Thanks to Daniel Ward, for getting the ball rolling… Who’s next?

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CHARLIE JOE JACKSON’S GUIDE TO SURVIVING SUMMER SCHOOL

(by Daniel J. Ward)

You might want to know why my parents would think about sending me to summer school, right. Well even though I got good grades last marking period, they still think I’m not working hard enough. But the two weeks I spent at this “Summer School” weren’t that bad. (Don’t tell anyone I said that.) If you think reading is the worst thing you can come across, wait till you hear this teeth clincher.
When I got a first look at this dungeon, it seemed less torturous. It looked exactly like middle school. (Hoof! That’s what gives me the hibe jibes.) Tons of crumpled up paper balls were popping out of the chimney like ash and smoke. The 10-foot doors were rumbling as if something was trying to get out from the other side. I pulled one back and it was like a war between us and the straight “A” students.
Spitballs and snowballs were being shot back and forth. I can’t believe that I actually took some hits. (I think a kid shot one into my left ear.) Then, I felt a tap on my left shoulder. Next, a whisper was transferred to my right ear, “If you want to get to the other side alive, follow me.”
When I turned around, a kid was behind me like he was about to run a marathon. He looked my age, with orange hair, wearing nothing but everyday clothes, a shirt and sweatpants. He was probably wearing contacts and his shoes were spiced up with color. He shot out like a cannon ball and slid right under the commotion. “Name’s D.J. Now You.” He said with a clap. I took a couple of steps back and started my run. It made me remember the time when I used to play baseball. (The only problem was I had my head too high and got ambushed by every incoming ball.) Luckily, I got past. “You’ll get the hang of it when you come here every day.” If this is how crazy it is at the entrance, I wonder how it will be like in the classroom.
I know I’m wasting your time by making these chapters extra long, but it’s time to not be talking about you. This is my life that I need to be worrying about.