Mark T. - "Life in Class"

Math is usually my favorite subject but today with Mr. Smith rambling on and on about commutative and associative properties even Einstein would have been counting the seconds until next period with the rest of the class.

Now Mr. Smith isn’t a bad teacher, in fact I really liked him; he just gets carried away sometimes. BRING! BRING! The bell for last period rang “For homework do pages twenty-two and twenty-three. There will be a quiz on Wednesday. Class dismissed!” Mr. Smith said in his deep voice.

We all filed out through the door into a steadily building stream of people. I made way through the crowd to my last class, History, which is my least favorite class for three reasons. One, the teacher, Mr. Kalama, or Mr. K, is a History Geek, who can talk two days straight about topics that make your mind rot. Second, his classroom is plastered with posters of monsters from every ancient mythology you could think of. And third, Mr. Kalama hates me. It wasn’t my fault his poodle has pink fur. I was just painting, it was the dog that got to close.

BRING! BRING! The tardy bell rang. “Good afternoon class. Today I would like to point out my new poster of a bull Cyclopes,” he said, all the while glaring at me.
“If everyone could hand in the assignment,” after this was done he started droning on about Phillip III of Macedonia or Alexander the Great.

Finally, the bell rang and we all got up to go. “Mr. Phillips come here a second, “he said. I reluctantly came over, “Give this to your mom, tell her I send my best regards,” he said handing me an envelope. I smiled and walked away.

My mom was already waiting for me when I got out. “Here,” I said, tossing her the envelope.

“What’s this?”She said starting the engine and pulling out.

“It’s a note from Mr. Kalama. He told me to give it to you,”

“Oh, that’s nice. We went to college together,” We rode on in silence.
On the elevator my mom asked, “Do you want to bake a birthday cake?”

“I guess,” I replied.

“Okay, I’ll try to find my chocolate cake recipe.”

When I was little I always loved backing a cake with my mom and dad, the day before my birthday, but now without my dad it really isn’t the same. My dad had disappeared around two years ago, yet I still thought of him every second. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and think I hear his voice, but now I’m turning thirteen, and I’ve given up all hope of him coming home.

“Help me put this in the oven would you.”Just then the doorbell rang. My mom walked to the door and opened it. It was not my dad, or anyone I knew, it was a total stranger.