He sighed as he looked at the last essay in the pile. Unlike the others, it was handwritten, not typed, and on notebook papers which had been haphazardly stapled together. The man really didn't need to look at the name on the paper to tell who wrote it, but he did anyway. Then he gave a long hard sigh and wished very much that this paper would explode into flames so he wouldn't have to read it. Unfortunately for him it didn't burst into flames. He picked up the essay, if you could call it an essay, and wondered what its theme would be. He had assigned a theme, but he knew that James Monteith was never one to stay on the assigned topic.
James Monteith
Grade 11, 17 years old
Written on the bus here
The Essay Mr. Carlton assigned At the Beginning of the Year
Every Morning I wake up exactly the same way. The dream, if you could call it that, I have every night interrupted by my alarm clock. Every morning I get ready in exactly the same order and every morning I do things exactly the same way. Each day after school ends the same way too, all alone and high up in the scaffolding of my private academy's auditorium. The auditorium is always open. We constantly put on plays and if not plays than musicals, concerts, exhibitions, talent shows, competitions, dances, and recitals.
The Academy I attend specializes in the arts. Performing arts is their main theme, but some of us focus on technical theatre, writing, make-up, or fine arts. We're the most expensive arts school in California and for a good reason. Los Angeles' Academy of Artistic Excellence is one of the best arts schools in the U.S. Hence a constantly used and newly built auditorium.
I don't even have to sneak in. My focus is technical theatre and I always have a new light pattern to set up, a spotlight that needs adjustment, light bulbs that need changing, or props that need fixing. Anyways, my tuition is paid in full by my aunt. I can do pretty much anything I want and get away with it.
Most of the kids here are on scholarships. The kids with full scholarships have parents that show up to practically everything their child is in, always pushing their child to be the best. The parents of kids with partial scholarships show up when they can. Kids, like me whose parents pay full tuition are lucky if their parents show up to anything and it's almost impossible to see one that stays the entire time. They have better thing to do than watch their child perform. They have better things to do than be involved in anything their kid does. It's not like it dents their wallets to send us here.
My mom probably doesn't even know where I live, much less where I go to school. My dad couldn't be at anything I'm involved in even if he wanted to. He's locked up at the moment. I live with my aunt. She pays for everything and I even live with her. I feel worse for the kids who have rich parents that send them here and never come to their shows than I do for myself. They work their butts off trying to receive a 'That's nice dear'. At least I know that I have no hope whatsoever of getting my parents to attend anything or ever getting my mom to care. The other rich kids still seem to think that if they do well enough, they might get their parents to care. If they get the coveted solo, maybe they'll be loved. I'm glad they still hope so. I'm sad that it will never happen.
When Aunt Florence enrolled me here, it was because she said I had potential. My aunt was disappointed, to say the least, when I chose my focus to be Technical Theatre. So disappointed in fact, that she told me the only way I could do technical theatre was if I chose to take on an additional focus. I agreed and took on the writing focus. That's why I'm writing this paper about who I am. You, Mr. Carlton, are no doubt reading this and wondering how this paper relates at all to who I am. Well, to answer your unasked question, I firmly believe that to understand who I am you must know my story. Mr. Carlton I feel strongly that my past dictates who I am as a person and therefore, enclosed is my life's story, which actually starts the paragraph after this one.
I know why my mother gave me a boy's name. She hates me. She could no doubt feel my extremely cynical and troublesome personality radiating from her womb. Therefore, she decided that it was only fitting to give such a horrid child a horrid name like James, whether or not I was actually a boy. This is the only logical explanation for my name. After all, my two sisters are named Charlotte and Caroline. My dad says that my mother passed out after giving birth to me, so the doctor let him name me. He claimed to have been drunk at the time. Despite the fact that my father is constantly drunk, I don't believe my father's telling of events. My mother clearly named me James because she hates my guts.
My mother didn't want children. At least she didn't want children with my dad. Why she married him, if this was the case, I do not know. Maybe she should have figured that out before she had me.
My dad has always been madly in love with my mother. My mother has always been in love with money. When they got married my dad came from a long line of successful billionaires. Do not ask me how billionaires can be unsuccessful because I do not know. My mother also didn't know something. My dad was a starving artist that came from a long line of successful billionaires that had disowned him the minute they found out he was pursuing a career artist. I think my mother tried to love my father, really, but she didn't love him enough. She didn't love me enough.
I used to think that my mother was just one of those people who couldn't handle kids. Then I saw her on the news when I was fourteen. She had gotten married to a U.S Senator and had two children. That's when I realized that she didn't have an issue with kids. She had an issue with me. My mother left when I was eight. She never saw me again, but I see her all the time. After all, her husband is running for president.
I'm sure you already know all of this Mr. Carlton, but I think it is important that you also hear it from me. Sometimes, when you hear something from a secondary source, things can get a little mixed up. I don't trust secondary sources Mr. Carlton. I don't think you should either.
You should keep this essay, Mr. Carlton, so that someday when I'm famous for writing a controversial book on the life of a teenager, you can say you knew me. Even if you didn't understand me. Which is okay because no one understands the soon to be famous authors until they're dead. You taught me that. After all, you still believe that someday someone will want to publish your book about the sock monster at 3423 Water Street.
There are many things that are not wrong with my life. I live in a cold and secluded mansion with a maid, a butler, a chef, and my aunt, gives me free reign over my life. I have a large monthly allowance and Hi-tech gear. I can do what I want when I want. Yet, every time I look in the mirror, I don't see a pampered rich girl, I see a girl with a large scar down the side or her face and badly cut bangs. I should really get my bangs fixed.
Mr. Carlton, everyone has a sob story. Some are so sad that no one hears about them. Some are angry and miserable at the world for not caring. Some are crying out to be heard. Some are trying their best to look happy for the camera. Some of the worst come from the best people. And some are happy stories simply just pretending until something worse comes along.
I'm not sure which category my sob story fits in, but it's a sob story none the less. My sob story doesn't start in a cold hospital or at the side of an abandoned country road. It doesn't begin in a high school hallway or a school councilor's office. It starts in an apartment that heard one too many arguments in the year of 2005.
I always asked my dad why my mother did all the screaming in the arguments and my dad replies that even if he had screamed; my mother still wouldn't hear the words. I think my dad's wrong. I think my mother was the kind of woman who needed to be screamed at, that needed to have a two-sided argument. I am certain that if I were to ask my mom why she was the only one screaming, she would have said she was the only one fighting. I don't think my dad understands how to fight for the things he loves. My father seems to think that fighting is how you ruin relationships, not how you save them. I think that my dad fought for my mother in the only way he knew how. Maybe that's why she left him. He wasn't a politician and didn't know how to fight. Truly though, I still think she's just remarried it for the money. Men who know how to fight make a lot of money.
The summer of 2005 ended with a suitcase, a flight ticket to Washington D.C, and a vase. The suitcase was to put her junk in. Her ticket was her door out of our lives and the vase was to throw at my father's head. It missed and she hit me instead. I don't remember her apologizing for that. In all honesty, I don't think I've ever heard her say the words I'm sorry. So I'll say them for her. Read it with a high-pitched voice. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Carlton. If I hadn't left you wouldn't be stuck with the daughter I named James.' She's never coming back, is she? And if I try to say I'm her daughter, I'm sure she'd denied it. After all, why would a first lady have a daughter named James? It's not logical.
After my mom left things were different. My dad stopped painting and put his business degree to use. He came home every night at six, pulled a whiskey bottle from the cabinet and sat down in front of the television. I was eight not stupid. Every day I arrived home from school home before my dad left work. I emptied the bottles of whiskey and refilled them with water and food dye. I turned it into an art. I don't think he realized the difference. Unfortunately there are some things kids can't protect their parents from. He lost his job the next year when the company shut down. After that it was nearly impossible to switch the bottles out.
My father kept getting worse and worse. He never got a job, but we always had enough money. I didn't question it at the time. I was a kid. I figured someone gave it to him. Now I feel like I should have known better; like I could've been able to stop it if I knew. It's silly of me to think that and I know it. But if I could stop my dad from theft I would have. He was always an artist; I just didn't know he was a con artist.
The height of my sob story comes to its peak in December, 2007. It was as chilly as it could get in Reno, Nevada. I had just come home from school to see him placing two suitcases into the passenger seat of our beat up 1997 ford ranger. It wasn't unusual for us to go on spontaneous trips. We left after I went to the bathroom. We must have driven three hours before the sirens started. Most people would have pulled over. My dad sped up. He was so focused on losing the police he didn't see the T in the road. We drove into a large cactus. Trust me, Mr. Carlton when I say that it was not pretty.
It turns out that when I came home to find my dad packing; it was to escape the feds, who were on to him. Hence the speeding up to avoid the police. Hence the date with a cactus.
My dad is not a bad man. He's not a particularly smart man either, but he's not bad. I go to Nevada State Prison Once a month to speak with him. We constantly exchange emails. I admit I didn't communicate with him for a long time. Then I saw the rich kids at my school, who are constantly reaching out to their parents for love and getting nothing in return. I didn't want to do the same thing those parents did to their kids. I didn't want to make my dad feel the same way my peers do. My dad isn't a bad person. He's just forgotten how to be a good one.
It wasn't my mom who gained custody of me. She'd changed her name and I refused to tell them what she changed it to. They were too lazy to track her down. That's how I ended up with Aunt Florence. I know you fancy my aunt Florence Mr. Carlton, so let me enlighten you with her background.
My aunt is the oldest of two, my father being the second child, by ten years. She, unlike my father, did not become a starving artist and steal from rich old ladies. My aunt was not disowned. This is most likely because my aunt went to law school, became an attorney, and opened her own practice. She now makes money off of the unfortunate rich people of L.A. She says that when you add stupid and famous together you get dollar signs. I say that when you add stupid and famous together you get Lindsay Lohan, but that's just me.
I don't honestly know why she took me in. Maybe it was so she could guilt trip my father or to set me on the path to becoming just like her. All I know is that three days a week we sit down for dinner and talk about our hopelessly boring lives and the things we like. You, Mr. Carlton, would be interested to know that she does not have a boyfriend. I expect to receive one grade level higher on my paper for telling you this. You will also be interested to know that she is not interested in fat and balding middle-aged been who teach genius children for a living.
I love my aunt. She has the same taste in music and movies as I do. She's stubborn and determined. I wouldn't mind growing up to be like her someday. Not that I'd ever be an attorney. Personally I feel like the world would be a better place if all those messed up celebrities would just stay in jail or rehab or wherever the government puts messed up celebrities.
Yesterday my aunt gave me a wad of cash and told me to go fix my stupid bangs. I know you see my bangs every single day Mr. Carlton, but that will not stop me from describing them. They go past my eyes and get longer as they go towards the middle of my face. I only have them on the left side and I cannot clearly remember how I got my bangs and I don't really feel like remembering. It's probably a mentally scarring story. I'm pretty sure that a girl at the emergency foster home I stayed at for two days gave them to me while I was sleeping, but it could have been a three-year old with scissors or a street gang that's now selling my hair on the black market. No matter how I received my bangs, my aunt and I have both agreed that it's time to get them fixed. Mr. Carlton, I am sorry if you feel the need to cry over this, but please hold your tears back until the end of my essay. By the time you finish reading this essay, I will almost certainly have normal bangs. How I have survived with abnormal bangs for this long is unknown by even the greatest scientists and psychologists.
Now Mr. Carlton, I will move on to the topic of this essay. The question of who you are does not have an easy answer for most people. My aunt would say a celebrity attorney. My father would say a heartbroken man. My mother would answer not your mom. I know this because I anonymously emailed her and called her mommy several times through the email. She now blocks anonymous emails. Mr. Carlton can you answer the question you gave us? I don't think you can.
Our lives are defined by what we do. It is what we do that makes us who we are. I do not know the woman who sits on the corner of south street, but I do know she is most likely insane, despite that is not who she believes herself to be. I think that maybe you should just exclude this essay from our grade because there is no possible way to answer your question correctly.
I don't know my mother personally anymore and I don't know if I ever really did. I didn't understand my dad until I decided to reconnect with him. My aunt is my friend, but I will never understand why she adopted her estranged and criminal brother's daughter.
Mr. Carlton you are somebody's something, just as I am the bane of your meager existence. I have no clue how you expect me to answer your prompted, but I will try my very best to give you the most satisfactory answer possible. After all, I am technically supposed to follow your directions, no matter how stupid or insignificant they are. I apologize for all the harsh and demented things I have said to you over the past year and I hope you do not die over the summer so I will be once again assigned to you as my Philosophical Essay Instructor next year. Below is the answer to your question. I hope you think long and hard about my answer and that it changes your outlook on life.
I am a girl. I am a student. I am a daughter and a sister. I am a demented teenager, I am a niece. I am a girl with a very bad haircut. I am a girl who likes the color yellow. I am a girl who likes to read mentally scarring poems out loud in your class when I am asked to answer a question. I am going to be famous someday. I am going to grow up. I am a friend; I am a girl with a sob story. I am a stranger to many and I do not exist to many others. I am descended from apes and can still speak gorilla. I am many, many things.
Most of all, I am A human Being.
Frank Carlton stared at the paper in front of him. Had she called him a bald, middle-aged man? He was in his early thirties and had a buzz cut. Was his book, The Sock Monster On 3423 Street, really that bad? He was sure it would be a best seller. He looked down at the paper before him, giving out a large sigh before writing down the final grade. He looked at the grade for a while, before crossing it out and rewriting it. He sighed. The summer away from James Monteith wouldn't be nearly long enough.
