Back in the day, in 7th grade that is, I was in English class. A regular English class, not honors, or advanced or anything like that. It felt like prison. As a matter of fact I remember thinking exactly that. My most vivid memory of that 5th period 42 minute educational session was that I was deathly terrified of my teacher, and did anything to prevent her from yelling at the class, which she did quite often. She was middle aged, and clearly bored with her job. She was too scary to be an elementary school teacher, and probably not good enough for High School, so she was stuck teaching us. She was a smoker, and had an awful raspy voice and her yelling made my whole body shudder and cringe. I was afraid of raising my hand in fear of a wrong answer, and afraid of not raising my hand for fear of non-participation. In 7th grade I still believed there was a template for writing essays, and that a letter had to have five paragraphs with topic sentences. I executed these requirements to a T because I was afraid getting anything lower than a B- would get her yelling. I once used the word "glum" in an essay, and she was impressed. That made me breath easier. I remember sitting there, in the second row, staring out of the 2nd floor window and waiting for the church bell across the street to strike noon because that would mean I only had another 20 minutes to suffer.
This book will be forever associated with that class, but that is not why I hate it. I remember sitting and finishing it in Band Class and wondering why in the world I was reading it, and what in the world it meant. The characters, the events, the setting, nothing seemed to fit. Perhaps I was supposed to identify with Slake's own sense of entrapment at school and at home, and with his angst and social anxiety, but I just could not. His character seemed completely irrational, and I could not understand why no one in the state of New York could not get him a pair of glasses.It was books like these, that made me forever shy away from anything with a YA label.
I have since then moved on with my life, past five paragraph essays, but I still have no idea what this book is about, and what moral my adolescent brain was supposed to gain from it. I suppose with better instruction it would have made more sense, but as it was, it confused everyone in or grade. I am supposed to finish my B.A. in a few months, and I still do not know what the book was trying to say. Perhaps I should go back to middle school and ask the teacher with the raspy voice why she made us read it.