Her replies to the oft-mechanical wishes started off as somewhat-personalized thank you cards. After reading a second obscure freshman's misspelled message, she realized that she wouldn't finish the process if she'd keep adding boring tweaks to each response. Thus, each of Jen's final nineteen comments were "thanks" -- those six letters applied to the unknown and the beloved.
The newly-crowned Queen of Thumper walked to school alone on March 10. Full of independence and self-satisfaction, she arrived to first period without regard to its content. Not that X-Treme AP Physionomics (Fo' Kids) was an important class! X-TAPP proved to be a lovable distraction on Jen's birthday path. In her lamentable opening class she fantasized about a Dutch guy she met on Chatroulette. (Even though she has a boyfriend!) Her March 10 Physionomics notes consisted of abstract drawings and twelve instances of the same bubble-lettered "Scott" -- one may interpret that as symbolizing the ties between the Scottish and the Dutch, or one may argue that Jen's "a classically romantic chick, appreciating her boyfriend's name in a stylized sense." The latter is ridiculous, and the owner of the excerpted quotation is probably a freckly-faced dork who Jen stopped hanging out with years ago.
Second period Spelling Honors -- a class in which Jen usually wore a derisive glare -- felt like an extended joke. Although, by its end, she finally knew that incest was unaffiliated with food and contained neither a q nor a z, Jen laughed throughout the forty minutes of letters. She was anticipating Web Design, and, unmistakably, she overlooked third period -- Illegal Substances with Mr. Wâstìd
Taught by a former cocaine-abuser in the widest classroom in the school, IS was a natural choice for an "exotic, highly esoteric" girl like Jennifer. But, after six-plus months of chemical names, states' specific drug policies, and a room full of delusional bassists, she loathed the class. She never had any intention of dropping it, though; for every twelve instantly-forgettable technical bits, there was a fact so interesting as to illicit emotion from the pretty basket case.
"I told you we'd leave marijuana 'til the end. Yeah, well, there's a heck of a lot to cover. Best to make sure we get it all done before May." He waited for some reactions. After a few seconds of oddly awaiting stares, he continued: "Ha -- I know you start not caring after spring break."
One of Jen's acquaintances told Wâstìd that she was "sweet sixteen" -- he congratulated her and warned her against the dangers of "getting absolutely drunk." Another reason Jen failed to consider dropping IS was Wâstìd himself. His amiability and knack for casually using phrases which she thought were specific to kids often made her laugh out loud. And, as she was being lectured to, she realized that this teacher honestly cared about her. Thus, after Wâstìd's speech, she promised him that she certainly wouldn't drink much wine on the following Saturday.
"Anyone want to go spy on her to make sure she doesn't break her vow?" he responded, mostly joking.
"Mr. Wâstìd, chill out," Jen answered, in her distinct overly-sarcastic tone.
"Alrighty then. So: let's talk about weed. You've all smoked . . ."
Jen didn't doze off for even a second. As a result, Web Design was before her seemingly within seconds. Every student in WD was hyperaware of the occasion, and Miss Teacher gallantly led a rendition of "Happy Birthday" -- which had begun, by the present folks, microseconds before Jen even entered the room.
Annoyed at her popularity in that moment, she dismissed age as "nothing more than a number, faggots." Miss Teacher loved Jen's take on age so much that she deleted the closing pejorative from her mind and hugged the girl. The passion of the gesture turned another inappropriate thing into an entirely relevant and normal sight.
"Today . . . people . . . we're . . . Jen, what do you wanna do?" our benevolent enforcer said.
The addressed wasn't sure how to respond, but bit her tongue before the "I don't know."
"We shall do nothing today, unless Jen's a loser and wants to work on her birthday," Nick K stated.
Jen smiled and spoke: "Yeah . . . and our group is almost done with the project. Can we relax today?"
"I suppose so. But groups who are behind: please just try to get something done. Hmmm -- you've probably only got two weeks to do this."
Web Design's March 1oth installment somehow digressed away from Jen. For the star it consisted of Chatroulette, filtering through spam, chatting with her neighbor, and listening to Lady Gaga. On that day, at one particular moment, she concluded that Web Design was easily her most boring class. Then, with little more than 200 seconds left to bear of WD, she grabbed her books and fled the room.
"Emergen--" was all that escaped her mouth. She had crashed into a useless freshman on her way to the lavatory. Everyone in Web saw it, as the incident occurred only a few feet north of the entrance. Unsurprisingly, no one laughed. Surprisingly, no one was hurt.
"I'm sorry," the 4'10'' fifteen-year-old told Jen.
"Don't worry about it. I hope you're okay," was the nervous response.
Mysteriously, the freshman nodded and walked away. The Web students and their leader were crowded around Jen, and Dave began to speak.
"Uh, J--"
"May I please go to the bathroom?" Miss A asked.
"Of course," Miss Teacher hesitantly replied.
She looked around. No one else was in the bathroom. She looked at the mirror. Why the fuck was she so confused? "What -- is -- happening -- to -- me?" Jen examined her body to make sure it was the same one that she went to sleep with. Check. She quickly listed her hobbies. She quickly listed her best friends. Check-check. "Ha! I'm a young adult . . . but that's not it. It's just that I was bored and I guess too underwhelmed. Breaking point?" She accepted that: she lived for each moment; indifference was deadly. Then she trudged into U.S. History 1 Honors. The professor: none other than the "Terminally Chill" reincarnation of -- or the postmodern daughter of -- theindiehippie.
Mrs. Smokestack initiated the period by handing Amy C a painting of Paul Revere and instructing the class to pass it around. John Singleton Copley's most memorable portrait struck Jen as simultaneously passionate and resolute.
"Paul Revere knew what was up. He was a silversmith by trade but a hardworking everyman by choice. He accepted himself. He did what he had to. He enjoyed it. He never got too stressed because he realized at a young age that life isn't candy and matchsticks."
The words flew from Jen's mouth in a fit of socially-ignorant angst. Her peers and Raychel Sonveeco's spawn didn't interrupt her during this moment. It was thirty seconds of ardent self-reinforcement. Curious stares followed. Jen was never one to inspire. And although none of her classmates felt tinges of euphoria invade them, she did. Jen; sixteen; master of her own destiny; smart kid; (Paul Revere fan); inspired and inspiring human.
Jen's history class was no longer the product of a stoned microblogger; nor was it the ongoing effects of unchanged academic guidelines; it was Jen's Class, Room 231. But, as talk of a misrepresented ride and "revisionist quotations" concluded, the birthday gal temporarily forfeited her title and headed to period six -- the controversial Internet Slang: Bay6.
"Today, now, IRL -- LOL -- we will focus on Tumblr's continued employment of acronyms as comedic devices. Hey, wake up Nick L!"
Jen's second IS was, every single day, dismissed as a "joke." Oddly, though, teacher Miss Lulls championed the course, constantly referring to it as her lifeblood. She outputted a terrible amount of information; her style was informal, quick, and confusing. The QoT adored Lulls, and ISB6 became Jen's loveliest class.
"Um, Nick . . . how could you possibly sleep in my room? And you just got here. Wake up. Name three derivates of LOL."
The bowler mumbled something about Formspring, then answered: "The spoken lawl, the typed lol-ipop, and that Russian meme thing. What is it?"
Jen knew precisely what Nick was referring to, and said, "Ha, 'Trololo.' Better than the chorus to La Roux's 'Bulletproof.' Possibly."
"WTF is that?" asked Lulls, ignorant of the English duo, attempting to steer her class away from non-IS material.
"La Roux? She's a sing --"
"Jennifer, AYS? That's unrelated. Quick: 'what even' is the shortened version of which Internet meme?"
"Sorry, and: 'what is this I don't even.' Love that one."
"Sure! Now -- my students, my passions -- we must discuss the relevance of microblogging! This new platform relates directly to the ubiquity of certain acronyms, like . . ."
"Wow, that was fast," Jen exclaimed to her pal Allie after the bell for 6th-to-7th intermission rung.
"Yeah -- what do you have next again?"
"Let's see . . . seventh is Anthro-Socio-Psych with Mr. Vijjen. "
"Um -- oh. No wonder I forgot."
Jen laughed -- the sound was bursting with nostalgia. It recounted September's exploits in ASP. Fun and festive, the next period was Jen's daily mulch.
As Allie slid into Creative Reading -- the experimental course "coached" by Mr. Letterette -- Jen walked for a few more moments and landed in Room 210. ASP began with a quotation.
In a Holocaust of trolls, I'd be HitlerUnder the words was a URL -- which, to Jen, looked awfully maladroit. It was the web address of Bebe Zeva's Twitter account, where "words to live by" appeared quite often. In fact: this was ASP's eighth use of Zeva as a discussion-starter.
"Kind of funny, right?" As the bell officially opened the day's lesson, the laughter and side conversations died down. Vijjen's question spiked them -- truthfully, it wasn't very funny, and Jen appeared offended. She was a detractor -- a fiery opponent -- of Internet trolls. They ruined her anonymous life; they were purely interested in their own entertainment. Jen raised her hand and, upon acknowledgement, spoke.
"I fu -- I friggin' hate trolls with all I am. And like you said before, this Zeva chick isn't a bad person. But trolling is so fun. Sometimes I feel like we should troll, like we gotta keep people awake. I was on a Lady Gaga forum, like, and someone just listed reasons why she sucked. It was good because I knew he was trolling. The post was just nitpicky reasons why Lady Gaga is an 'atrocious' musical artist. It was obvious because I've done things like that. Now I hate it. And want to kill them. You know?"
Vijjen smiled in agreement. "Alas, we shall examine the psychological aspects of modern trolling. Also, as per Zeva's quotation, we need to view it as a competition. We must look at the psych of these people and wonder why they spend their free time trying to get reactions out of other leisurely individuals. According to Internet researcher Barry Wellman, humans troll -- indirectly -- out of boredom. Reactions . . ."
Jen loved Vijjen's smooth orations and his grasp of life's social fruits. Eventually, ASP ended and Jen was left with a sea of statements to reflect upon. Her night was to be filled!
AP Life was a disaster; Jen was enamored by it. In May of 2009, Jen's counselor -- depressed pedant Miss ☹ -- recommended that the love-soaked, heavily-Nexted microwoman delete Lunch from her schedule. Quickly, ☹ explained AP Life. Orchestrated to prepare anyone for anything, allegedly homework-free, and expected to be taught by the expressionless Mrs. Blerg, the class was a must-see for Jen. Especially since the 2009-2010 school year was the course's first.
"Today: electronic music." That was AP Life. Each brutal day Blerg would talk about one thing. A specific component of life in the 2K10s. Some were important (journalism, photography); some were obscure (short-form blogging, reverse fascism) -- all, though, had thrived gallantly in 2009, and were assumed to stay healthy in '10. It should have been a gift from the edu-gods. It proved, though, to be nothing more than a fact-based dead zone. Blerg's organization of each topic was interesting, but her morbid delivery and knack for erasing any humanity in Life drove the course into the gutter.
"Can I speak?" asked Jen. Everyone in the room stared at her. Although Blerg regularly encouraged questions, Jen's inquiry came after the teacher had said but three words; plus, the question wasn't an end to itself.
"What do you want to say, Jennifer?"
"I just know a little bit about electronic music."
"The most crucial electronic release of the 20th century?"
"No -- well I was gonna mention La Roux's --"
"She's pop. She's pop. She's pop."
"But 'Bulletproof' uses a syn --"
"Jennifer, would you like to go to the principal's office?"
"No, ma'am. It's just --"
"Released in 1978, Steve Reich's Music for 18 Musicians is an American minimalist masterpiece. Before we speak about electronic music, we must speak of its precursors. Historically, Steve Reich's work is neither important, introductory, or representative. It's simply brilliant, and . . ."
Jen went to bed on March 10 and dreamed so vividly that she woke up the next morning thinking that her life was just a break from those images. Then, after realizing how old she was, who she was, and how she was, she enjoyed Thursday, March 11, 2010.
