I’m in a Creative Writing class this semester, and oh my gravy has it been fun so far. Since I’ll be doing a lot of writing, I thought posting my pieces here might be a way to help me post more often.
With that in mind, you’ll find my Non-Fiction piece below. Enjoy, and when you’ve finished, take the time to forgive your Bob today. 🙂
This is a story that reveals my pride a little more than I’d like, but here it is anyway. A fellow homeschooler we’ll call Bob, King of Snootiness, was my arch nemesis for almost four years. I could make the argument that I can’t be held responsible for my dislike because I met him while in the foulest of moods, but I don’t think it would hold up too well. In the end, I’m a prideful, spiteful person and this is just another dollop of whipped cream on the ice cream sundae of Truth.
My family had just moved to Arkansas, and in an effort to get us “involved’ in the community, my mother decided we should all attend Bible Study Fellowship. I had fond memories of this group back in our home state of Missouri, but we only attended for a few years when I was around six or so. An immediate difference was here in Conway, the women met on Wednesday mornings while the men and children met on Monday nights. At twelve, freshly plucked from my home of nine years into what I thought might pass for hell on earth, the idea of going to meet new people without my mother was just the slightest bit uncomfortable.
But it was what it was, so on that first still-cold April Monday, my father and younger brother and sisters piled into my dad’s truck and drove to a local Baptist Church. The building looked massive, the parking lot even more so, and seeing as how I had already promised myself and the friends I’d left behind that I would never like anything about Conway, I took the size as a personal offense for a reason I couldn’t have named. My dad had an aversion to parking near the door, so once we managed to trek across the parking lot and make it inside, we were divided off into rough grade-groups and sent to worship, where we would sing the same two songs for the next three months. I didn’t meet Bob until we broke off into smaller groups to discuss the week’s lesson.
BSF lessons are meant to be in-depth studies of a particular book or genera of literature from the Bible. There are very few opinion or even application questions; the main goal is to help you connect the dots between theology and Scripture, which in my mind is a great idea. The children had a shortened version of the adult lessons, and everyone in my group had all done our work. We had crammed our answers into spaces too small to hold more than a sentence or two, and were ready to see, essentially, who was the smartest. At least, that’s what I was ready for.
In the vast knowledge and self-assurance of a twelve-year old, I was convinced I was the most biblically-literate child in the group, and for the first several questions, my certainties were confirmed. I got praise from the gentlemen leading us and was practically patting myself on the back as I showed up these Arkansas hicks. Then, after one particular question, someone dared to interrupt the flow of praise and affirmation. Bob, King of Snootiness, all five-foot-nine of him, straightened in his seat. His neck was long, his face longer, and his fingers were made to play a piano and reach octave-and-a-half block chords, which was enough on its own to make my blood boil. His hair was slicked back, I thought, like a four-year-old whose mother still bathed him. Now, almost ten years later, I’m realizing he was actually probably pretty cute and very much my type if I had known I had a type back then. In the moment?
I couldn’t stand him. The look on his face was one I had seen in another person, our next door neighbor who had, along with his sister, mercilessly bullied my sisters. It was a look of pure superiority thinly veiled by an innocent veneer that seemed to fool every adult in a ten-mile radius.
He cleared his throat and pressed his hands together, putting the tips of his index fingers under his chin before leaning forward. “Well,” he drawled in a voice too deep for a fourteen-year-old, “I think…” His Royal Snootiness then proceeded to dismantle my answer point by point. He left us all sitting in silent shock, and at that moment, I swore to hate him forever.
The following Mondays were the worst part of my week. I loathed everything about BSF, from missing my mother to the workload of the study to the strain of constantly trying to one-up King Bob. Part of my distaste is probably due to the fact that I wasn’t saved; Bible study wasn’t something enjoyed yet. Bob was always there, always butting in with his maddeningly constant, “Well I think…” that eventually our whole group came to hate. Thankfully, BSF concluded with the school year, and soon enough I was rid of Bob forever. I thought.
Fast-forward to 2012. I was in ninth grade and suffering through General Science, Algebra I, and a horrible phase of life where I thought I was a brilliant writer. It was a difficult season for everyone, especially people who had to talk to me with any sort of regularity. While I hadn’t forgotten King Bob, I didn’t think of him as often. He was definitely the last person on my mind when my mother dropped me off at Conway High School to take the PSAT. I had taken probably a grand total of three standardized tests in my life at that point, and the idea of my entire future riding on one test (at least, that’s what I thought at the time) was terrifying. Well, it would have been terrifying if I hadn’t been overwhelmed once again by a huge building. I hadn’t set foot in a public school since kindergarten in a tiny Missouri town of 15,000 people. Conway High School would have set the Sikeston Field House to shame. Oh, did I mention I was late? The Fulmer Curse had struck again.
I wound my way down hallways that reminded me of the Greek Labyrinth and finally found a gymnasium packed with tables. A teacher gave me a wonderfully false smile and announced cheerily to the others, “Oh! It’s one of our homeschool friends!” when I introduced myself. She pointed me to a group of tables in the very back. To this day I have no idea how they organized us. All I know is it certainly wasn’t alphabetical, as I spent several awkward moments wandering around the tables whispering my last name to people, desperately trying to find my seat.
“Fulmer? Over here,” a voice whispered sharply, although not unkindly.
The identity of the speaker barely registered in my brain as I scrambled into my chair and heaved a sigh. I fumbled with my bag, pulling out the allowed pencil and calculator, only to hear an announcement that made me slump in my seat.
“Please remember, students, wooden pencils only! Mechanical pencils will not pick up on the Scantron, and if you use one, we will shred your test and it will not be graded.”
I stared helplessly at the two mechanical pencils I had just taken out of my bag and felt eyes on me. Reluctantly, I turned to my table partner to try to make a joke out of the disaster.
Bob. King of Snootiness. It couldn’t be.
Oh, but it was. And it got worse.
He held out a wooden pencil to me with a friendly smile. A friendly smile. What kind of crazy alternate dimension was this?
Mumbling a thank you, I took the pencil and turned quickly to the Scantron in front of me, dumbstruck by this turn of events. I had been prepared for reading comprehension, not earth-shattering, nemesis-erasing, pencil-sharing!
I sighed again. By whatever random Rules of Having a Nemesis I had created for myself, it looked like Bob would have to be stricken from my list of enemies. One good deed was all it took to redeem him in my mind, however reluctantly, and Bob, King of Snootiness, was re-christened Bob, Sharer of Pencils.
Sarah Standard Version 