slipper on her right foot, a black ballet
slipper on her left. The fallen hem of her wine-red linen skirt dragged along the floor, and a mop-gray thermal bunched under
her baby-tee. A shredded scarf dangled from her neck as a string of fake pearls fought for breath. Her yellow t-shirt, which
looked about ten sizes too small, read: PROPERTY OF SPONGEBOB. As a final touch, Petra topped her matted locks with a lopsided paper Burger King crown.
Still, you know how Johnny Depp insists on accepting roles that ruin his looks? And yet — despite the scissor hands in one
film, the mouthful of rotting teeth in another — he manages to be mind-blowingly beautiful? Petra Greene suffered from the
same sort of disease. Try as she might, she couldn’t
not
be pretty. In fact, the less she cared, the more you stared.
It was really quite tragic.
“Take a seat, Petra,” Glen nodded as she sat down, her skirt blooming like a wine-red mushroom cloud. “It’s nice to see you.”
And wasn’t that the truth?
Winston Prep lifted the term “Town Meeting” from the Quakers, a centuries-old community of nonviolent Christians who — if
they were anything like that guy on the oatmeal box — considered pirate hats the absolute height of fashion. Which is to say,
the similarities between Winston Town Meetings and Quaker Town Meetings began and ended with the name.
Winston Town Meetings were all the same: boring announcement after boring announcement until the ultimate reward of boring
bagels, accompanied by only slightly more compelling individualized cream cheese packets. Then, while the seventh graders
sat consuming their carbs (upperclassmen knew better), Glen reminded them that, in addition to announcements, Town Meeting
provided a platform for
community expression.
“Come on, guys!” He scanned the meeting for volunteers. “Town Meeting doesn’t
have
to be boring!”
That was the most boring announcement of all.
No one in their right mind took advantage of community expression, which expressed one thing and one thing only: I am a big
fat loser. Take Owen Meyer, for example. In commemoration of the thirteen-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death, Owen had
performed an a cappella rendition of “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam,” and then — to the shock and mirth of all present
— he actually
cried.
After that, everyone called him Owen Crier, which made him cry more, which only proved the point. Eventually he moved to
Texas, which students dubbed the Lone Tear State, but only for about a day. By the next, Owen and his blotchy face were forgotten.
“I did a lot of thinking over the summer.” Glen looked off into the distance, nostrils flaring like a conquistador. “I thought
about the way Town Meeting used to be. And then I thought about the way Town Meeting is
now
— strained of creativity like so much pulp from orange juice.
Even though the pulp is the most nutritious part!
”
He bored into them with his sternest look.
“I realized we need to make some serious changes around here,” he announced. Students shifted their weight and exchanged worried
glances. What, exactly, was Glen capable of ? Was he allowed to ground them? Send them to boarding school? Military school?
ITT Tech?
“I’d like to introduce our new director of Special Studies.” Glen turned toward the right corner of the room. “Miss Paletsky.”
That no one knew what a “special study” was really didn’t matter; the insult was obvious. Everyone knew “special” was synonymous
with “retard,” even Glen. But before they could cry out in protest, Winston’s newest teacher approached the microphone.
One thing you could say for the new director of Retard Studies: she knew how to dress the part.
Her clothes looked like something you’d trade for cigarettes behind the Berlin Wall. Meaning they were, like, eighties — but
in a very non-cool way. She had paired high-waisted tan stretch pants
slipper on her left. The fallen hem of her wine-red linen skirt dragged along the floor, and a mop-gray thermal bunched under
her baby-tee. A shredded scarf dangled from her neck as a string of fake pearls fought for breath. Her yellow t-shirt, which
looked about ten sizes too small, read: PROPERTY OF SPONGEBOB. As a final touch, Petra topped her matted locks with a lopsided paper Burger King crown.
Still, you know how Johnny Depp insists on accepting roles that ruin his looks? And yet — despite the scissor hands in one
film, the mouthful of rotting teeth in another — he manages to be mind-blowingly beautiful? Petra Greene suffered from the
same sort of disease. Try as she might, she couldn’t
not
be pretty. In fact, the less she cared, the more you stared.
It was really quite tragic.
“Take a seat, Petra,” Glen nodded as she sat down, her skirt blooming like a wine-red mushroom cloud. “It’s nice to see you.”
And wasn’t that the truth?
Winston Prep lifted the term “Town Meeting” from the Quakers, a centuries-old community of nonviolent Christians who — if
they were anything like that guy on the oatmeal box — considered pirate hats the absolute height of fashion. Which is to say,
the similarities between Winston Town Meetings and Quaker Town Meetings began and ended with the name.
Winston Town Meetings were all the same: boring announcement after boring announcement until the ultimate reward of boring
bagels, accompanied by only slightly more compelling individualized cream cheese packets. Then, while the seventh graders
sat consuming their carbs (upperclassmen knew better), Glen reminded them that, in addition to announcements, Town Meeting
provided a platform for
community expression.
“Come on, guys!” He scanned the meeting for volunteers. “Town Meeting doesn’t
have
to be boring!”
That was the most boring announcement of all.
No one in their right mind took advantage of community expression, which expressed one thing and one thing only: I am a big
fat loser. Take Owen Meyer, for example. In commemoration of the thirteen-year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death, Owen had
performed an a cappella rendition of “Jesus Doesn’t Want Me for a Sunbeam,” and then — to the shock and mirth of all present
— he actually
cried.
After that, everyone called him Owen Crier, which made him cry more, which only proved the point. Eventually he moved to
Texas, which students dubbed the Lone Tear State, but only for about a day. By the next, Owen and his blotchy face were forgotten.
“I did a lot of thinking over the summer.” Glen looked off into the distance, nostrils flaring like a conquistador. “I thought
about the way Town Meeting used to be. And then I thought about the way Town Meeting is
now
— strained of creativity like so much pulp from orange juice.
Even though the pulp is the most nutritious part!
”
He bored into them with his sternest look.
“I realized we need to make some serious changes around here,” he announced. Students shifted their weight and exchanged worried
glances. What, exactly, was Glen capable of ? Was he allowed to ground them? Send them to boarding school? Military school?
ITT Tech?
“I’d like to introduce our new director of Special Studies.” Glen turned toward the right corner of the room. “Miss Paletsky.”
That no one knew what a “special study” was really didn’t matter; the insult was obvious. Everyone knew “special” was synonymous
with “retard,” even Glen. But before they could cry out in protest, Winston’s newest teacher approached the microphone.
One thing you could say for the new director of Retard Studies: she knew how to dress the part.
Her clothes looked like something you’d trade for cigarettes behind the Berlin Wall. Meaning they were, like, eighties — but
in a very non-cool way. She had paired high-waisted tan stretch pants
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