Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal (3 page)

I understand we have to compete with China and Japan, but we also have to compete with Iran, and you don’t see us in classes learning to drill oil or make nuclear weapons. (Although I would take that class in a heartbeat!)

What grinds me the most is that we’re sending kids out into the world who don’t know how to balance a checkbook, don’t know how to apply for a loan, don’t even know how to properly fill out a job application, but because they know the quadratic formula we consider them prepared for the world?

With that said, I’ll admit even I can see how looking at the equation x – 3 = 19 and knowing x = 22 can be useful. I’ll even say knowing x = 7 and y = 8 in a problem like 9x – 6y = 15 can be helpful. But seriously, do we all need to know how to simplify (x – 3)(x – 3i)??

And the joke is, no one can continue their education unless they do. A student living in California cannot get into a four-year college unless they pass Algebra 2 in high school. A future psychologist can’t become a psychologist, a future lawyer can’t become a lawyer, and I can’t become a journalist unless each of us has a basic understanding of engineering.

Of course, engineers and scientists use this shit all the time, and I applaud them! But they don’t take years of theater arts appreciation courses, because a scientist or an engineer doesn’t need to know that
The Phantom of the Opera
was the longest-running Broadway musical of all time. Get my point?

The board of education should sit down with universities and high schools alike and create
options
for students. Let us take
business classes
that substitute all the same credits as algebra. I guarantee a semester learning how to start a small business would benefit people much more than knowing:

But perhaps my proposal makes
too much sense
for the board of education. (I know they’re aware of it; all my letters have to be going to someone.) Then again, if they were actually interested in making the education
system work, they’d probably have adjusted school hours when it was
scientifically proven students do better later in the day!
Sorry, that one still gets to me.

I feel sorry for the class of 2020. By that time, every student will most likely have to pass
differential calculus
just to graduate from high school. Good luck, kids!

Crap, Barbie-man has spotted me. I think he knows I’m not doing my homework; he coughed in my direction. I’ll write more later. Until then, I’ll keep mental tabs of other world solutions as they come to me.

10/3 continued

There I was in the trenches, minding my own business, walking from English to chemistry, when out of the corner of my eye I saw something pink emerge from the counseling center.

“Hey, you!” a prissy voice shouted. “Smart guy!”

It was probably a little cocky for me to instantly turn around, but let’s be honest: Who else would they have been talking to? It was my counselor, Ms. Sharpton.

“Come see me in my office!” she said with a large, overly white smile.

“I’ve got English,” I said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll write you a pass!”

I rolled my eyes and sighed; I was a tiger cub caught by a hawk.

How do I describe Ms. Sharpton? Imagine if Sarah Palin, Paris Hilton, and Princess Peach had a love child of sorts. Now add even more pink and a splash of bleach. Get where I’m going with this? The former 1989 Miss Clover decided to become a high
school counselor only after she flunked beauty school.

There was a rumor she bought property in Nevada and tried becoming a Real Housewife of Las Vegas, but the show never got picked up.

I usually try avoiding her office as much as I can. That much pink is unhealthy.

She sat me down on a couch in a little area next to her desk that she called her “sitting room.” She was in every framed picture displayed, alone or with a small rat-sized dog. And since some of the photos were taken three decades ago, either she has a thirty-year-old dog at home or she trades it in every so often for a new one.

“Welcome to Career Day here at the counseling center!” Ms. Sharpton said happily.

Oh, screw this
. I seriously would have rather been having a colonoscopy.

“I’m sure you saw our flyer,” she went on. “We’re calling all you kiddos in today to talk about your future career options. You know, like what you want to do—”

“I know the exact career that I want,” I interrupted.

“Okay!” She clapped. “What is it, munchkin? An astronaut?”

“I want to be the editor of the
New Yorker
and the
youngest freelance journalist to be published in the
New York Times
, the
Los Angeles Times
, the
Chicago Tribune
, and the
Boston Globe
.”

“Well, you’ve had some time to think about this, huh?” Ms. Sharpton said. I don’t think she knew what all those publications were. “Okay, what about college? I can help you decide what college to go to!” She reached for some pamphlets by her side.

“No, I’ve got to get into Northwestern,” I said.

“All right,” she said. “Where is that exactly?”

She wasn’t kidding.

“Illinois,” I said.

“Never heard of it,” she said. “But why do you need to leave so badly? You know Clover has a community college right here in your own backyard—”

“Look,” I said, feeling a migraine coming between my eyes (I’m allergic to stupidity). “I’ve put seventeen good years into this town. People spend less time in prison for murder sentences—”

“Is that true?” Ms. Sharpton asked, but I went on.

“I’ve been the editor of the school newspaper and president of the Writers’ Club since sophomore year just to better my chances of getting into that school—”

“Wow, that’s so smart.”

“So I’ve already applied and meet all the requirements; I just haven’t heard back from them yet. I’d appreciate it if you could find out why,” I finished, not sure if she was qualified for the task.

“Okay, and that is something
I
would do?
I
would call them?” Ms. Sharpton said. She seemed nervous, like the phone might bite her if she tried to use it.

“Yes,” I said. “I will do anything to get into that school.
Anything
.”

“Okay, I am on it!” She gave me a thumbs-up. “But since you’re here, would you mind filling out one of these application forms for Clover Community College? With every application, I get a point toward a Clover College juice cup and I only need three more.”

And that’s when I got up and left. I was afraid my migraine would turn into a cerebral hemorrhage if I didn’t.

I wish I could say the day got better—I also wish I could say I have amazing abs—but neither is true.

My final class of the day was journalism. It’s the only class I feel that’s preparing me for life—
my life
at
least. I love journalism. I just hate the people in journalism class.

The journalism class is in charge of putting together the weekly school paper, the
Clover High Chronicle
. When I was a freshman, the students in the journalism class were considered gods. The seven seniors it consisted of and I were the people of the
know
and the
now
.

Students used to beg us to write or not write about their school activities. I had a cheerleader slip me a fifty once to leave out the fact that she forgot to wear underwear during a home football game.

Unfortunately, like a medieval plague, graduation swept through Clover High and I found myself the only one left in the class the following year. Even the journalism teacher, who used to take the most devoted naps during class, just stopped showing up one day. The school couldn’t afford substitutes, so I was forced to take charge wholly. (Come to think of it, I’m not sure if this is even legal, but whatever.)

I tried recruiting new members but no one wanted to join. I even went to the special ed class but they just pointed and laughed at me. Teenagers don’t want
to write unless it’s 140 characters or less these days.

The school ended up sticking people in the class who didn’t have enough credits to graduate (which I’m half thankful for, half convinced they did out of spite). So the former Clover High hotshots have been replaced with the cast of
Freedom Writers
.

The
Clover High Chronicle
is made up of myself, assistant editor Malerie Baggs, movie reviewer Dwayne Michaels, weather reporter Vicki Jordan, and El Salvadoran foreign exchange student Emilio López.

We’ll get to them in a second.

“Last week’s edition of the
Clover High Chronicle
was yet another disappointment,” I said at the start of class. “We did have new material for every section, but once again, it was all written by me. This has to stop.”

I eyed them all with intense disapproval. Vicki yawned.

“This is the
Clover High Chronicle
, not the
Carson Phillips Chronicle
,” I reminded them. “Hopefully, this week will be different.” And with a clap I directed the room’s attention to Dwayne. “Dwayne, do you have your review of
Manslaughter III
ready?”

Dwayne may be the most useless human being I’ve ever encountered. He usually wears beanies, even when it isn’t cold, and probably just pisses liquid weed at this point.

“Yes!” he said.

“Yes?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.

“Oh wait …
no
.”

“No?”

“I went but I passed out,” he said. “You didn’t tell me it was in 3-D.”

“It wasn’t,” I said.

“
Whoooa
,” he said quietly to himself.

I could barely stomach the situation. One day I swear an ulcer is gonna rip out of me like
Alien
and I’m going to name him Peer Incompetence.

“Vicki, do you have your weather report ready?” I asked.

She looked at me, clueless—correction, she took an iPod earbud out of her ear and then looked at me, clueless.

“What?” she asked.

“Your weather report?” I repeated.

She half-consciously gazed out the window for a
second. “It’s cloudy,” she said, and put the earbud back into her ear.

“Great,” I said. “Thank you, Vicki.” At least it was progress.

Vicki Jordan is one of those “goth” students. Sometime during the eighth grade she ditched everything she owned that made her look alive and became the walking undead. She dyed her hair, smeared on some black lipstick, and discovered SPF 110.

Personally, I don’t buy “rebellious phases.” I think they’re just dramatic ways of saying, “I have no
real
problems, so I’m going to dress differently and hurt myself so people think I’m more complex than I really am.” I’m sorry; you can kiss my ass with your “inner turmoil.”

You want to be “left alone”? You don’t want to be “understood”? Then stop dressing up every day like it’s Halloween, you whiny little bitch. Get over yourself, get some Zoloft, and stop being a fucking eyesore to everyone around you.

Apparently I feel strongly about that topic. Anyway, moving on…

“Emilio, do you have a section you’d like to tackle
this week?” I asked. I might as well have been talking to a picket fence.

“I love America,” he said in his thick El Salvadoran accent. I think that’s the only English sentence they taught him before he was sent to the States. At least Emilio has a real excuse for disregarding me.

Language barrier or not, that guy gets around. I’ve lost count of how many American girls I’ve caught that El Salvadoran Frenching. He’s traveled across many borders just to put his hands below other borders. I’ll stop with the metaphors; you get it.

“That’s great, Emilio, we’ll create a special patriotic section just for you,” I said, looking over my notes. “Now what about creative writing? Does anyone have any essays or short stories or—”

“I’ve written a short story for the
Chronicle
,” Malerie said, raising her hand.

“Let’s hear it!” I said.

Malerie nervously stood up and made eye contact with everyone before reading.

“This is written by Malerie,” she made clear, and began. “‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of—’”

“Malerie,” I cut her off.

“Yes?”

“You didn’t write that.”

She looked at me very confused, as if I was telling a child she didn’t actually come from the stork.

“But it’s in my handwriting,” she said. “But if you don’t believe me…” She didn’t finish the thought and just sat back down.

If the Pillsbury Doughboy had a sister, I imagine Malerie would be her look-alike. She’s short and round and a little…
different
. I wouldn’t say she’s
slow
, I’d just say other boats make it to the island before hers. She struggles a bit with concentration, metabolism, and plagiarism…but who’s perfect?

Malerie has also carried an old camcorder around for as long as I’ve known her. She films
everything
. I used to find it intriguing when she first joined journalism class, sensing there might be the potential for a strong reporter in her, but now that I know creative writing is her passion it just worries me. What does she do with all that footage?