This is an excerpt from The War Prayer.
Copyright 2007 by Erin E. Schmidt
Wednesday, November 24, 1993. It was the last day of school before Thanksgiving. It was a full
day of school, but all the classes were shorter because we had a mass after second period, in the
gym. I tried sitting next to Kelli, but Wheeler ushered me into the row of folding chairs behind
hers. (Finally I get a folding chair, and don’t have to sit in the bleachers like the freshman and
sophomores.) I ended up next to Miroslav Uric.
“Do you believe this?” he said. “I thought Thanksgiving was a secular holiday. Why is there a
mass for a civic holiday?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They shouldn’t make Communists like you and pagans like me go to
mass anyway.”
He smiled. “Are you really a pagan?”
“Are you really a Communist?”
We were, gently but firmly, slapped on the back of our heads by Rob Wheeler. “Quiet,” he said,
as Miss Wolf from the English department (she taught college-prep kids) approached the static-y
microphone in the middle of the gym floor. She talked all about our Thanksgiving service project,
how much money was collected and how many turkeys and cans it bought. Then the holy stuff
began. I tuned out, thinking instead about that discussion of ‘80s music that I’d had with Jim and
Lisa (two seniors) in study hall yesterday. (They’d insisted that I should listen to Tears for Fears
and Crowded House, but I’m sure I heard enough of them when I was a kid. I’ll stick to my old
favorites: REM, U2, the Bangles and INXS, thank you very much.) It was still very long and
boring. And it didn’t even get me out of Steve’s classroom for the day.
When I walked into Steve’s room, Jill Pritchard was standing at the back wall, studying a picture
of John Lennon and Yoko Ono. “I know who John Lennon is,” she said, “but who’s the other
Beatle in this picture?”
I just laughed. “Ask Steve,” I said. “He’s the one who teaches Media.”
She didn’t ask him, though. He came in and got right into giving us notes on Poe’s theory that
God had exploded and had to be thought back together. Or something like that. I took notes, but
I only really paid attention when we took turns reading passages from “The Raven.” Steve let me
read the really dramatic part, when the narrator shrieks, upstarting, “Be that word our sign of
parting, bird or fiend!”
I’ve loved that poem since I discovered Poe, when my fifth-grade class read “The Telltale
Heart.” Not just since I saw it on The Simpsons.
I didn’t bring a sack lunch, or any lunch money, today. So instead of going to the cafeteria I went
to the library. Philip Borstein was there. I heard the librarian yelling at him because he was using
the computer to play a game instead of for research. I started studying for the quiz in Spanish
(ugh) but I happened to sit in the fascinating folklore section, and ended up reading a book about
Anglo-American customs and superstitions.
Kim Rodriguez probably would have played a game with us today, if he was there, but he wasn’
t. Someone in his family died, and he was at the funeral. He left us with a substitute who didn’t
know that we weren’t allowed to roam the halls unsupervised. So that’s what we did. Kelli and I
heard Mr. Gray’s voice somewhere down senior hall. We found out which classroom he was in
(Mr. Tralongo’s, it turned out) and spent much of the class period trying to sneak looks at him.
Well, not all of him. Just his butt. Mr. Gray must get a lot of exercise in boy’s PE, because he
has a finely toned body. His butt looks great in those tight, gray sweat pants he always wears.
(Maybe that’s why he’s called Mr. Gray. Maybe that’s not even his name at all!)
Then, once I was all hot and sweaty and out of breath from giggling too much, I had to go to
Spanish and take my quiz. Mentally, I cursed Kelli for dropping Spanish and not bothering to
learn the subjunctive tense of verbs. I hate the subjunctive. If I ever do go to a Spanish-speaking
country, I’ll only talk about things that are happening in the present. No references to things that
might happen.
After the quiz, Miss Morris let us watch another Spanish cartoon. I didn’t mind so much this time.
Jeremy drove home from Ball State today. He got here right around dinner time. Sophie let
Robin order pizzas for the occasion. I was really excited to see my oldest brother, even though he
didn’t bring me anything this time. He usually at least brings me a student newspaper. (I like to
read what college kids are writing. I know, it’s like the thing with the new school books. Dorky.
But that’s the kind of girl you’re talking to here.) It’s too cold to sit out on the porch, of course,
so Jeremy, Robin and I sat in the basement, in front of the TV. We watched a monster movie
and drank some of Steve Jr.’s beers. (I had one.)
Before I went to bed, Jeremy kept teasing me that I was going to have nightmares and wet the
bed. I stomped on his toes until I really hurt him. Then he screamed, which woke up Sophie.
She yelled at me, as if it was my fault Jeremy is so God-damned loud. He’s just used to living in
a dorm with other guys who don’t care when he goes to bed or how loud his voice is. She can’t
blame me for that. I would have appealed with Steve Jr., but he was at work as usual.
After I’d brushed my teeth and gotten into bed, Jeremy came and knocked on the door. “Are you
asleep?” he said through the door.
I kicked off my blanket, put on slippers and came to the door. “Not yet,” I said. “What?” And I
swung my bedroom door open.
“How do you like being in English with Steve Sr.?”
I rolled my eyes. “This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”
“I came up here to say I was sorry for getting you in trouble with Sophie, dork,” he said. “I was
just making small talk with you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And I’m trying to get to sleep.”
“So, how do you like it?”
I closed my eyes and thought. Was Steve Sr. really that different from any other teacher I’d ever
had? He gave notes and quizzes, just like Wheeler, Van Buren or Morris. His tests were really
hard, and he assigned reading like it was going out of style. It always seemed like we were having
fun in there, but were we, really?
“It’s pretty cool, I guess,” I said. “Steve’s kinda tough, and he teases kids sometimes.”
Jeremy snorted. “That’s Steve, all right,” he said. “Has he told anybody to go play in traffic yet?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Mrs. Helsing. And when one of her students asked him for his attendance sheet
one day, he said no. The girl was like, ‘Well, what do I tell Mrs. Helsing?’ And Steve said, ‘Tell
her to sit and spin.’”
Jeremy laughed, but not so loud that Sophie would hear. Then he messed up my hair and told me
he’d see me tomorrow. I was going to try to sleep after that, but I decided to sit down and write
this instead.
Copyright 2007 by Erin E. Schmidt
Wednesday, November 24, 1993. It was the last day of school before Thanksgiving. It was a full
day of school, but all the classes were shorter because we had a mass after second period, in the
gym. I tried sitting next to Kelli, but Wheeler ushered me into the row of folding chairs behind
hers. (Finally I get a folding chair, and don’t have to sit in the bleachers like the freshman and
sophomores.) I ended up next to Miroslav Uric.
“Do you believe this?” he said. “I thought Thanksgiving was a secular holiday. Why is there a
mass for a civic holiday?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “They shouldn’t make Communists like you and pagans like me go to
mass anyway.”
He smiled. “Are you really a pagan?”
“Are you really a Communist?”
We were, gently but firmly, slapped on the back of our heads by Rob Wheeler. “Quiet,” he said,
as Miss Wolf from the English department (she taught college-prep kids) approached the static-y
microphone in the middle of the gym floor. She talked all about our Thanksgiving service project,
how much money was collected and how many turkeys and cans it bought. Then the holy stuff
began. I tuned out, thinking instead about that discussion of ‘80s music that I’d had with Jim and
Lisa (two seniors) in study hall yesterday. (They’d insisted that I should listen to Tears for Fears
and Crowded House, but I’m sure I heard enough of them when I was a kid. I’ll stick to my old
favorites: REM, U2, the Bangles and INXS, thank you very much.) It was still very long and
boring. And it didn’t even get me out of Steve’s classroom for the day.
When I walked into Steve’s room, Jill Pritchard was standing at the back wall, studying a picture
of John Lennon and Yoko Ono. “I know who John Lennon is,” she said, “but who’s the other
Beatle in this picture?”
I just laughed. “Ask Steve,” I said. “He’s the one who teaches Media.”
She didn’t ask him, though. He came in and got right into giving us notes on Poe’s theory that
God had exploded and had to be thought back together. Or something like that. I took notes, but
I only really paid attention when we took turns reading passages from “The Raven.” Steve let me
read the really dramatic part, when the narrator shrieks, upstarting, “Be that word our sign of
parting, bird or fiend!”
I’ve loved that poem since I discovered Poe, when my fifth-grade class read “The Telltale
Heart.” Not just since I saw it on The Simpsons.
I didn’t bring a sack lunch, or any lunch money, today. So instead of going to the cafeteria I went
to the library. Philip Borstein was there. I heard the librarian yelling at him because he was using
the computer to play a game instead of for research. I started studying for the quiz in Spanish
(ugh) but I happened to sit in the fascinating folklore section, and ended up reading a book about
Anglo-American customs and superstitions.
Kim Rodriguez probably would have played a game with us today, if he was there, but he wasn’
t. Someone in his family died, and he was at the funeral. He left us with a substitute who didn’t
know that we weren’t allowed to roam the halls unsupervised. So that’s what we did. Kelli and I
heard Mr. Gray’s voice somewhere down senior hall. We found out which classroom he was in
(Mr. Tralongo’s, it turned out) and spent much of the class period trying to sneak looks at him.
Well, not all of him. Just his butt. Mr. Gray must get a lot of exercise in boy’s PE, because he
has a finely toned body. His butt looks great in those tight, gray sweat pants he always wears.
(Maybe that’s why he’s called Mr. Gray. Maybe that’s not even his name at all!)
Then, once I was all hot and sweaty and out of breath from giggling too much, I had to go to
Spanish and take my quiz. Mentally, I cursed Kelli for dropping Spanish and not bothering to
learn the subjunctive tense of verbs. I hate the subjunctive. If I ever do go to a Spanish-speaking
country, I’ll only talk about things that are happening in the present. No references to things that
might happen.
After the quiz, Miss Morris let us watch another Spanish cartoon. I didn’t mind so much this time.
Jeremy drove home from Ball State today. He got here right around dinner time. Sophie let
Robin order pizzas for the occasion. I was really excited to see my oldest brother, even though he
didn’t bring me anything this time. He usually at least brings me a student newspaper. (I like to
read what college kids are writing. I know, it’s like the thing with the new school books. Dorky.
But that’s the kind of girl you’re talking to here.) It’s too cold to sit out on the porch, of course,
so Jeremy, Robin and I sat in the basement, in front of the TV. We watched a monster movie
and drank some of Steve Jr.’s beers. (I had one.)
Before I went to bed, Jeremy kept teasing me that I was going to have nightmares and wet the
bed. I stomped on his toes until I really hurt him. Then he screamed, which woke up Sophie.
She yelled at me, as if it was my fault Jeremy is so God-damned loud. He’s just used to living in
a dorm with other guys who don’t care when he goes to bed or how loud his voice is. She can’t
blame me for that. I would have appealed with Steve Jr., but he was at work as usual.
After I’d brushed my teeth and gotten into bed, Jeremy came and knocked on the door. “Are you
asleep?” he said through the door.
I kicked off my blanket, put on slippers and came to the door. “Not yet,” I said. “What?” And I
swung my bedroom door open.
“How do you like being in English with Steve Sr.?”
I rolled my eyes. “This couldn’t have waited until tomorrow?”
“I came up here to say I was sorry for getting you in trouble with Sophie, dork,” he said. “I was
just making small talk with you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “And I’m trying to get to sleep.”
“So, how do you like it?”
I closed my eyes and thought. Was Steve Sr. really that different from any other teacher I’d ever
had? He gave notes and quizzes, just like Wheeler, Van Buren or Morris. His tests were really
hard, and he assigned reading like it was going out of style. It always seemed like we were having
fun in there, but were we, really?
“It’s pretty cool, I guess,” I said. “Steve’s kinda tough, and he teases kids sometimes.”
Jeremy snorted. “That’s Steve, all right,” he said. “Has he told anybody to go play in traffic yet?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Mrs. Helsing. And when one of her students asked him for his attendance sheet
one day, he said no. The girl was like, ‘Well, what do I tell Mrs. Helsing?’ And Steve said, ‘Tell
her to sit and spin.’”
Jeremy laughed, but not so loud that Sophie would hear. Then he messed up my hair and told me
he’d see me tomorrow. I was going to try to sleep after that, but I decided to sit down and write
this instead.
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| The War Prayer |
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