Yesterday's Authors take Today's Writing Test (a fun short story)

In a nondescript classroom, in a not-too-distant town, Sally Wolford shuffles her papers, waiting for her tutorial group to enter. The state writing test is looming, and Sally has been asked to teach the remedial writing group--a group of students at risk of failing the upcoming test.

She has the data, the numbers, the instruction booklets, the practice tests--everything she needs to teach these kids how to prepare for a writing exam. What remains now, is to put a face with each at-risk name and see what she's up against.

She glances at her watch, and makes her way for the door--a page right out of teaching 101: "Greet your students as they enter."

The passing bell sounds, and the halls begin to swell with noise, lockers and chatter echoing; this is the back track to each passing period.

"Hallo, thar miss." Sally is caught in her own revelry, unaware of the red-headed boy who has sidled up to the door. "Is thaught tha ruum far too-tarials?" His Irish accent is so thick, it takes Sally's brain an extra beat to catch his question.

"Umm...yes. Yes, this is writing tutorials," she regains her composure--her teacher game face painted back on, "I'm Ms. Wolford. Is that who you have on your schedule?"

"Aigh, thaught's right." His accent is discernibly Irish.

Ms. Wolford smiles, "And you must be..."

"James, ma'am." His eyes shuffle to every other spot possible, avoiding Ms. Wolford's gaze.

"Hello, James. It's nice to meet you." She gestures towards the room, "Please, choose a seat close to the front." And with that, the boy ducks into the room. She turns back to the hall, to see a cluster of three boys toeing the floor and waiting to enter. The tallest, a thick kid with unruly hair, speaks first,

"Mawn'n, ma'am." This boy has a thick Southern accent--like something straight out of Gone with the Wind. "Is this rot'n tutorials and what not?" An, you, is you Ms. WALL-ford?" She double-takes, working through the boy's strong Southern accent, and eventually manages a nod. The boy turns to his companions: "Yah, fellas, this is it." With that, the three boys begin to head into the room before Sally can stop them,

"Sorry, I didn't catch your names." The boys stop, and Sally continues: "My name is Ms. WOLford," she spends extra time on the first syllable, "The 'o' is like hole or soul."

"Yes ma'am. I know. Ms. WALL-ford." He extends his hand, "I'm Mark." He points to the boy to his right: "This is Will." Will smiles. "And this here is Kurt." Kurt wears a sneer, letting anyone know exactly where he doesn't want to be.

Will speaks first, "'Ello, Miss Wallfurd. Please to meetch 'ya." He extends his hand for a friendly, English shake. Kurt, however, makes no move to greet her. Will looks at Kurt and then back at Ms. Wolford apologetically, "You must forgive ol' Kurt; he's a bit miffed. Doesn't want ol' writing tutorials, 'e says." Cockney British? What an odd mix of students.

Sally shakes Mark and Will's hands, and turns to Kurt, "I understand, Kurt; you don't want to be here." Kurt doesn't care. Here's clearly the tough guy--the kind of kid she was expecting in writing tutorials. Ms. Wolford continues unfettered, "I'll do my best to give you the help you need."

Kurt responds with a voice so common it seems out of place considering the other students: "Help me?" He snuffs, "Isn't that what you're paid to do, anyway?" And with that he continues towards a seat--Mark and Will shuffling behind.

Odd...Irish, Southern, Cockney, and then some James Dean trouble maker. From her perch by the door, Sally can feel the life of the hallway pass from a casual, meandering timbre into anxiety, meaning that the tardy bell is now looming. She is still missing two students.

The bell rings, and Sally takes another last glance down the hallway before turning back to her room.

"Pardon!" A tall, lanky boy is turning the corner, knee socks a blur. "Pardon me, miss. So sorry um late. I...I...," he stops at the door, bending to catch his breath, "Well, by Jove, I...I simply forgot the time and all that." Another student from England? This time his accent is a little more proper-sounding--almost like a book narrator. Sally narrows her eyes in an attempt to muster sternness.

She starts, "It's the first day of tutorials." The boy is clearly nervous about what to expect, "But, I'll let it slide today." She then allows a smile to slowly warm her face, and the boy immediately looks relieved. "Come on in, I'm Ms. Wolford."

"Pleased to meet you, miss" he stands straight, like one used to being introduced. "My name is Roald." They shake a greeting, and Roald passes into the class, followed by Ms. Wolford who then shuts the door. Making her way to the front of the class she reaches for her papers.

"Listen," she pauses for effect, taking in each pair of eyes, "I won't lie to you." She puts on her teacher face again, "You are here because you have been identified as 'at risk.'" She gives it a beat, letting the idea sink in. "And by 'at risk,' I mean, at risk of failing the upcoming writing test." This is the approach she had planned. Sally is not a mean teacher, quite the opposite. Instead it's the honesty she brings to the classroom that seals her connection with the students. "Do you have any questions?"

None of the students squirm or fidget, they seemed to know perfectly well why they are there.

"How much are you getting paid, miss?" It was Roald.

Sally Wollford hesitates, "I...I'm sorry, what?"

"I mean," Roald's muddled accent begins to surface, "How much 'ahre you getting pay'd to do this class?" It used to be a proper English accent..but now, in conversation, it's something Norweigian or Scandanavian.

"Well," Ms. Wolford works to regain her composure. "I..."

"'E's right! Exactly," Will chimes in. "If you're teaching regular school and all, 'ow much extra quid are you pulling for this 'ere job?"

"We'll, I don't make any extra." The boys' eyebrows raise quizzically, and Sally reaches for a positive spin: "Teachers don't get paid per class. I do it because I'm asked to, and because I like writing, and because I want to help you pass this test." The whole class snickers, and even Kurt allows the semblance of a smile to pass his face. They know full well this isn't why she got into teaching.

Instead of pushing back, Sally decides to continue any momentum she may have gained, "How many of you in here like writing?" Suddenly every hand in the class shoots up, even Kurt's--although it's more of a light wave.

This is not the response she was expecting.

"Really?" Her voice in shock. "Wow. I..." she glances down at her roster--there it is on the top, Remedial Writing Tutorials. It occurs to her that maybe the students are playing a trick. She tries to break the ruse: "Okay, who in here knows how to write?" Again, every hand shoots up--even Kurt's. There are no smirks, no snickers, no sideways glances. These kids are not joking--they all actually like writing.

"Okay." She fumbles for a second, "Then let's get started." She buries her uncertainty and takes the opportunity to call role.

"JORGE?" A mesh of voices respond at once: "He's not here." "I saw him last period." "He's probably lost, miss."

"SAMUEL?" "Who's Samuel?" "We don't have a Samuel."

"I go by Mark, ma'am."

"Mark?"

"Yes, ma'am, I pre-fur the naim, Mark."

"Mark it is," Ms. Wolford jots the name on her roster and continues: "RONALD?"

"No, ma'am, It's Row-all."

"Rolled?" Ms. Wolford tries.

"No, no just no ROW-all; no "n" and a silent "d."

Kurt perks up, "What?" he jeers, "A silent 'd'? What kind of a name is Roald?"

"Norwegian, thank you," Roald turns towards Kurt, "And what is the lineage of your awful name?"

Ms. Wolford jumps in, "Kurt. Roald," she scolds, "That's enough."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now...who's next? Jorge, Mark, Roald...JAMES"

"He-ear, miss." His strong Irish accent.

"Thank you, James. Okay, just two more. WILLIAM?"

"It's just Will, miss."

"Will?" She writes the name down on the roster.

"Thaaht's right, miss, just Will."

"Thank you, Will. And, 'KURT?'' '

"Yeah, yeah." Kurt is obviously trying to get under her skin.

Sally stays calm, pouring a little steel into her voice, "Just 'here' will do, Kurt. Thank you." Kurt rolls his eyes in quiet concession. "Alright," she continues, "I know Jorge's not here, but let's get started with writing. We'll fill him in later."

Surprisingly, every student waits attentively, ready to go. "You all seem to like writing," she starts. "So, let's start from the beginning--who can talk about conflict?"

Every hand in the room shoots up.

“Really?” Surely there's some practical joke going on. The students know they're here for tutorials; maybe they conspired together before class...somehow. Ms. Wolford picks the most unlikely candidate, "Okay, Kurt, tell us about conflict."

Kurt shuffles in his chair as the hands fade back down. "Driving force, conflict, man versus nature, all things happen that happen and those that don't, don't. You keep losing and regaining equilibrium...that's the basic plot of all popular fiction"

"Okay, Kurt, that's good." And in her heart, Sally knows it's a really, really good answer. She keeps the conversation going: "What do you mean, man versus nature?"

"Look," Kurt leans forward in his chair, gathering the class's attention, "If people think nature is their friend, then they sure don't need an enemy." There's a murmuring among the class of agreeance and disagreeance, hands shooting up in the air.

"Miss WALL-ford?"

"Yes, Mark?"

"Miss WALL-ford, I dis-A-gree with Kurt." His Southern drawl adding an air of refinement to his argument, "Nature is the gray-tust teacher of all. It's not an enemy. It knows no indecencies; man invents them." The whole class hmm's in agreement. Side conversations begin to break out when the door opens. All heads turn to see a small, Hispanic boy entering the class.

"Hello, and welcome to Writing Tutorials," Sally phrases the next question slowly, allowing the boy to find a seat, "Are you...Jorge?"

"Jess, ma'am." Jorge peers around the room, "Dis is de class for de writing?"

"Yes. You can take a seat behind Will." She points at Will, and Will acknowledges Jorge with a slight hand motion. "We were just talking about plot and conflict." She allows the boy to settle into his seat before continuing: "Jorge, are you familiar with plot and conflict?"

"Oh, jess, ma'am." What? Another surprise. It's at this point that some deep fear begins to well up inside Ms. Sally Wolford. She's a good teacher; she is prepared for the basic, standard writing tutorials--the kind where the kids hate writing. But what she's up against with this group, she doesn't quite know yet.

"Well, it sounds like your teachers did a good job teaching you about plot and conflict." There are some muted laughs at this remark. "So, let's get to it." She walks to the whiteboard and draws a plot triangle. "When you take the State Writing Test, they're going to ask you to tell a story." At this, the whole class perks up excitedly.

"Any story?" asks Will.

"Well," a slight pause, "sort of."

"Do you mean stories of giants and peaches and scraggly things?" Roald struggles to keep his composure, gleaming.

"Well, no, not exactly."

James blurts out first, "Does it hawv to be trrue?"

Sally struggles with the best answer, "Well, sort of." At this, the entire class deflates back into their seats with groans.

"What, pray tell," Mark lays on the Southern boy charm, "ees 'true,' exactly?" He continues, not waiting for an answer, "You mean, like, get the facts first and then distort them as you please?"

"Well..." Sally knows the correct answer to this questions has to be perfect; this is clearly a group who would find loopholes, "It's a personal narrative, so it has to be about yourself, hence 'personal.'" She continues, "It has to be narrated, hence 'narrative.' So if it's you narrating the story, it must be written in first person." Now to the big part: "You'll get a prompt asking about an experience you have had. So, because you are using your own experience, it has to be true."

Sally can see the questions and loopholes forming, so before the students can respond, she adds for definite clarity: "No fiction." The group groans again, slumping and complaining.

"So, I'm to believe 'no giants'?" pips Roald.

"No, no giants." Sally presses on, "It'll be a prompt that asks you about a moment in your life."

"But, meece," Jorge decides to join the conversation, "Reality ees not always probable or likely. How can ju say 'a moment'? Ay mean, any life ees made up of de single moment."

Mark shoots up in his chair, "Yeah, I mean, there's nuthyn that cayn't hap'n today! So, anything could be about to happen, no matter how probably or likely...it's still my life."

"Well, Mark, I suppose anything could happen," Sally concedes, "But these prompts are about things that have happened to you." She pulls a few sample prompts to share with the class, quick to pin this discussion down. "Like," she reads a prompt: "'Write about a time you made a mistake.'" The class begins to laugh...this is not supposed to be funny. "Or," she continues, "'Write about a time you made a decision.'" The laughter builds and Ms. Wolford is beginning to lose her patience. "Or, 'write about a time you struggled.'" Now the laughter is unbridled, spilling out. Sally can feel her face start to heat up. "Why are you all laughing?"

"Thayt's it?!" It was Mark, holding the desk to steady himself from shaking, "Thayt's why we're here?! Thayt's easy! Who 'mungst us hasn't made a mistake 'er a decision 'er had a struggle?"

The anger wells up inside Sally. She had expected kids who didn't want to be there, kids who hated writing, kids who struggled to put a sentence together, but she did not expect to be laughed at. "Well," her voice smooth and even, but with a tinge of ire, "Is there anyone else in here who thinks this prompt is 'easy'?" The laughter still continued as all the hands went up, mingling with "That's it?" and "I'm in tutorials for this?"

"Very well," her voice curt but retaining its countenance, "If you all feel comfortable with plot and conflict and answering the prompt, then let's take the first practice, shall we?" Nobody takes this as a threat, instead they welcome it, still smiling--some boys are even pulling pencils from their bags to get ready. "I will hand you the prompt, and usually you would have four hours to complete the state test, but today you're just---"

"Four hours?!" Roald's smile shatters, "I say, two hours of writing leaves me absolutely drained!"

Will jumps in with his cockney accent, "You dough't haf to use owl four hours--" Will keeps his good-natured smile, "Bettah three hours than a minute too soon."

"Exactly, Will," Sally continues, "You don't have to use four hours. In fact, today, for our practice, you'll only have about 30 minutes." Now no one in the room is smiling.

Questions fire off one on top of the other: "What, to write a whole story?" "30 minutes?" "How am I supposed to write a story in 30 minutes?"

"Don't worry about the time. Just write the most you can," she responds. "We'll just get some ideas together and then share them." This comforts no one, but Sally continues, maneuvering the rows, distributing the prompt. There, on the front of the page, is a picture of a woman in a canoe and below the picture the prompt reads: “Write about a time when you faced adversity."

One-at-a-time, the students see the prompt and begin to laugh--except James who grows more apprehensive as she nears his desk. As James speaks, Sally tries to understand his thick Irish accent: "Ay'v got tah write a stor're in tharty minutes?"

"No, James, just do your best to start a story," her anger has faded, as Sally begins to see why some of the students, like James, are in here in the first place, "You need to pick a memory from your life that answers the prompt and is significant to write about." This doesn't placate James at all.

"Tharty minutes?! Ay've not only got tuh write a stor're, but it's got tah ahnswar a prompt AYND have it be good?" Panic grips his voice, "Ay sumtimes write all day, aynd ownly get two sentences."

"Don't worry, James," she counters his panic with soothing tones, "I'm here to help you; that's why we’re here."

"Actually, we're here to fart around," Kurt blurts out, and the whole class laughs tepidly, waiting for Ms. Wolford's response to Kurt's joke.

"You are here," Sally pushes some steel back into her voice again, "So I can help you write better." She has taught her share of tough guys.

"Meece, do I need paper for dis?" Jorge asks while digging in his backpack.

"Yes, yes, I only have a few dozen slices of the ol' paper myself," Roald leans over to Will, "I say, do you mind if I, um..., I borrow a few sheets, Will?"

"It's okay, I've actually got your paper here." Sally picks up the second stack of copies from her desk. "All of the State Writing Tests must be written on this paper." She begins to hand out the papers, starting with Roald.

"Jolly good, it's looks quite nice. Good lines and what not, 'eh?"

"Yes, Roald." She then proceeds to give the remaining students one sheet of paper.

"I say, it is good paper, but would it be a bother if I could just pinch a few more from you? I seem to have gott'n only one." Roald holds out his hand out expectantly.

"No, sorry Roald," she finishes passing out the solitary, single-sided, 26-lined paper to each student and returns to the front of the class. She didn't realize this, but what Sally says next confirms every suspicion she has about the group...

"The state only allows one page to write your story."

The bomb just dropped, stunned silence as the boys comprehend what she said. Then the room explodes--shouts of incredulity and disbelief: "One paper?! A whole bleed'n story?!" Even Kurt looked shaken, "Bull! That's not possible." Ms. Wolford raises her hands, trying to talk over the tumult, but the boys continue to yell, fury and chaos like a mound of disturbed ants.

It is now that Sally understands why they are here. It doesn't matter how well they can write--these boys love writing after all. They are in writing tutorials because the current testing system is incomprehensibly stacked against them. Looking at the class as they try to reconcile how to write a great story on 26 lines, it's perfectly clear to Ms. Sally Wolford that until a time comes when we test for authentic writing in schools, that every single one of these young authors will fail the state writing test.