This Story Has no Clever Name (by Benja Kennedy, age 15)

Benja is taking a creative writing class right now.  With all my recent reading of Harry Potter aloud, Benja has appointed me his official "reader".  Lotta and Zibbi liked his first story so much, they asked for another one, which I have included below for your reading pleasure.  Just to drop this story into our family's history, Benja started kindergarten around 2 weeks after Lotta was born, months before Ellie would pass.  Certainly a unique time, punctuated by great change.  

I did not like kindergarten. I despised it, in fact. It was the worst thing I had ever experienced in my life. 

Now the first day was alright, a bit fun, I might have admitted. Of course, I didn't know school was mandatory at this point. Every class or daycare Mother had ever tried enrolling me in resulted in me leaving either halfway through or completing one day and then never returning. I expected this to be the case with kindergarten, an event I had the option of attending. 

Oh, how I was wrong, so very, very wrong. I had assumed the first day was a trial, and if I didn't like it, I would have the option to never return and get on with my life. It was a simple system, you didn't need to be a genius to come up with it. So, when I returned home, mother and father both inquired about my day. 

I said I had enjoyed myself. Ya know, the standard response to get the parents off your back. But this was when I began to grow concerned. 

Now, ordinarily, my parents would not be too interested in my day's adventure, and I liked it that way.  My parents’ aura of interest really freaked me out. This was highly irregular behaviour. 

My suspicions deepened the following morning, when my father woke me from my slumber at an outrageous time. Yes, I liked to get up early, by that was when I could get up of my own accord, not when some fool shook me awake. I was forced to get up in the cold and quickly dress, hastily eat a dry breakfast and get into the car, with the strange man I called Dad. Mother insisted it was okay, but, come on woman, I only knew this guy for five years. And it is common knowledge to never go with a stranger to a second location. 

My concern grew ever deeper when we arrived at the school I attended the day prior. Um, this was extremely weird. In so few words, I basically told my father the following: "Yikes. Yeah, dad, this is a bit awkward, but I thought you knew this already, but, I only go to these things once. You, see I don't really 'go' places, I would much prefer to go home to the safety of Mother. I really hope you can get refunded for this. Who am I kidding? we don't need the money, we're rich. Let's just call this whole affair 'charity' and let's get on with life, huh? what d'ya say to that big guy?." 

Now I put that with much less tact and elegance, but the general sentiment is there. I was filled with great shock and anguish when my father flat out ignored my pleas to return home. 

In fact, he made me get on my backpack. "Father, Uhm, I thought we just talked about this, I am NOT going to that place. Why would I need this backpack of things if we're going in and out? We're here just to tell the staff I am not returning, right Father? right, Father? Father? Father what are you doing? No, Father, this isn't right, this isn't NATURAL! I DEMAND TO SPEAK WITH MY ATTORNEY GENERAL, FARTHER??? YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO CALL YOURSELF MY GUARDIAN AND YET YOU OUTRIGHT REFUSE TO 'GUARD' ME FROM UNPLEASANTNESS." Again, I didn't say that. I was five, but hyperbole is one of my favourite writing tools, so I shall use it as amply as I like. 

And who are you to say what writing tools I can and cannot use, huh? oh, I hear you complaining "oh, hyperbole detracts from the overall legitimacy of the story, blah blah blah,". NO, it DOESN'T, Barbra. 

Anyhow, I digress. I apologise for lashing out at you, reader. I suppose writing about this truly traumatic experience is causing some deeply animalistic animosity that festers deep inside to resurface. 

Yes, so father brought me to the classroom. This is where I truly broke down, bawling my little heart out for my disdain for school, complaining that I had a killer stomach ache. 

Father, bent down on one knee asked if I actually felt sick. Finally I thought to myself we’re getting somewhere. I nodded bleakly, stating I had never felt so much pain ever, I might even be allergic to something in this building, perhaps to school itself, as a concept. 

If I remember correctly, he eventually caved and begrudgingly took me home to a very concerned mother. Her one weakness was child sadness. 

I went over to coloring a picture at the dining room table until father had left and mother sat across from me. She then began asking questions about my upset, which I did not appreciate. Geez, woman, stop trying to make me feel bad, we’ve been through this before. No need to try to get me back into that building. 

Much to my surprise,  the same thing happened the next day. I was woken up at an extremely odd hour, forced into day wear and then fed a quick breakfast. 

Oh dear, I can see where this is going. A real groundhog day situation (a really great cult classic, you should watch it sometime). 

From previous experience, I knew that the best way to ensure my safety at home, would be to feign illness. So I complained of another wicked stomach ache. 

That didn't work, and my father further coaxed me into the car. I doubled down, saying that the stomach ache was still REALLY bad. My father’s response was that I should go to the hospital. He was joking, but the hospital seemed preferable to school, at least at the hospital I knew people. My family was basically the MVPS of the hospital as we had basically given them half of what they knew about cancer. 

We went through the same process again, though this time I began to cry before we even got onto the school grounds, and father had to carry a wailing five year old into the classroom, and plop me into a chair. And then he left me. He left me! Oh my goodness that was rude of him. I really made a show for the class that day, hoo boy.

Despite not enjoying school for the first week or two, it eventually grew on me, and my early elementary school years are quite nostalgic.I mean, how else would I have gained the knowledge, skill and creativity that is required to write a piece as wonderful as this, if not for school? The moral of this story is to stay in school.