There’s this girl. A sixth grader to be exact. My former student. Her name is Cassandra. She has short wavy hair and wears glasses. She’s tall and thin. Quirky and confident. She’s awesome. The perfect description of a character in a book.
Anyway, she walked into my classroom – just as she alway does, every day after school, to say
“Hello, how’re you doing?”
“How do you like my haircut?”
“Do you like your class this year?”
“Oh, the state report, I remember doing those!”
Things like that.
So, like I said, she came into my classroom and plopped herself onto the floor, her face buried between her knees. She was next to my desk, which is next to my chair, in which I was sitting and said,
“Do I look like a turwal?
I didn’t understand what she said.
“What?” I asked.
“Do I look like a turwal?”
“Do you look like a turd?”
Cassandra’s lump of a body quivered with laughter. She laughed and laughed.
“Okay, yeah, you definitely look like a turd lying there on the carpeted floor.” I stated.
Still laughing, she unrolled herself and looked at me with a smirk on her face and said,
“I asked, do I look like a tur-tle? Turtle.” I cracked-up
The next day, she repeated her pose, positioning herself into a lump on the floor and said, “The turd is back.”