Some writing using my school students' vocabulary words.

               Thinking back on the whole day, I can’t even remember when everything started to go so wrong.  Was it when I woke up 45 minutes late after turning off my alarm clock off accidentally? Could it have been when I passed through the kitchen and saw the box of delectable donuts on the counter only to find out it was empty?  Maybe was it when I glared at the dark, ominous clouds and jinxed myself by saying it wouldn’t rain on my way to school?  Or was it the appalling looks I got the office staff as I arrived at school, soaked through, hair frizzed uncontrollably, and shivering?

                None of that really matters.  What matters is what happened after I got to school, dripping wet and as perturbed as a cat being forced to take a bath.  I slammed my locker shut a little more forcefully than necessary and quickly walked toward my English classroom.  I was almost there when I was stopped by Mrs. Wilkins, the hall monitor.

                “Tardy pass?”  She growled at me, holding out her hand.  She was a meticulous woman who believed that any student out of class, should be returned to their designated room immediately.  She often said she enjoyed dotting every I and crossing every t – whatever that means. 

                “Um, sure,” I said congenially.  Trying very hard to smile, I dug through my soggy pockets for the pass.   It wasn’t wise to make Mrs. Wilkins angry.  I pulled out the smeared and damp pass, and gave it to her.

                “Woke up late?  What kind of excuse is that?  School starts every day at the same time.  It is the least you can do to show up at that time.  Punctuality is very important,” Mrs. Wilkins looked at me disapprovingly.

                I didn’t plan it, but when I opened my mouth, the words escaped in a perfect emulation of Mrs. Wilkins’ nasally tone, “Woke up late?  What kind of excuse it that?” 

                “I don't have to take your sass!”  Mrs. Wilkins glared at me, and she whipped out her detention forms and began diligently filling it out.  She ripped the form off of her clipboard, and handed me a copy of my after school detention for the next day.

                I sighed despondently and lowered my eyes to my soggy shoes, “I’m sorry Mrs. Wilkins,” I mumbled sadly.  “Can I go to class now?”

                “Yes, yes, of course,” Mrs. Wilkins snapped.  “Off you go.”  She marched off down the hall ecstatically looking for other tardy students.