In Stitches

05 Jul

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I wrote this piece about 6 years ago as a sample for teachers in a writing curriculum I was developing for 3-5 grade boys, hence the perspective, subject matter, and style.

I never got stitches in my life. Every boy I know got stitches at least once. Some girls even got stitches. The best is when you can see the scar so everyone knows you got stitches. It’s not that I don’t fall, scrape my knee or do stupid things, I just don’t get hurt enough to get stitches.

The closest I ever got to getting stitches was when I tried to pop a wheelie on my bike. I ended up falling backward and banging my head. All I got was a concussion and three butterfly Band-Aids.

The best time to get stitches is over the summer. That’s cuz when you go back to school the teacher always makes you write what you did during your summer. and then read it in front of the class. Nobody pays attention when I read about my salamander collection, or about how I won a lot of relay races. I don’t blame them.

The stories everyone listens to is when a boy gets stitches. He gets to show everyone his scar, tell all the gory details, and best of all gross out the girls. I always wanted to tell such a story. I’m good at making scary, eewy faces.

I was so excited to go to school this year, cuz this summer I finally got stitches.  I was going to have the best story for the first day. All the girls were gonna throw up! I even wrote the story before I came to school so I’d have it ready to read the second the teacher would ask for volunteers.

Of course, everything changed when I got to school. First in yard I saw Timothy. He was in a wheelchair cuz he broke his ENTIRE foot rock climbing. He was gonna have a better story than me. Then I saw a bunch of guys around Randy. He was telling everyone how he split his tongue in two over the summer. He stuck his tongue out and I could see a thin line going down the middle. He had a WAY cooler story and scar than me.

I was getting upset as I walked to class, but I still had my story all written up, so I could read mine first, and everyone will think it’s cool. At least until Timothy and Randy tell their story. The teacher walked in and she looked nice enough, but had too many teeth.

She started teaching all the boring stuff like multiplication, George Washington, and something call the inverment, and how we should all be green. I was going crazy till finally she told us to take out a piece of paper. I started reaching for my story when she said.

“Instead of doing what you do every year,….”

 Instead? What did she mean instead?! Did that mean we weren’t writing about vacation?

“…We’re going to write about each other…”

What??!!! Each other?! What for?!

“…..the person sitting next to you..”

Next to me? Oh G-d eww it’s Fatty Patty, disgusting!! I think it just might be worth stapling my hand again. I’ll get out of writing and get stitches, AGAIN.

“…remember to only write nice things.”

Nice things?!! I can’t believe this is happening! I have my whole story written out. Why can’t I just give it to her?! I described everything so good. How the blood spurted and the staple came out the other end of my finger. How my sister started crying when she saw it, and that my mother almost fainted. I wrote how I watched the doctor stitch my finger, and he didn’t even have to numb me. IT IS SUCH A COOL STORY!!!

And now I’m stuck writing about Fatty Patty. Maybe I should write that her fingers are twice as big as mine, and if she wanted to stitches a stapler wouldn’t help cuz their so big. That’s a nice thing about her, right? She’s safe from staples.

I hate new teachers who try to be original. Who do they think they’re impressing. Anyway I better start writing, Teacher is coming up and down the rows watching us….

            The teacher just sent me to the principals office cuz I started my paper with the sentence; Fatty Patty doesn’t look so fat when she’s far away. Almost like a picture, when you look tiny, and your whole body is in the picture. She said it was milishis, and I didn’t listen to instructions.

            I don’t know what milishis means, but I know how to listen to instructions. That was nice. Now Fatty Patty will know to stand far away from everyone if she wants to look smaller. I don’t what the teacher is talking about. I don’t like her. Fire her.

            Anyway, so this is the whole reason and story I was sent to you Mr. Principal. Please don’t tell my mom I stapled my hand on purpose.

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Posted by on July 5, 2011 in Writing


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