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The School Project

Dean Traylor is a freelance writer and teacher who writes about various subjects, including education and creative writing.

“Denny Torres, are you ready?” he enunciated when I didn’t respond in time. Yeah, I was ready, alright. I took a week out of my busy schedule to get this project done.

“Denny Torres, are you ready?” he enunciated when I didn’t respond in time. Yeah, I was ready, alright. I took a week out of my busy schedule to get this project done.

“Mr. Denny Torres, are you ready to present your project?”

Mr. Hutchinson, the biology teacher from Hell - as far as I and my fellow students were concern - stood at the podium glaring down at us. He was tall, built like granite, and struck fear into the hearts of all high school students.

“Mr. Torres, are you ready?” he enunciated when I didn’t respond in the timely fashion he preferred.

Yeah, I was ready, alright. I took a week out of my busy schedule to get this project done.

"I'm ready to go," I said in the most obsequiously dishonest tone ever.

Everybody said that Mr. Hutchinson took pleasure in failing half of his students in each class he taught. He also took pleasure in riding a straight “C” student like me into the ground. This project was my final chance at getting a passing grade and there was no way I was going to let him smile ear-to-ear when filled out my grades for the semester.

But, there’s something Mr. Hutchinson, my peers, and my friends didn't realize: I lived by the mantra, “If there’s a will, there’s an ‘A’.” And on this final day in his class, that's what I aimed for.

And proceed I did, I turned away from the students and went to Mr. Hutchinson and placed the scrapbook in front of him.

“I think you should review this before I get started.”

Everybody had their pie-charts, graphs, pictures, clippings and writing samples slapped onto poster-boards. That's what Mr. Hutchinson wanted and none of the students were going to argue with him when so much as at stake. Everybody followed his orders...everyone except me. I had a homemade scrapbook with pictures inside.

I strolled to the front of the class with my project.

“What's your project?” Mr. Hutchinson snorted, glancing down at the podium and checking off something on the grading rubrics that would decide my fate.

“It’s on ways you can get STD,” I said.

He raised his perplexed eyes, glared at me, and then grumbled, “Proceed.”

And proceed I did, I turned away from the students and went to Mr. Hutchinson and placed the scrapbook in front of him. This caught him by surprise. He probably didn't think I had it in me to make such a thing (even if he didn't ask for it.

“I think you should review this before I get started.”

Mr. Hutchinson, the biology teacher from Hell - as far as I and my fellow students were concern - stood at the podium glaring down at us. He was tall, built like granite, and struck fear into the hearts of all high school students

Mr. Hutchinson, the biology teacher from Hell - as far as I and my fellow students were concern - stood at the podium glaring down at us. He was tall, built like granite, and struck fear into the hearts of all high school students

He opened the book and immediately saw the first photo. He gasped.

“I take that’s not your wife,” I whispered.

He glanced at the other photo.

“Neither is she?”

He turned to the final page: the one with the therapy where you don’t just get a "therapy." His eyes widened, his body trembled.

“Amazing what you can find on that boulevard near the airport.”

“What do you want?” he said in a low, shaking voice.

“I think you know what I want.”

He trembled as perspiration beaded his forehead. He did quick glance at the students and then at me. A sigh of resignation parted his lips.

"Okay," he said. "But make this project presentable, so they don't suspect, please."

I smiled and walked back to my desk and pulled out the poster board and report and presented to the class that had no clue what had just conspired. It was a good report, might I add. Not only that, it was the easiest “A” I ever earned.

“What do you want?” he said in a low, shaking voice. “I think you know what I want.” That was the easiest “A” I ever earned. Originally posted on 3girls1apple.com

“What do you want?” he said in a low, shaking voice. “I think you know what I want.” That was the easiest “A” I ever earned. Originally posted on 3girls1apple.com

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© 2015 Dean Traylor

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