked for volunteers for the first round of workshopping, and both Shanti and the Freshman raised their hands. “One more?” he asked. “Volunteer . . . or victim?” The rest of us remained silent, looking everywhere but at him. “My high school Spanish teacher always used to say that,” Mr. Tremont said.
“Voluntario . . . o víctima?”
A few people laughed nervously and he shrugged. “Okay, victim. Let’s see. . . .” He scrolled down the attendance list. “How about Paige Sheridan?”
A bunch of people turned to stare at me. Shanti gave me a thumbs-up, which I hoped no one else noticed. “Oh,” I said, “um . . .”
Mr. Tremont looked right at me and smiled. God, he was beautiful. “You can do it.” A pathetic protest got caught in my throat, but he didn’t seem to hear. “Paige . . . Sheridan,” he said, writing. “Okay, Shanti Kale, Ethan James, and Paige Sheridan are up for workshop next Friday, September twenty-fourth. I’ll need your pieces by that Wednesday so that I can make copies for everyone.”
I snapped to attention. The twenty-fourth was the day of the big homecoming week kickoff bonfire, where the members of homecoming court would be announced. The JV teams would spend all afternoon gathering wood pallets donated by local businesses and Bee Boosters and piling them in the parking lot behind the practice fields. Normally it would be held after the varsity football game, but this year the team had a bye that week, so the bonfire was scheduled to start slightly earlier than usual. It would be weird to just show up and immediately go to the fire without sitting through a game first, and some people worried that the break from tradition meant bad luck for the team. Usually the football coach would light the fire after the game, but I wondered if this would be different, too, without the game. Once the bonfire was lit, everyone would gather around the giant fire — parents, teachers, coaches, a few bored volunteer firefighters, and students — and the varsity football coach would stand on a flatbed truck and announce the names of the football players, and then Dr. Coulter would cough into the microphone and announce the names of the court. Lacey and I had a tradition of squeezing hands as Dr. Coulter named the court, as if we could capture the magic of that moment and hold
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