“Tomorrow, we're going on a school trip to a homeless shelter,” Miss Ellis announced. Disappointed? No? Not even a bit? Liar!

It was two classes later, in social studies, my favorite subject. And no, I'm not mental. In my defense I have to say that my preference didn't spring from the subject itself, but rather from our teacher. Miss Ellis was as tight-lipped and terse as a teacher could get. She handed out detentions more often than the postman letters and was the only one of the teachers at school that didn't try to be kind and forgiving to her students – probably because she was the only teacher at school who didn't think much of Christian forgiveness if it involved her having to forgive her students for being lazy.

In short, she was a bitch. But at least she was an interesting and honest bitch.

The first day I met her, she had come into the classroom, slammed her suitcase onto the table and said: “All right. I guess none of you really want to be here. Can't blame you. Social studies is more or less useless if you're thinking of getting a job some day. But on the other hand, I'm not here to teach you how to get a job. I'm here to teach you what happens if you don't.”

The rest of the day, she had bombarded us with deadly dull employment statistics. The next day, she had brought a drunken, unemployed mechanic into school. He told us how much life sucked if you didn't have booze and then vomited out of the window. It left a lasting impression on all of us. For the next two or three weeks, our working morale had improved significantly.

After a while I realized that there actually was a connection between those boring statistics and the window-vomiter. The realization didn't help me get any better in any of the many subjects I had problems with, but it made me try. And it made me made to listen to Miss Ellis, which was more than any other teacher had so far been able to achieve.

I snapped back to the present. Miss Ellis was still talking about the homeless shelter she was going to take us to. “It is an institution here in San Francisco, so it isn't far,” Mrs Ellis continued. “But you will need to bring me a signed permission slip from your parents. I strongly suggest you do so. The trip should be educational for all of you. Some of you might even want to have a look at their future home.”

She let her eyes wander over the assembled students, as if trying to detect the future good-for-nothing slackers with her special x-ray vision. Who knew, perhaps she could?

“This will not be a normal field trip. You will be participating in the running of the homeless shelter. I have made arrangements with the staff there. You will cook, scrub floors, and make yourselves useful in any other...”

Her voice drowned in a sea of protest shouts. But Miss Ellis would brook no opposition.

“Silence! Silence I said!” She slammed a wooden ruler on her desk and the room went quiet. “Valuable lessons are never pleasant to learn. If I've not managed to teach you anything else up to this point, I had hoped to have taught you at least that much.”

She had. At least I had gotten it. It's not pleasant to clean up a puddle of half-digested beer from the school yard as a school project, even if I did get an A for it.

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

When the bell for lunch break rang, I and my three best friends were the first out the door. I was the first to reach the stairs and started down, taking two steps at a time. On the first landing, I noticed that somebody was missing. Looking back, I saw that Sandra had halted at the top of the stairs.

“Hey Sandra,” I called. “What's up?”

“You... you know that we're supposed to eat in the cafeteria.”

“Yes. And?”

“So why aren't we going to the cafeteria?”

“Perhaps because the food there tastes like crap?” Jen suggested.

“Well, I guess so, but...”

“Come on.” I looked up at her, with a really, really good puppy-dog expression on my face. “I get enough awful cooking at home. It's not fair that I should be subjected to it in school, too. I'm allergic to health food.”

Sandra looked around, as if she was about to commit a grievous offense. “All right,” she whispered. “Let's go.”

Though he knew we were supposed to stay in the school and eat in the cafeteria, the security guard at the chain-link fence let us pass without comment. This was not done purely out of the goodness of his heart: he was supposed to eat in the cafeteria, too. But like all the good souls of Salesian, he preferred Bert's Hot Dogs across the street.

There was already a crowd in Washington Square across the street, so a few more kids who strictly speaking shouldn't be there didn't attract any unwanted attention. Why the square was called square I had no idea, for neither was it square nor a square. In reality, it was a park of no very regular geometric shape, a big blob of green right across from Saint Peter and Saint Paul.

In the middle of that blob, next to a statue of a fat bald guy, Bert had set up his hot dog stand. He couldn’t have chosen any better advertisement if he'd paid for it. The statue practically screamed: 'Hey, look! I've been eating Bert's hot dogs all my life, and look what a big fat smile I've got on my face.' Yea, perhaps not only the smile but also the guy himself was also a bit fat, but that was the price of a good lunch.

I danced towards good old fatty, happily inhaling the smell of roasting sausages. I was extra-happy, because I had recently grown tall enough not to have to pull myself up to the high counter of Bert's hot dog stand to converse with him, which had given my ego a huge boost. Taking off my backpack, I zipped it open and began to rummage around for my lunch money. Jen shouldered me aside and slammed her hand on the counter to attract Bert's attention. “Four red hots, pronto!” Then she pointed over her shoulder. “They're paying.”

My eyebrows went up in mock surprise. “Are we?”

She shrugged, grinning. “Come on, you know I need my money to buy bud.”

I put a few bills more on the counter than I had intended to, hoping against hope that by 'bud' she meant rosebuds. Who knew, perhaps she had suddenly become romantic? Yeah, and my big sis had become nice over night, too.

Sandra shot Jen a disapproving look, which Jen probably didn't even notice, but she, too, contributed a few dollars. So did Anastasia, although it took her significantly longer to find and count her money.

“There you go.” Bert grabbed four hot dogs with a pair of tongs and handed them down to us, a big smile on his broad face. As an ex-Salesian, he knew exactly what it was like to face lunch hour. Successful business Ideas don't come out of nowhere, you know. He had suffered the terrible lunches of Salesian for years. Then, having left school, instead of going to college, he had realized his American Dream and opened a hot dog stand in front of his old school It hadn't seemed very impressive to begin with – but now money was coming in all right. Already, a crowd of 6th-graders was approaching the hot dog stand like a swarm of hungry locusts. We waved at Bert and hurried away before we were devoured.

Jen flopped down on the ground and tore into her hot dog.

“Fo,” she managed to get out, pieces of sausage flying from her mouth. “What do you fink of dif trib? Fould I fee if there'f a place for me in the felter? Juft in cafe?” She swallowed and took another huge bite. I just shook my head.

“No. You won't be homeless. You'll get a job all right – even if it's by twisting the arm of your future employer.”

“That'f not fuch a bad idea.”

“Me on the other hand...” I sighed, taking a small bite out of my hot dog, savoring the taste. “I have no idea what I'm going to do. I suck in almost every subject.”

“You got an A- in our last math test,” Sandra reminded me.

Jen snickered. “That's because she copied from you!”

“You did what!?” Sandra stared at me in Horror. “Angela, that was wrong!”

“Yeah. But it worked, didn't it?”

“I suppose... and if it was only this one time...”

Jen snickered again, and I kicked her as hard as I could.

“It matters little either way,” Anastasia remarked. “Knowledge is just an illusion.”

“Just like time?” Jen wanted to know.

“Yes. Plato teaches that all we perceive of the world around us is but a shadow of reality. We are like prisoners, chained to a cave wall and only seeing the shadows of real objects thrown on the wall by flickering torchlight. Only if humanity learns to see more than mere shades will we ever rise to a higher level of consciousness.”

“Great!” Jen exclaimed. “So this means all the stuff they teach in school isn't real anyway, and I don't have to feel guilty about not learning any of it.” Contentedly, she licked Ketchup off her fingers.

“You never feel guilty about that,” I reminded her. “You never feel guilty about anything.”

“True. But up until now I always thought I was supposed to. Now I know better. Feels fantastic!”

I rolled my eyes and looked away, trying to hide my smile. That's when I saw a group of 8th-graders pushing around one of their smaller classmates.

Now, there are only a few things that make me really mad. My sister's one of them. Another people is picking on the little guys – for any reason. I jumped up and started running towards the little toads.

“Hey you,” I shouted. “Leave him alone!”

They turned around and watched me approaching. Once I was standing closer before them, I realized that the little toads weren't actually that little. Well, they were just one grade under me. They weren't taller than me – thank God – but there were four of them.

“Yea?” One of them stepped forward, grinning at me cockily. “Or what?”

“Or we'll rip off your snotty little nose and make you eat it,” I heard Jen's voice behind me. “Fuck off!”

I considered the idea for a moment, then nodded. “That sounds about right. Make yourselves scarce.”

The gaze of the 8th-grader drifted from Jen to me and back again. Apparently, what he saw last convinced him, because he wordlessly turned, waved to his cronies and hurried away. The little guy they had been bothering still had his arm up in front of his face, as if he expected to be punched any minute. Our presence didn't exactly seem to reassure him. Or maybe it was just Jen's punk haircut. She came to the same conclusion a moment later.

“I'll wait for you over there, good Samaritan,” she said, petting my back. “Do your work and be proud!”

I approached the remaining 8th-grader carefully. He slowly lowered his arms.

“Are you all right?”, I inquired gently.

“Yea... I guess so.” He was prodding his scrawny little body in various places, as if he couldn't believe it himself and wanted to make sure. “Thanks,” he added as an afterthought.

“What was that about, anyway?”

He shrugged and smiled weakly. “They didn't really give me a chance to ask. Sometimes they want my lunch money. Sometimes they just don't have anything better to do.”

I nodded. “I know the type. My name's Angela. If they bother you again, just tell me, Okay? I'll see what I can do.”

“Th-thanks. My name's Eugene.” He held out his hand, awkwardly. Not knowing what else to do, I shook it, just as awkwardly. He cleared his throat. “I... I haven't seen you in any of my classes before. Are you new at school?”

Eighth grade? That guy thought I was in eighth grade? I wasn't that tiny, was I?

“No,” I replied rather coldly. I turned and wanted to walk away, but Eugene followed me.

“What?” I asked, my voice being probably more offensive than it needed to be.

“Well, I was thinking... If you don't have anything better to do... I have two tickets for the premiere of the new Transformers movie. And seeing as I'm just one person... I wondered if perhaps you'd like to come with me.”

“No thanks,” I said. “Movies about giant action figures aren't really my thing.” I turned and went away. Eighth grade indeed! What an impudent little... I didn't even have words!

I joined Jen again back at the statue of uncle hot dog, but didn't stop there. I had to get as far away from this embarrassing memory as possible. Once we were out of earshot of the 8th-grader, Jen burst out laughing.

“You rock, Ange,” she sniggered. “No, you are a rock. I can't believe how hard you turned that little guy down. Even I almost pitied him for a moment.”

“What do you mean 'turned him down hard'?” I turned around, my brows furrowed. “How is it turning some kid down hard if I don't like animated action movies?”

“Ange, didn't you get it?”

“Get what?”

“He was asking you out.”

“Asking... me out?”

“Yep.”

“Like... on a date?”

“Yep.”

“Like.. on a date date?”

“What's the matter? Need pen and paper to write a love letter to your new prince charming?”

“A bucket for me to puke into would be more useful right now.”

“Come on, Ange. He wasn't that horrific. Some of his pimples actually looked kind of cute.”

I sat down, not trusting my legs to support me. Of course I'd dreamed of my first date. Who hadn't? I could see my dream guy before me now – just like one of the characters out of my favorite books and movies: Clint Eastwood (before he got gray hair) with a bit Al Pacino and Johnny Depp thrown in. He's always daring, gorgeous, strong and tall – though he never would emphasize the latter inappropriately in front of and in comparison to me – and he never ever has pimples. He would be a masterful dancer, too, and would invite me to operas and grand balls and such like, not some stupid movie where oversized plastic figurines smash each other to bits for two unbearably long hours.

But sadly, if such a guy existed, I hadn't met him yet. And I didn't count on it to happen in the near future, either.

“I'm too young to date,” I grumbled.

“Who told you that? Your parents?”

“Well, actually, yea they did, but...”

“I had my first date when I was eleven.”

“Yes, Jen, but you are you.”

Jen beamed, clearly taking pride in the fact. She slapped me on the back – a gesture she probably meant to be consoling, but which in fact knocked the wind out of me. “Don't look so miserable! Not everybody's got a social life. At least now I've discovered a career for you. If you can't think of anything better to do, you can always become a cop. You're such a do-gooder, it'll be the perfect job for you.”

I sighed. “Don't think so. They have minimum height requirements.”

“You can find a way to get around that, I'm sure. And if you become a cop, you'll get to arrest me someday. Wouldn't that be a treat?”

“Would I have to bring you in by force?”

“Probably.”

“No, thank you. I think I'll open an ice cream shack next to Bert.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So, how is Angela's character developing? I hope she's an interesting girl. Please give me some comments / votes or feedback on my facebook page, to be reached via the external link. She's my first female main character and I'm still learning :)

Cheers

Robert