Finger Puppets

11:00 A.M. and I’m trapped in Spanish class.

On a normal day, I’d be resigned to the two hours of tedium that constitute Spanish 4: The teacher’s continual demands for, “¡Espanol o Silencio!” The lewd remarks of the boy behind me as he talks to his friends. The constant ticking of the ancient looking clock above the door. On a normal day, none of this would bother me.

Today is anything but a normal day, and I’m trapped in Spanish class. The brown paper bag, sitting innocently on the desk, makes it anything but a normal day.

I know what’s inside that brown paper bag, and it sets my nerves on edge.

Suddenly, I don’t want to deal with the teachers ineffectual demands; I want her to shut the **** up (callate.) Suddenly, I want to turn around and tell the lewd-mouthed boy that girls aren’t items to be used and discarded. Suddenly, I want to disregard the clock, to get up and leave; ditch.

*sigh*

It’s all the finger-puppets' faults. Nothing can get to a person unless they let it, but the finger-puppets, with their tiny flannel selves, have gotten to me.

I suppose it’s because they remind me of clowns: guilt by association (but that’s a whole other blog post.) Or maybe it’s because I hate the way flannel feels as it engulfs my finger; the list of things I’d rather stick my finger into would shock even the lewd boy behind me, I’m sure. It could even be vanity: I like my fingers and my nailbeds, and I just don’t want them covered up by a few inches of neon fabric.

Whatever the reason, I want to scream when I put my finger-puppet on, and instead dissolve into a fit of hysterical laughter in the middle of my group’s puppet show. The junior girls in my group, the ones who still need good grades, don’t seem pleased.

12:35 P.M and I’ve never been happier to leave Spanish class. Ever.