The Last Week

We have four more official teaching days to go.

Four.

4.

And as T pointed out in Playwriting it's really only three because nobody's coming to school on Wednesday. That's the night of prom.

Four more days of miracles.

Four more days of mediocrity.

"Jamie, I just need to pass. What do I need to do to get a 65???"

Four more creeping days of the slow, but increasingly urgent realization that yes, you will by returning in September. Or maybe as soon as July and Summer School.

For more days of success and triumph and satisfaction in finishing the year. In graduating. In finally moving on. In the chance to see a world outside of Brownsville.

It's lethargic around here. And we can't blame it all on the weather. Desperation doesn't discriminate; 85 or 65, rain or shine, it's all around us.

We know who's going to pass, who's not, and who there's still some hope for.

And then there's delusion.

"Ms. Jamie, I'm just gonna write you a whole screenplay. Can that count as my benchmark?"

"If it's long J, I'll count it as two pieces. But you need four pieces in total. The purpose of the final project is for you to revise your favorite pieces that you've worked on throughout the cycle."

We look at his notebook together. Out of 12 weeks of instruction, he has 5 days of notes. In total.

I can't do anything but nod in agreement when he says, "nothing's in here. I don't have any work."

And so: I say sure, go head, write your screenplay.

And for the next 55 minutes he chats with C, tells me he's "gonna get started...brilliance takes time," and updates his Blackberry.

Making up a whole year in 4 days must be overwhelming. I know I couldn't do it. And I'm smart. Mad smart. Almost as smart as J the screenwriter.