The Worst Kid

For my children's book writing class this week I have to remember the "worst kid I ever dealt with" and put him in a scene with the a stereotypical school character (bully, nerd, etc). We also have to find a way to sympathize with the "worst kid." Around 500 words, here's my work in progress:

Justin Fick was the snobbiest kid in the whole school. He just thought he had good taste. Maybe his parents spoiled him with front row seats to Cleveland Cavalier games. And maybe he was the first of all his friends to talk about the newest video game. Justin just liked to share cool experiences with his friends. He was too young to understand jealousy. 

But Justin never thought he was the snobbiest until he had detention with Bobby Beartrout, the cruelest member of the Black Ninja's.

The Black Ninjas were a group of boys who taunted the unadventurous during recess. And Bobby was the meanest, most ruthless kid to roam the playground.

The kids in school knew, for the most part, that the Black Ninjas meant no REAL harm. They were rough around the edges, but once you cracked a smile on their face, you knew the Ninja's maybe just ate too many Fruit Loops, or something. But something in Bobby's eyes meant real trouble.

Justin was dreading this detention. He picked up his cell phone and called his dad (it was an emergency), "Dad, yeah, I'm not going to make my tennis lesson today. I have detention."

"No problem, Justin. I'll just tell Camille to reschedule." Justin's dad didn't even ask what happened, let alone sound worried.

"Who's that you're talking to, mamas boy?" said Bobby as he entered the abandoned classroom. "Nice pants, Nancy."

Justin hung up the phone and sighed heavily. “What’s that smell?” he mumbled under his breath. 

“I heard your girly voice down the hall and farted a special one just for you.” said Bobby.

"Thanks, Bobby." Justin said sarcastically. "But I’m surprised you could even get past your own smell to think.”

Bobby walked up to Justin. Closer than he would've liked. "What's that you said, princess?"

"Alright boys, calm down," Mrs. Wentworth said as she entered the classroom. "You two, take out your homework and do something productive." Then she put her headphones on and began humming. 

“You smell like an Easy Bake Oven." Bobby said.

“Whatever.” Justin replied. “I’d rather smell exotic and intriguing. Girls like exotic smells.”

"You think you're so cool, rich kid. Watch where you step." Bobby threatened as Mrs. Wentworth hit the crescendo in the song. She was completely transcending her students' argument.

Crap, Justin thought. He was wearing his new Prada loafers and didn't want them to get dirty. Maybe he could ask his dad to hire a body guard.

“Guess what, Justin? Nobody likes you!” Bobby was starting to get a cruel grin on his face. The same grin that gave Jeremy the black eye and Rory the broken finger. “Everyone talks behind your back, about how snobby you are, how ugly your shoes are. Did you know that?” 

“Shut up, Bobby." Justin sat quietly for a while. Did people really feel that way about him?

“I guess you didn’t see the flyer then.” Bobby sneered. Bobby slowly pulled a paper out of his book bag. He looked down at it before handing it to Justin and started to feel a bit awkward. Part of him wanted to laugh, but the other part kind of felt bad. Almost guilty. Bobby Beartrout, almost guilty? What was happening in the world?

blah

In continuance of a Facebook rant that I'll probably delete: 

During my freshman year at HTHS, Mr. Noble asked my Public Speaking class to crisply define at what age one becomes an adult. As you might assume, the most popular answers were 18 and 21 -- smoking, drinking and gambling (not necessarily in that order). I believe my response was that it was "all relative" and dependant on various circumstances. You could have adult responsibilities at nine for all I knew. However, Mr. Noble, I would now like to add the addendum of "26" to my paper presentation. "All relative" right on, but "adult" seems to be stamped in peculiar and permanent fonts these days.
........

This is not to boast my responsibilities these days. I fuck up, become more of an asshole when I don't follow-through, write e-mails that are difficult and make me wonder if I regret them - though I do try to avoid doing that via text message, which I think comes with this "26" territory.

I dance with glitter on my nose and love it. But the pressures that have arisen I find quite interesting. Pressure to fill my time with important people and keep myself busy. Maybe that's the New Yorker in me, but sitting still is becoming hard, yet so much more enjoyable when its deserved.

Then again, I've always been busy. Gym, cheer, dance. Rehearsal, research paper. Relationship > gas. I've never been one to idle. So why the pressure now, the rush? Maybe adulthood is the sickness you get in your stomach when you know you can do better than your current situation. More money, more happiness, more knowledge. It's the greed of age. 

The pressure to make money and live in a nice place where I can feel confident that when I leave no one will fuck up my shit HAS ALREADY BEEN IN EXISTENCE. Yet, my shit still keeps getting fucked with. The pressures of my ticking clock and whatever else comes with bodily changes is annoying, but is part of this stream into adulthood acceptance? Or rather, the adult experience.

Today I shouted the word "Slut" at work. It was in context and not directly towards anybody (in reference to a television character actually). Ask me if I cared. Nope. Maybe the "not caring" is also considered adulthood too. Or maybe it is juvenile of me. Or maybe its an excuse for too much coffee. Damn you, Secret Squirrel.

The literature I read these days is primarily children's lit. Is it an escape from the daily doldrums, or is it in pursuit of my dreams of becoming a children's book writer? Maybe both. This decision first acknowledged, then made. Doth thou hath a car?  I don'teth.

Retro flaws

In Children's Book writing class this week, we had to write down five flaws we had as a child. I wrote:

1) Bossy
2) Show-off
3) Impatient
4) Short-tempered
5) Fibber (but maybe a great story teller?!)

After we wrote down these five traits, our teacher asked us to write about a character (not ourselves) who has that flaw. Our goal was to show the flaw, not tell it. Meaning we had to describe that flaw through action, dialogue, appearance, etc. Here is my short, in-class story.

Dylan stumbled into the lunch room giddy from gym class and hungry. He picked up tacos from the line (his favorite, yes!) and sat at the usual table in the back of the cafeteria with his friends.

"You guys, the amusement park was so cool this weekend!" Josh exclaimed. "Nitro was wicked fast! I was..."

-- "Yeah well check this out guys." Dylan interrupted.

"I once rode Nitro in the front row and slipped out of the seat belt when the seat belt police weren't looking. Once the roller coaster started going up the hill I climbed up out of my seat and faced backwards. Everyone was freaking out, ha! I rode the whole ride backwards. Did YOU do that, Josh?"

"Oh come on, Dylan," said Trevor. Dylan didn't see him enter the cafeteria.

"They stopped the ride and some guy had to climb the stairs and take you off the ride. We barely moved." Trevor started laughing, "I think I even remember someone booing."

Dylan rolled his eyes while his friends chuckled. "Crap," he thought. He forgot that Trevor was at the amusement park that day. 

Redux

The same assignment as the prior post, but now I'm down to 506 words.




Once upon a time three little boys lived in a hippie commune with their mom. She had not enough to keep them, so she sent them off to seek their fortune.

The boys wandered for days and eventually found themselves in a big city with bright lights, loud noises and lots of yellow cars. They quickly decided that they wanted to live the high life – as in they wanted to live in really tall skyscrapers.

The youngest boy encountered a man carrying lots of straw and said, “Please sir, give me your straw so I may build the best home this city has ever seen.” The man squeezed the boy's chubby cheeks and gave his straw away.

The boy built in Central Park. One day, a menacing-looking man in a suit stopped by. He called himself an Investment Banker from Wall Street.

The Investment Banker knocked and said, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”

“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” the boy replied.

“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.

The middle boy encountered an old lady on the Upper East Side carrying lots of clay in a bag that said “Michaels.” “Please miss, I need your clay to make the tallest home in this town.” The elderly woman was reminded of her own grandson and gave the clay away.

The boy built in Chelsea. Pretty soon, he received a knock on his door from the same, scary Investment Banker.

“Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”

“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.

The oldest boy spent time networking with adults on the Lower East Side. He used his charm to convince everyone to let him build a high rise downtown. 

One year later, he lived in a skyscraper. He could see the tops of all the other buildings and noticed that the little dogs looked even littler. 

The Investment Banker rang the boy’s fancy doorbell, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”

“Never! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!”

The boy was young, but he knew that even the most intimidating Investment Bankers could not move buildings with their breath. The boy watched as the Investment Banker exhaled…nothing moved but his own, ugly tie.

But the Investment Banker was clever and clambered up the fire escape to look for a way inside.

The boy instinctively thought of the movie Home Alone and set up booby traps on the roof.

When the Investment Banker reached the top he tripped on the traps KABLAM and fell through the skylight, landing on a large pile of fake money.

The boy took the Investment Banker to jail for embezzlement and lived as a happy hippie for ever after.

The Three Little Pigs - retold

The first assignment for my children's book writing class is to modernize a popular fairy tale, while maintaining the essential plot elements of the original, in under 500 words. I chose the Three Little Pigs and I'm currently at 550 words.



Once upon a time there were three little boys who lived in a hippie commune with their mom. She had not enough to keep them, so she sent them off to seek their fortune.

The three boys wandered for days and eventually found themselves in a big city with bright lights, loud noises and lots of yellow cars. They quickly decided that they wanted to live the high life – as in they wanted to live in really tall skyscrapers.

The first boy encountered a man carrying lots of straw and said, “Please sir, give me your straw so I may build the best home this city has ever seen.” The man thought the little boy was so cute, he handed all his straw away.

The boy built in Central Park, thinking the house would blend into the scenery. One day, a tall, menacing-looking man in a suit stopped by. He called himself an Investment Banker from Wall Street.

The Investment Banker knocked and said, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”

“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin” the boy replied.

The Investment Banker yelled back, “Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.

The second boy encountered an old lady on the Upper East Side carrying lots of clay in a bag that said “Michaels.” “Please miss, I need your clay to make the tallest home in this town.” The elderly woman was reminded of her own grandson and gave the clay away.

The boy built in Chelsea. Pretty soon, he received a knock on his door from the same, scary Investment Banker.

“Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”

“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!” And he blew the boy’s house down and ate him.

The third boy spent time networking with the parents on the Lower East Side. He used his charm and wilderness skills to convince everyone to let him build a high rise downtown. 

A year later, the boy lived in a skyscraper where he could see the tops of all the other buildings. He noticed that the little dogs looked even littler.

The Investment Banker rang the boy’s fancy doorbell, “Little boy, little boy, let me come in.”

“No, no! Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.”

“Then I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house in!”

The boy was young, but he knew that even the most intimidating Investment Bankers could not move a building with their breath. So the boy watched as the Investment Banker exhaled – all stayed still but the pigeon feathers on the street.

But the Investment Banker was tricky and climbed up the fire escape to look for a way inside.

The boy saw this and was reminded of the movie Home Alone, so he set up a bunch of booby traps on the roof.

When the Investment Banker reached the top he tripped on the booby traps KABLAM and fell through the skylight, landing on a pile of fake dollar bills.

The little boy took the Investment Banker to jail for embezzlement and lived as a happy hippie for ever after.