Lies and Deceptions
By Christina Hergenrader

1

Ludicrous Thinking?

So here’s the story. My life really changed the first day of my junior year of high school—specifically, when I got my schedule for fall semester. It said I was taking two math classes (Algebra I and Algebra II), Spanish, European History, and Advanced American Literature (GT). The “GT” meant Gifted and Talented.

As I walked out of the registrar’s office with my schedule, I felt very A to L. At the end of last year, Mrs. Fields, the registrar for students with last names beginning with J through N, and I had scheduled my classes, since my last name is Krinke. I’d sat in her office, and watched as the A-L people met with their registrar, Mr. Stafford. He was much more laid back about scheduling rules than Mrs. Fields. His desk was crowded with stacks of files and papers—and random sticky notes wallpapered his office. Usually when a student was in the wrong class, it was because

“something had gotten mixed up with Mr. Stafford.” And since it was a bigger pain for them to go back and change their schedules, they’d just stay in the wrong class all semester. This meant there were quite a few mismatched students every year.

Last May, Mrs. Fields had struggled to find an English slot for me since I had to take two math classes. (I had to make up Intermediate Algebra I’d failed my sophomore year.) I was pretty surprised when she’d suggested I take Advanced American Literature. She followed scheduling rules and knew my ability better than to put me in a GT class for seniors only—she would never intentionally misplace a student like that. Her office was always organized, with each student’s folder neatly filed away and reminders about special cases under the Comments section in her database. The only decoration that hung in Mrs. Field’s office was a huge poster that said “Travel Hong Kong!” That, no doubt, was there so the students she advised would think she had a life other than just telling them which classes they couldn’t take.

Advanced American Literature had a reputation for being hard. Only the smartest seniors took it. I was the kind of junior who had to meet with my registrar three times in May to squeeze in failed math credits. While I daydreamed about

Advanced American Literature, about being smart enough to get in, Mrs. Fields tapped her pencil on that exact class on my schedule.

“I bet we could fit you in here; it meets during your study hall.” I’d looked at her, surprised. Maybe she was tired of being the registrar no one liked because she followed the rules. Or maybe trying to make my impossible schedule work frustrated her so she just gave in.

“Oh . . . yeah. It does.” I’d noticed the Advanced American Literature class while studying the Clear Lake High School Fall Schedule at home.

“Hmmm . . . we’ll have to run that by Julie. I don’t know how that would work,” she muttered. Then she chewed on her pen and stared at her computer screen. “Julie” was Mrs. Roe, the GT English teacher who taught at Clear Lake High School. I sighed. Mrs. Fields had caught herself before she broke the rules and put me in a class I wasn’t qualified take.

I’d thought about it all summer—hoping I’d get in, but also dreading the possible embarrassment of Mrs. Roe asking me what I was doing there on the first day in front of all the senior power intellects.

 But the first day of school my schedule said it. “Advanced American Literature,” smushed right between Algebra I and Algebra II. My junior year was going to be something. Here was my challenge: either I’d prove I could hold my own in the clique of intimidating seniors or I’d discover there was a reason underclassman like me weren’t allowed into classes like this. I felt lucky though. I was in Advanced American Literature on a Stafford error, and my registrar wasn’t even Mr. Stafford.

Copyright 2003 Christina Buehring Hergenrader. Published by Concordia Publishing House.  All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Concordia Publishing House.