Enemies to B
ecause the boys were all gone for some reason or another last night, my mom and I had dinner alone. We had quiche. My dad and brothers are too fussy to eat it, so it’s a bit of a treat, and it was fun. Afterwards, while I dried and Mom washed, we got into a little debate.
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“Any homework?” Mom asked. “Just this stupid assignment from Mrs. Pavlov, but I’m not doing it,” I said. “Really?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Yeah. It’s no big deal. She doesn’t read anything we hand in, and half the time she loses it. It’s just busy work. I’m just going to make it up during lunch and hand it in.” Mom had stopped scrubbing the pan in the sink. Her face was frozen, eyebrows arched, lips pursed. She didn’t say a thing. She just looked at me. I hate that. My heart started racing. I could feel myself getting nervous. I went on.“I’ve got it covered. The whole class knows it’s a joke. It’s not a real assignment. She’s just punishing us
because Jason won’t do his homework. She can’t make him do anything, so she thinks if she is mean enough to us, we’ll pressure him into it.” She turned back to the pot.“What’s the assignment?” she asked. “She wants us to read a column from a news magazine or a newspaper and find four rhetorical devices or examples, like metaphors, and then explain them. It’s supposed to be one page. I can just make it up. She won’t know and doesn’t really care. I hate that class.” “That assignment doesn’t sound that hard,” she said. “But it’s not fair. I can’t make Jason do his homework. And she really doesn’t read our assignments anyway. She is the worst teacher I have ever had,” I said, stomping my foot. “Who is the teacher?” she asked quietly. I kept drying.“Is she asking you to sin?” she asked. “No, but she shouldn’t be a teacher,” I said.“She doesn’t like kids. My English is better than hers.” My voice was
