Must Try Harder (Short Fiction)

I dreaded getting my homework back. It wasn’t just the low grade I was invariably given — nothing above a B minus for two terms — it was the margin notes, topped by the final caustic comment that plunged me into a state of abject despair. How could I ever hope to be a writer when my English teacher rated my compositions so poorly?
        Mrs McPherson wasn’t an unlikeable woman. Her lessons were, at least for me, entertaining and even inspirational on occasion. I took in all she said. If nothing else, she couldn’t fault my level of attention. I read all the books she recommended. Twice, in some cases. I spent three times as long on the topics she set than on all my other subjects lumped together. By contrast, I was getting a string of As in Maths and the Sciences, yet couldn’t break the blesséd B minus Mrs McP had branded my work with.
        I analysed her comments. Made a list of the words and phrases she most frequently used to dismiss my efforts. ‘Cliché’ came top. ‘Derivative’ a close second. But what did she expect? I was often heavily influenced by whatever I’d been reading that week. ‘Unconvincing’ I found hurtful. If nothing else, what I wrote was sincere. I was doing my best. ‘Underdeveloped — lacking real substance’ ‘Poorly described — hard to envisage’. Only once she had written ‘Moderately entertaining’ on a piece that attempted comedy. I’d tried it out on Janey, my room mate, who’s chuckled a bit and reckoned it was pretty funny. Encouraged, I handed it in and hoped for a break through. But B minus applied, in all its red-inked constancy. Bitterly disappointed, I vowed not to try so hard in future.
        With the Easter break approaching, Mrs McP said we could choose our own topic to write about, and she expected a minimum of a thousand words. Things were awkward at home because my parents were getting a divorce. I wasn’t surprised by the news because things had been rocky for some time. Although he was actually living elsewhere, my father kept coming round to talk about arrangements. These ‘civilized’ discussions quickly degenerated into full blown rows. Which made me angry because quite clearly neither of them was trying very hard to see the other’s point of view. I lost my temper with them, told them they were pathetic and stormed off to my room, leaving them speechless.
        It felt like payback to write about them. Names changed, naturally, but little else. I wrote it like a play with just three characters. I took the dialogue practically verbatim, but without the swearing. Even my mother’s choice of volcabulary was a little hard to take at times. It took me a week to write it. It filled my exercise book. I’d never written anything so unconsidered before. I was torn by conflicting ideas of loyalty.
        For once, I was glad to get back to school. First period was, as it happened, English. I added my book to the pile of homework assignments on the corner of Mrs McP’s desk. We waited for her to arrive, she was never late for class. A stranger came in and introduced herself as Miss Lucas, explaining that Mrs McPherson had left very suddenly during the Easter break, so she would be teaching us from now on. The shock of this far surpassed my parent’s little drama. It was too late now to retrieve my homework from the pile Miss Lucas was already tucking into her very large briefcase.
        We didn’t get an explanation, so the rumours began circulating. The most popular being that Mrs McP had left her husband and run off with a well-known novelist she’d met at a writing seminar. I didn’t blame her at all. I hoped she would be happy.
        My homework came back with a big red A and an emphatic ‘Well done! — Very mature writing’. I was pleased, naturally, but it wasn’t the same.
        I concentrated on Maths after that. Figures are so reliable. They never change — always add up the same. Not a bit like life.