1 I hate grading spelling tests. Quizzes, essays, book reports, even twenty-page research papers I don’t mind. Somewhere in the seventh circle of hell, the doomed English teachers slave away for eternity grading spelling tests. No fate could be worse. A cold Monday in late December and I wanted to go home. But I felt guilty because I’d delayed grading the damn things for over two weeks already. Under the pile of spelling tests lurked a stack of senior essays waiting to be graded. I sighed and grabbed another stack. Scott wasn’t due to pick me up for another hour, anyway. Erratic noises drifted in from the corridor. At first, I presumed one of the janitors had been overcome with a mad desire to move a mop from one storage closet to another. Nothing ever seemed to get cleaner at Grover Cleveland High School. They built the main portion just before World War I. The school looks as if it hasn’t been cleaned since just prior to World War II. A janitorial staff of even average competence could at least cover the major flaws after all these years.
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