Detention Essay #6

Mrs. Conway

My Personal Philosophy of Talent

by Cassie Howard

I have this theory that everybody has a talent. Rich, poor, clueless--it doesn’t matter. I honestly believe that every human being on earth is born with one special gift. The problem is, not all talents are created equal.

People think that talent means you sing, or dance, or act. But those are the glory talents, the ones that everyone wants, and for every diva out there, about a million other people are walking around with one of the lesser talents, the kind that don’t get their own videos.

This guy I know, Fitz, his talent is always choosing the longest line--not the one that looks the longest, the one that takes the longest. There can be twenty people in one line and two in the other, and if Fitz gets in the two-person line, that’s all it’s going to take. Say he’s at the store--the cash register will break. When they finally get it running again, the person first in line will want to use about five hundred coupons. Then the next guy will try to write a check with no ID and the cashier will call the manager but no one will be able to find him because he’s on a break and . . . you get the idea. Fitz’s is definitely not the kind of talent you’d love to have, but maybe it will come in handy if he ever has to choose a line for something bad. Like a firing squad.

This other guy I know--actually, we used to kind of go out, but that’s another story--his talent is finding parking. There’s no place too popular, no lot too crowded. Quentin parks in front at school, at the beach, at the movies. If the hottest band in the country were playing a free concert somewhere with only a hundred spaces, Quentin would get there ten minutes before the group went on and still get a place right in front. His theory is that other people don’t believe there will be a good space left, so they don’t look. Mine is that parking is that guy’s gift.

Which brings us to me, I guess. I have a talent too, and it’s definitely not of the glory variety. My talent is coming in second.


I am the Queen of Second Place, the poster child for close-but-not-close-enough. And I’m not saying that to make you feel sorry for me--although, you know . . . feel free, if it helps. I swear it’s completely true.
I have a drawer full of second-place ribbons--for the science fair, for youth soccer, for a three-legged race I entered at camp. And unfortunately, my deal doesn’t end with contests. I take second place in everything, in every little aspect of life.

In eighth grade I had hair past my waist--so long I could practically sit on it. It would have been the longest hair in school, except that Amber Brooks could sit on hers. So last year I cut it, and I mean really cut it. The stylist only left these spiky little tufts. The first day I went to school like that, Kirsten Kirk came in with a buzz cut. You could see the girl’s scalp. And in case you don’t think hair’s such a good example, believe me, I’ve got others. It’s just that some of them get pretty personal, and anyway the bell is going to ring . . . right . . . now!

Welcome to My Nightmare

Hayley was waiting for me when I got out of detention. I had writer’s cramp from my middle finger to my elbow and I’d been concentrating so hard I felt like I’d been breathing underwater, but I still couldn’t wait to tell her what I’d been up to.

“Get this!” I said. “I had to write an essay about talent!”

“You’re kidding me.” Hayley shook her head, her scores of tight bouncy ringlets barely brushing her
shoulders. We were both going through kind of a tufty thing last year--the difference is, her hair looks good now. “You didn’t give Conway the theory?”

“Of course. What else?”

Hayley knows the theory. In fact, she’s intimately familiar with it, since she’s been my best friend, like, forever. And in case you’re wondering, Hayley’s talent is whistling. Again, not in the glory category, but I’ve at least seen whistling in videos. Luckily for Hayley, she’s so smart she’ll never have to rely on talent. The girl gets solid A’s. I get mostly--you guessed it--B’s.

“That ought to be good for another ten weeks of detention,” she said.

“What? Oh! I didn’t tell Conway her talent. I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.”

“You’re not dumb, either,” Hayley told me loyally.

You can see why I love her, but getting detention was pretty dumb. Even if it wasn’t my fault. Exactly. Even if the forces that conspired against me were so far beyond my control that I was practically their sock puppet. Even if it ought to be someone else sitting in that absurdly hard chair every afternoon writing Conway’s essays instead of me.

Because I have excuses, believe me. I could make any sane person--which obviously excludes Conway--see my side in less than five minutes.

You know, now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not dumb for getting detention.

I’m dumb because I’d do it again.

Oops. Backing Up Now.

You know what I just realized? You don’t have the first clue what I’m talking about. I mean, hopefully you’ve deduced that Hayley is the perfect friend while Mrs. Conway takes all the fun out of being a sophomore, but you still don’t know what happened. You can’t begin to comprehend how the fabric of my previously ordinary life has unraveled to the point that I’m dodging around school wearing sunglasses and a ski cap, counting the days until graduation lets me sink into oblivion.


From the Hardcover edition.