Algebra

Friends, drop whatever you are doing and relax with me for a moment. Its story time, and I'm going to take you back to the fall of 1998. The setting is Skyview Highschool, a place where I would spend four of the weirdest years of my life. But for now everything is fresh and new: I had my first girlfriend, my first locker, my first portable CD player and my first 'F' in Algebra.

I remember the strange feeling I had in my stomach even now. I cracked the seal on the report card envelope that I was supposed to deliver to my parents and started scanning the list of classes; English "A", Body Sculpting "A", two more A's, and then Algebra, a big fat "F". Now keep in mind that I had been homeschooled through Junior High so the only grade system I was familiar with was that of Elementary School (O = excellent, V = very good, S = satisfactory, NE = parents didn't love you enough). I had to ask around before I found out that "F" didn't actually stand for fantastic, no, it meant "Fun", the first feeling that comes to mind when you realize that you get to take Mr. Spark's Algebra class again.

Naturally, I panicked. The parents weren't going to be happy about this and I needed a quick out so I did about the only thing I know how to do, I started writing... in this case, an email:

"Dear Dad:

It is with great regret and sorrow that I'm writing you. I had to elope with my new girlfriend because I wanted to avoid a scene with Mom and you.

I have been finding real passion with Stacy and she is so nice.

But I knew you would not approve of her because of all her piercings, tattoos, tight motorcycle clothes and the fact that she is much older than I am. But it's not only the passion...Dad she's pregnant.

Stacy said that we will be very happy.

She owns a trailer in the woods and has a stack of firewood to last the whole winter. We share a dream of having many more children.

Stacy has opened my eyes to the fact that marijuana doesn't really hurt anyone. We'll be growing it for ourselves and trading it with the other people that live nearby for cocaine and ecstasy.

In the meantime we will pray that science will find a cure for AIDS so Stacy can get better. She deserves it.

Don't worry Dad. I'm 15 and I know how to take care of myself.

Someday I'm sure that we will be back to visit so that you can get to know your grandchildren.

Love,
Your Son Joel

PS. Dad, none of the above is true. I'm over at Ely’s house.


I just wanted to remind you that there are worse things in life than a report card – it’s in my center desk drawer. I love you.

Call me when it's safe to come home."

The problem with being a smart-ass is that it only works once before the charm is gone. I don't remember my excuse for failing Algebra 2 my junior year, but undoubtedly it wasn't as cheeky. I do remember talking with my councellor a number of times; she never even once mentioned college application packets or scholarships or future education prospects. Nope, I was an Algebra flunky, surely destined to beat the dents out of 1993 Honda Accords in some lowly Soldotna body shop. Fortunatley highschool isn't the end all experience of life.