You in three persons...first person

It's one thirty in the afternoon. Outside the sun is beating down on my fifth grade classroom, turning the room into a suffocating death trap. A breeze lightly brushes against the open window, stirring the shades only. I listen to Mrs. Whitney announce that it is time to write our stories for this week. I grown in my head. My lest favorite subject. English.

I turn my attention to the top of my desk, the wood patterns swirling from left to right. I stare fixedly at the indent along the top of the desk that holds my chewed pencil; my teeth marks showing my displeasure for the past weekly writing assignments. I glance up at Mrs. Whitney while she finishes up her lecture on how to improve our writing. I didn't listen, again. I'll never get good at writing so what was the since in paying attention? Mrs. Whitney's two chins jiggle as she laughs at a joke she made, the class following suit. I smile weakly in the teacher's direction, faking that I payed attention. "You may start now," Mrs. Whitney tells us in her alto voice.

I lean to the left to look inside my desk to find my black and white media book. It is were I left it, on top of a pile of old crumpled math work sheets. I grab it with my left hand while I think about what boring topic I can choose this time to scribble about. I rustle through my shortening list of topics in my head, shoving each idea aside as it materializes.

Slouching over my desk, head in hands, I begin to pull my sweaty hair. Tears exploding in my eyes as frustration and defeat wrapped around my shaking body. Images of bad grades, my mother's upset face, my brother's chiding comments began whirling in my head. I throw my torso onto my desk in my final act of frustration.