Dearest Troy Bolton,

It has become apparent to me that you are suffering from some internal fatal illness. After all, what reason could there be for the very apparent pain written all over your face as you sing your way though the high school musical movies? Whenever you burst into song, you seem to be on the verge of tears. Hitting a high note causes you obvious discomfort, and I for one appreciate the fact that you will go through so much to please your fans. The way your face twists as you belt out lyrics - my heart goes out to you in your time of need. It appears that the pain you're suffering from radiates from you stomach - for that is what you reach for as your face contorts. During, "Getcha Head in the Game" [props to you on that, btw. Nice high note you hit there, brotha], I was in tears just looking at you. I can only imagine what you were going through, as you got through the words 'Why am I feeling so wrooo-oong?' and your hand flew to your stomach. Don't worry, Troy. I know why you're feeling so wrong. It's the tumor in your stomach. Also, I hope the pepto bismol will take effect soon enough for you to stop crying during the scene I saw in the trailer for high school musical 3 - you know. The one where Gabriella stands up, and everything else gets quiet - [got to give it to disney, they sure know how to make something seem realistic!] - and you're all like, "And that's all I really need." Yeah, that. I honestly hope the medicine takes effect, because if you burst into tears right there, in the middle of the basketball court, I don't think your basketball buddies will be all the pleased with you. In fact, your manly rep might slip a few notches. So just hold it together a little bit man, long enough for the medicine to make it all better. Or, in the words of the medicine itself, take care of the 'upset stomach, diarrhea!' (Yes, we all love it. Yes, we all sing it in the shower. Or, atleast I do...) Right, so. Best wishes to you on that.
Love,
A caring fan.

How I Spent my Summer Vacation.

By Paula T. Age 15 and a quarter.

Dear teacher,
This summer vacation was a very productive one. I did many productive things
This summer vacation was very fun. I worked in a daycare as a buttwiper for minimum wage.
This summer I got food poisoning on two occasions.
I do not appreciate the fact that you made me write this essay.
I do not appreciate the fact that you made me write this essay for several reasons.
This includes
1) That the only people who write essays like this are 3rd graders. I should know, because my sister is writing the same essay next to me.
2)That you gave me an assignment like this one the first day of school. Let me tell you teacher, that was pretty freaking uncool. You are number one on my list of teachers who I will slaughter on April Fool's day.
3) You are my freaking art teacher. Where does this assignment tie into the curriculum?
4) I made plans for today, thinking I wouldn't get any work. And then you hit me with this. It's not appreciated.
5) My sister just looked over my shoulder, and notified me of the fact that she is getting extra credit for this assignment. I am not getting extra credit for this assignment. I am angry about this.
6) You told us that if we bailed on this assignment, our test average was getting docked. Which is clever of you, I suppose. But I am not the biggest fan of cleverness.
But I suppose I should start talking about my summer.
This summer was unlike any other summer I've ever hard. For starters, I had a job. And a real job, not one of those under the table operations where I got paid 20 dollars a week to alphabetize paperwork. No, no, this was a real job, where I did real work, and got paid real money. Not like last time, where I was paid in pesos. Which I later discovered was not, "just really pretty american money with spanish words on it."No, I will not be duped once again by those very smart latino people.
Also, I gained 5 pounds. This is a serious accomplishment in our household. My mother was ecstatic and allowed me to buy a pint of Ben&Jerry's Half Baked. I did. It was very good. I can understand that you just got a craving for ice cream, teacher. Go ahead. Buy some. This paper can wait.
Now that you're back, I can keep telling you about my summer.
Well, I walked in on my parents making whoopie. This was not one of the more exciting aspects of my summer. In fact, it's chalked up there with being stung by a jellyfish, a bumblebee, and my mother's persistent sarcasm.
I also fell in love. That was pretty cool. But if you saw those chocolate colored raspberries, you would fall in love, too.
Another pretty cool thing about this summer was the Cheetah Girls: One World. You will not believe how realistic the plotline was. I'm assuming you have no life, seeing as how you are a teacher, so I will tell you the story.
3 girls [There were 4, but one quit. Or whatever. They say she "was taking a summer course" but she obviously got pregnant, or something] are in some band that's not cool anymore, and they burst into song in the middle of the restaurant [and of course all the waiters can dance, too] and then get a call to try out for some movie. They try out, and they make it, but only one can be the star. One of the girls meets the boy she's been talking to on the phone in India, and he turns out to be a prince, and he provides the movie's location as long as the producer promises to make the girl the lead. But the producer falls in love with the other girl, so he obviously doesn't want to make the prince's girlfriend the lead. And the third girl is helping this popular dude who got case in the movie dance, because he gets all flustered around the choreographer, who's some commonplace ugly chick. In the end, the commonplace ugly chick gets the lead, the creepy fortune-telling sketch hooks up with all 3 of them, and they get trampled by elephants. Or something like that. I fell asleep an hour into it.
I also attended all the sales Staples had and got loads of steals on my school supplies. Pencils for 2 cents? Notebooks for 6 cents? A sharpener for free? COUNT ME IN.
That's pretty much it for my summer. Pretty run of the mill stuff.
Love, Paulabee.


P.S. Hannah Montana's concert was actually really not cool. And Demi Lovato getting her gap fixed was not appreciated.

So.

How simple life was when you were younger.
I smile sadly at the concept, wedged into a chair meant for butts smaller than mine. I shift a little, and the chair creaks beneath my weight.
My current job in a daycare always keeps me in contact with little children. I look out at the playground set out in front of me.
Girls run from the boys, screaming about the fatal disease of cooties. A group of older children is coloring, the younger children gazing on in wonder at how they stay inside the lines. A little boy puts the finishing touch on a tower of building blocks, then smiles a malicious smile and kicks the tower, sending the blocks towering to the ground. An hour he's been building that tower, and only swift seconds were spent destroying it.
A metaphor, it feels like, for my life at the moment.
Or rather a metaphor for my friendship with you.
It wasn't too long ago when our "tower" reached its peak. At the time, our inside jokes rumored in the hundreds - just looking at you sent me into peals of laughter. No awkward silences, just comfortable moments reflecting on things. Hours spent on the phone, talking about nothing at all, and everything in particular. How well things were, and how bad they got. I can't pinpoint exactly when things got awry. The calls got less frequent. The comfortable moments stopped and turned into shifting eyes, stutters of, "sooo...".
I felt that I was to blame. I had taken part in this cycle of friendship so many times before, and always things ended badly. Surely, there was something wrong with me. With my personality.
How we tried to save it. And how it didn't help.
You tried to call me, and I paced around my house, anxious to think of things to say. Nothing would come to mind and I'd race to say something, anything, to keep you on the line, but the magical glimmer was gone from our friendship. The spark had long been gone, anyway, and we lapsed into a pattern of avoidance. We have the same friends, so it's not exactly easy to avoid you. My eyes catch yours, and you look away quickly. I follow suit.
I used to be funny around you, but I lost it. The comfort had left, and the humor wasn't far behind.
You don't have a hard time keeping up the jokes; I see you bonding comfortably with everyone around me.
I try to crack a joke, begin to tell it, and falter under your questioning gaze.
I don't really remember a time when your opinion took on such importance, but now it does.
I'm scared of your judging. I know that you can see through my laughter, my cover up, to the person within. And that in itself is scary enough.
I'm jolted out of my train of thought - the boy has begun rebuilding his tower, and he's laughing as he stacks block unto block, shooing away kids who want to help. He doesn't mind the time he just spent building the tower only to topple it to the ground. It doesn't matter to him that it will take him atleast an hour to rebuild it.
But I doubt fate will play out in the same way for us.

Adoption.

My sister is a 9 year old mother.
You read that right. Let me repeat myself for clarification.
My sister is a 9 year old mother.
Of a snail.
My sister is the 9 year old mother of a snail.
"You must mean you're the snail's owner," I corrected her, "Because you can't be a snail's mother. It's an animal. It's your pet."
"Whaddya mean, I can't be it's mother?" She demanded, "I raised it. I loved it. I put air holes in its jar."
"You've had it for roughly 5 minutes. And you're not it's mother. It's a freaking SNAIL."
"Fine, then. I've adopted it," She gave a triumphant smile.
"YOU CAN'T ADOPT A SNAIL."
"Well, I'll be the first."
My sister is the 9 year old mother of a snail.
She held up the little jam jar that was now the poor snail's home up to my face.
"LOOK AT IT. ISN'T IT THE CUTEST THING YOU'VE EVER SEEN?"
No I thought to myself. But I resisted the urge to gag and peeked at the jam jar. My sister had set up a modest home for the snail, complete with 4 leaves, a twig, and a piece of paper.
"For it to pee on," she explained, pointing to the tiny paper.
"Right," I said, slowly backing away."
"YOU CAN TOUCH IT IF YOU WANT. TOUCH IT!"
"I don't want to touch your freaking snail! PEOPLE EAT SNAILS IN FRANCE."
Esther shuddered, "How dare you? Refer to my child as FOOD? FOOD OF THE FRENCH!"
"It's not your child, Esther. It's a snail."
"ITS MY BABY. ITS MY ADOPTED KIN. I LOVE HER."
I stole another glance at the pathetic object of our conversation. It's little bug eyes looked at me sadly.
"LET ME OUT!" the eyes seemed to be saying.
"Esther. You have to let the snail go."
"NO!" Esther snatched the jar off the table and held it protectively to her chest, "If I told you to throw your baby away, would you do it? WOULD YOU?"
"That's not the same thing - "
"AND HOW DARE YOU EVEN THINK THAT," she yelled at me, "WHY DO YOU HATE THIS SNAIL SO MUCH, ANYYWAY? DO YOU HAVE SOMETHING AGAINST SNAILS?"
I shuddered inwardly. Memories from my childhood flooded my mind. Me sitting in the backward, a snail-filled leaf in my lap. Me putting salt on the snails, me ripping the shells off the snails' backs, me ripping the snails into several pieces and trying to see if regeneration would occur, me trying to feed the snails people food, me bringing the snails home, the snails withering away to nothing...
"DO YOU?" Esther screamed, bringing me back to the present.
"No," I said, turning away from her, "Keep your stupid snail. It won't last long anyway."
But Esther didn't hear my words, "PLAY TIME!" she shrieked, grabbing the jam jar from the table and screwing it open, "PLAY TIME FOR SNAILIE!"
Yes. That is the snail's name. Snailie. Obviously, my little sister is not the most imaginative child of the bunch.
"COME ON, SNAILIE! LET'S GO ON MY SWING SET!"
My sister is the 9 year old mother of a snail named Snailie. Oh, joy.