Chapter 2: "The Bane of St. Martins"
At St. Martins, we had a very particular curriculum. Along with the basic subjects like Math, English, Foreign Language, and Science, all students within each year were expected to participate in Dance, Choir, and one extracurricular activity such as Running or Football. A bank account was opened for all students, and you were expected to put money in each week as a way of saving.
I hated most of these. I loved learning the dances, but I hated performing them. I liked the idea of being in a choir, but I hated singing because I knew I was no good at it. And though I chose it and was quite good, I hated running—only choosing it because it was "the best choice I could have made," if you ask Mrs. Henry.
The bank account wasn't quite a horrible thing, though it was a bit of an inconvenience giving up half my lunch money every Wednesday.
Though it may seem that way, St. Martins was not a bad school. The teachers were nice and good at their jobs, and other than a few rotten eggs {Dayna Lothdail] , the students were quite well-rounded.
At St. Martins, there were quite a few teachers, but my favorite was always Ms. Brawn. A tall, slim, mulatto lady, always dressed in the fashion of the time. She too was wrapped around Dayna's fingers, but when it mattered, she was always there when I needed her most.
A year before I left Jamorra, she became principal, and to this day I believe that was the best decision that school board has ever made—though back then the school board was run by a more productive board members. I'm not quite sure what happened to Ms. Brawn after that, as it's been quite a few years now. But I'm sure that with the integrity and intelligence she had, it can only be great things.
Much like many others, I have had my share of bad teachers over the years—though at St. Martins, there wasnt only one: Mrs. Brawn. Or "Ms. Brawn 2.0," as I called her. She was the complete opposite of our dear principal and was not very well liked—neither by her students nor her colleagues.
Ironically, the only student who seemed to like her was Dayna, though I believe that was her aunt.
They say never to speak ill of the dead, but Mrs. Brawn was nothing short of the bane of my existence. She believed that everyone her niece hated, she hated too—and she never skipped a chance to show me that. From ridiculous grades, disinterest, and blatant favoritism, Ms. Brawn 2.0 was nothing short of the Miss Trunchbull of my life.
I remember a fight we had—Dayna and I—over a pencil. Much like now, fighting was outlawed in school, but none cared, and threw their punches anyway. And afterward, the punishments came.
I remember Miss Brawn's face after the fight, but I can't quite remember her words. My mother came to the school the next day—which, as you'll later see, doesn't happen often. But that day she was pissed. And when my mother is pissed, it's as if she loses all sense.
Mrs. Brawn was waiting for her. Both of them.
And there we were—in the office of my favorite person in school at the time. And as if I were reliving that moment, I see the photos on her wall, the books on the tall brown shelf which sat right next to her, her face—not smiling as normal but firm, with a mixture of disappointment, disapproval, and betrayal—as her eyes locked with mine.
My mother was at the school for two reasons: what Mrs. Brawn had said to me, and what she had told our principal—that I had tried to steal the pencil.
A pencil? Me? Oh come on.
And even so, how many had she stolen throughout her life? How many times had I seen her borrow a pen or two and never return them?
I didn't take the pencil. At that moment in my life, I wanted nothing to do with Dayna and her posse of lap dogs. And if that wasn't strong enough—I was surely not a thief. But that's what was being said.
We left the meeting with a resolve that day. Mrs. Brawn didn't really believe I stole anything, and Ms. Trunchbull had no hard proof either, so the matter was let go.
At least on paper.
But I never forgave her for that. And the relationship between us (if there was one to begin with) was never repaired. And for the next few months I stayed at St. Martins...
It was war.