October? Already?

Greetings, Comrade Vlad--

Okay, doesn’t it seem like we’ve been in school for six hundred years? I am already in after-school tutorials for my most hated class—that would be, PUBLIC SPEAKING. Which my school has decided is mandatory for all eighth graders, so that we can go into high school knowing how to stand up and speak up.

But what about if you get those awful, cringing, involuntary voice-trembles? Then what? Seriously, Vlad, I am totally scared of the sound of my own voice. And it shows. Maybe it’s all those years in the Old World, where kids learned things like ‘Better to be Seen than Heard’ and ‘Don’t Speak Until You’re Spoken To.’ Kids here really aren’t like that, eh? More like, ‘Don’t Shut Up Until You’re Yelled At.’

Moving from my icky voice trembles onto my nonexistent love-life, I did the lamest, most idiotic thing when I was at my friend Pete’s house yesterday—I called Dylan Easterby. I know, I know. If you want to secede from my friendship, I would understand. And when Dylan himself answered, I just stood there on the phone-- "lonely as an oyster" as Charles Dickens would say. Then I hung up. But wait, it gets worse. Dylan’s MOM called back, and Pete’s MOM answered. Huge confusion. I denied everything. Why am I such an awkward dork? Um, don’t answer that.

I hope your year hasn't been as embarrassment-attacked, and Mrs. Bell’s aroma isn’t making you too nauseous. It’s funny you mention the aftershave, because I can identify almost anyone by smell. Must be one of those vestige-vamp traits. My nose is always exhausted by 3 PM. There’s one kid who smells inexplicably like hot dogs and wood chips. My lab partner, Jake Olatz, smells like old skim milk. Mina Pringle reeks like fake Chanel No. 5 that she sneaks out of her Mom’s bottle. Dylan Easterby smells like clean cotton socks.

Well, gotta fly …
Olfactorily yours,
L.