A Girl Called Kill, chapter 1
Kyle walked through the main doors of the school. Her boots were unpolished, her black skirt was dirty, her shirt wrinkled, her tights ripped, and her eyeliner applied darkly. The clomp of her boots on the hard floor made her presence known to a group of freshmen girls. They squealed and made an opening for her to pass. She blinked as she stepped outside into the school's courtyard.
There were throngs of people gathered around bulletin boards with the homeroom assignments. Kyle wandered lazily about until she found the board with her last name letter. She pushed through the crowd and trailed her finger down the board to her name.
"Morris, Kylina Rm. 22 Montague"
"Great," thought Kyle. "I have Monsieur Montague first thing in the mornings." She gave a small, inaudible sigh and headed off toward her class.
When Kyle walked into the classroom, there were nametags on the desks. She quickly found her seat and sat down. There was only one other student in the classroom, a boy, and the TA, a girl, as well as Monsieur Montague. The boy looked over at the TA and then over at Kyle. He mouthed "She's hot" to Kyle. She rolled her eyes and looked away. Soon, other students began to file into the classroom. Most of the students were juniors and seniors, with the exception of a few sophomores.
Monsieur Montague looked up from his desk as the bell rang. He stood up and smiled at the students.
"Bonjour class," he said. No one understood why he insisted on greeting a French 3 class like it were French 1.
"Bonjour Monsieur Montague," the class weakly responded. Monsieur Montague walked over to Kyle.
"Ton prenom comment?" he asked.
"Je m'appelle Kyle."
"Qu'est-ce que tu aimes faire?" He smiled condescendingly down at her.
"J'aime regarder la tele, aller au cinema, et ecouter de la musique," she responded. Monsieur Montague's smile broadened.
"Tu aimes le jazz?" He looked at her clothes and nearly laughed. He obviously thought he was being funny.
"Non, je n'aime pas le jazz. J'aime beaucoup le rock."
"Ah, d'accord." He walked away grinning to himself. Kyle slumped in her chair, scowling.
Monsieur Montague passed out the schedules during homeroom, which doubled as first period. This is what Kyle's program looked like:
1st/Homeroom Montague Rm. 22 French 3A
2nd McDougal Rm. 10 Algebra 2A
3rd Chavez Gym Dance
4th Augustus Library Study Period
5th Hunter Rm. 64 Government
6th Kovacs Rm. 86 H. English
Kyle knew all of the teachers. She'd had all of them at one point in her high school career. Except one. Kovacs must be new at the school.
"She sounds fat," thought Kyle. She sighed and left the room when the bell rang.
All of the teachers were exactly the way she knew they would be. Montague was an annoying flake, Mr. McDougal was mean and loud, Miss Chavez was as chubby and sarcastic as ever, Mr. Augustus was stern and irreverent, Mrs. Hunter was weird (and not in the good way, but the borderline psychopathic way), and Kovacs. Kyle hadn't been to Kovacs's class yet.
As she walked toward room 86, Kyle felt a clenching feeling in her chest. This was the detention room. A room that Kyle had become quite familiar with over the years. "They must have converted it into a classroom," thought Kyle. "I feel sorry for the son of a bitch who has to deal with the room's bad chi." She sighed and walked through the door.
What she saw, to say the least, surprised her. Much of the class was already seated and many students had smiles on their faces. Kyle looked over and saw a thin lady sitting on a stool at the front of the classroom. She was wearing jeans that were ripped at the knees, beat up black Converse, and a black camisole. Her light brown hair was cut short, just above her shoulders and had red streaks. She turned toward Kyle.
"Sorry," she said. "It's a pretty full class. There are a few seats left. Go ahead and find an empty desk to call your own." She gave a small smile as Kyle surveyed the room. The only desks that were available were near a group of girls applying makeup and one at the front of the room by the teacher's desk. Kyle decided to occupy the seat by the teacher's desk.
"Hey. This seat is taken." The boy glared up at her and put his hand on the back of the chair. Kyle stopped.
"Excuse me." The lady had not moved from her stool. "Unless you have an imaginary friend sitting in that seat, it's open." She cocked an eyebrow. "And I sincerely hope that you've out-grown your imaginary friend stage." The boy scowled and removed his hand. Kyle sat down and waited expectantly for class to begin. When the bell rang, the lady got up off the stool and began to wander through the aisles.
"Who can tell me what irony is?" she asked as she looked around the room. A very small, fragile looking boy raised his hand. Or rather his hand shot up. Kyle half expected his entire arm to separate from his body.
"Irony is an incongruity between what is expected to happen and what actually happens." The lady nodded.
"So would you say that it is ironic that this room, the very room that I spent so many hours of detention in as a student, has become my area of teaching?"
"Yes, absolutely." The boy nodded fiercely. Kyle had an image of the boy's head flying off into the trashcan.
The lady walked back to the front of the room. "My name is Miss Kovacs. You are my only senior class, so I hope your behavior is better than my first period group of tenth graders. An honors class and they try to lower my standards." She shook her head in mock sadness. "Speaking of standards, mine are fairly simple. After being inspired by one of my high school English teachers, I decided to steal her profession and become one as well. I also stole her basic lesson plan, which is this: You will each keep a Writer's Notebook. In this notebook you will write all your ideas for stories, poems, essay, et cetera. You will read a certain number of pages each week, a number that I have not yet decided. You will also have to write a certain number of finished pieces which you will conference with me about before turning them in." She stopped and looked around the room. "I will go into more detail tomorrow. Right now I need to take roll and then assign homework." She was answered by groans. "An honors class!" she yelled in mock anger. "An honors class! It won't kill you. Now be quiet so I can take roll." She sat down at her desk and started calling names.
Kyle waited for her name to be called. There were many things Kyle didn't like about school, but one thing that stood out in her mind was her name being called during roll. For years (since second grade) she had asked to be called Kyle. The teachers had always given her strange looks and there were inevitably laughs from other students.
"Kylina Morris?" Kyle raised her hand.
"I like to be called Kyle." She heard a few snickers. Miss Kovacs looked toward the sound.
"I don't see why you're laughing. A girl called Kyle is cool. Sounds like Kill."
Was that it? No strange look? No cocked eyebrow? Not even an eye twitch?
Miss Kovacs finished roll and stood up. "All I want you to do for homework is write a description of your bedroom," she said. "See? Easy." She smiled. "I want it tomorrow at the beginning of class. You guys can vamoose when the bell rings." Ten minutes later the bell rang and Kyle walked out of the class thinking what she was going to write about her room.
***
Kyle sat in her room, staring at the walls. She didn't know what to write. She stared down at her blank piece of paper. The tip of her pen was suddenly on the first line. Her hand was moving now.
Kyle had learned about stream of conscience writing in the seventh grade. Maybe she could get her description done this way. Ten minutes later she stopped. Rereading her paper, she swore.
"Shit," she mumbled. She had started writing about her kitchen halfway through her first paragraph. She threw her folder on the floor from frustration. "Damn it," she said. She glared down at the folder and grabbed it. Sitting on her unmade bed, she got another piece of paper and started writing.
There were throngs of people gathered around bulletin boards with the homeroom assignments. Kyle wandered lazily about until she found the board with her last name letter. She pushed through the crowd and trailed her finger down the board to her name.
"Morris, Kylina Rm. 22 Montague"
"Great," thought Kyle. "I have Monsieur Montague first thing in the mornings." She gave a small, inaudible sigh and headed off toward her class.
When Kyle walked into the classroom, there were nametags on the desks. She quickly found her seat and sat down. There was only one other student in the classroom, a boy, and the TA, a girl, as well as Monsieur Montague. The boy looked over at the TA and then over at Kyle. He mouthed "She's hot" to Kyle. She rolled her eyes and looked away. Soon, other students began to file into the classroom. Most of the students were juniors and seniors, with the exception of a few sophomores.
Monsieur Montague looked up from his desk as the bell rang. He stood up and smiled at the students.
"Bonjour class," he said. No one understood why he insisted on greeting a French 3 class like it were French 1.
"Bonjour Monsieur Montague," the class weakly responded. Monsieur Montague walked over to Kyle.
"Ton prenom comment?" he asked.
"Je m'appelle Kyle."
"Qu'est-ce que tu aimes faire?" He smiled condescendingly down at her.
"J'aime regarder la tele, aller au cinema, et ecouter de la musique," she responded. Monsieur Montague's smile broadened.
"Tu aimes le jazz?" He looked at her clothes and nearly laughed. He obviously thought he was being funny.
"Non, je n'aime pas le jazz. J'aime beaucoup le rock."
"Ah, d'accord." He walked away grinning to himself. Kyle slumped in her chair, scowling.
Monsieur Montague passed out the schedules during homeroom, which doubled as first period. This is what Kyle's program looked like:
1st/Homeroom Montague Rm. 22 French 3A
2nd McDougal Rm. 10 Algebra 2A
3rd Chavez Gym Dance
4th Augustus Library Study Period
5th Hunter Rm. 64 Government
6th Kovacs Rm. 86 H. English
Kyle knew all of the teachers. She'd had all of them at one point in her high school career. Except one. Kovacs must be new at the school.
"She sounds fat," thought Kyle. She sighed and left the room when the bell rang.
All of the teachers were exactly the way she knew they would be. Montague was an annoying flake, Mr. McDougal was mean and loud, Miss Chavez was as chubby and sarcastic as ever, Mr. Augustus was stern and irreverent, Mrs. Hunter was weird (and not in the good way, but the borderline psychopathic way), and Kovacs. Kyle hadn't been to Kovacs's class yet.
As she walked toward room 86, Kyle felt a clenching feeling in her chest. This was the detention room. A room that Kyle had become quite familiar with over the years. "They must have converted it into a classroom," thought Kyle. "I feel sorry for the son of a bitch who has to deal with the room's bad chi." She sighed and walked through the door.
What she saw, to say the least, surprised her. Much of the class was already seated and many students had smiles on their faces. Kyle looked over and saw a thin lady sitting on a stool at the front of the classroom. She was wearing jeans that were ripped at the knees, beat up black Converse, and a black camisole. Her light brown hair was cut short, just above her shoulders and had red streaks. She turned toward Kyle.
"Sorry," she said. "It's a pretty full class. There are a few seats left. Go ahead and find an empty desk to call your own." She gave a small smile as Kyle surveyed the room. The only desks that were available were near a group of girls applying makeup and one at the front of the room by the teacher's desk. Kyle decided to occupy the seat by the teacher's desk.
"Hey. This seat is taken." The boy glared up at her and put his hand on the back of the chair. Kyle stopped.
"Excuse me." The lady had not moved from her stool. "Unless you have an imaginary friend sitting in that seat, it's open." She cocked an eyebrow. "And I sincerely hope that you've out-grown your imaginary friend stage." The boy scowled and removed his hand. Kyle sat down and waited expectantly for class to begin. When the bell rang, the lady got up off the stool and began to wander through the aisles.
"Who can tell me what irony is?" she asked as she looked around the room. A very small, fragile looking boy raised his hand. Or rather his hand shot up. Kyle half expected his entire arm to separate from his body.
"Irony is an incongruity between what is expected to happen and what actually happens." The lady nodded.
"So would you say that it is ironic that this room, the very room that I spent so many hours of detention in as a student, has become my area of teaching?"
"Yes, absolutely." The boy nodded fiercely. Kyle had an image of the boy's head flying off into the trashcan.
The lady walked back to the front of the room. "My name is Miss Kovacs. You are my only senior class, so I hope your behavior is better than my first period group of tenth graders. An honors class and they try to lower my standards." She shook her head in mock sadness. "Speaking of standards, mine are fairly simple. After being inspired by one of my high school English teachers, I decided to steal her profession and become one as well. I also stole her basic lesson plan, which is this: You will each keep a Writer's Notebook. In this notebook you will write all your ideas for stories, poems, essay, et cetera. You will read a certain number of pages each week, a number that I have not yet decided. You will also have to write a certain number of finished pieces which you will conference with me about before turning them in." She stopped and looked around the room. "I will go into more detail tomorrow. Right now I need to take roll and then assign homework." She was answered by groans. "An honors class!" she yelled in mock anger. "An honors class! It won't kill you. Now be quiet so I can take roll." She sat down at her desk and started calling names.
Kyle waited for her name to be called. There were many things Kyle didn't like about school, but one thing that stood out in her mind was her name being called during roll. For years (since second grade) she had asked to be called Kyle. The teachers had always given her strange looks and there were inevitably laughs from other students.
"Kylina Morris?" Kyle raised her hand.
"I like to be called Kyle." She heard a few snickers. Miss Kovacs looked toward the sound.
"I don't see why you're laughing. A girl called Kyle is cool. Sounds like Kill."
Was that it? No strange look? No cocked eyebrow? Not even an eye twitch?
Miss Kovacs finished roll and stood up. "All I want you to do for homework is write a description of your bedroom," she said. "See? Easy." She smiled. "I want it tomorrow at the beginning of class. You guys can vamoose when the bell rings." Ten minutes later the bell rang and Kyle walked out of the class thinking what she was going to write about her room.
***
Kyle sat in her room, staring at the walls. She didn't know what to write. She stared down at her blank piece of paper. The tip of her pen was suddenly on the first line. Her hand was moving now.
Kyle had learned about stream of conscience writing in the seventh grade. Maybe she could get her description done this way. Ten minutes later she stopped. Rereading her paper, she swore.
"Shit," she mumbled. She had started writing about her kitchen halfway through her first paragraph. She threw her folder on the floor from frustration. "Damn it," she said. She glared down at the folder and grabbed it. Sitting on her unmade bed, she got another piece of paper and started writing.
