CHAPTER ELEVEN: WATER BALLOON WAR
They said bazaars are fun when we get to throw water balloons and earn money at the same time. They asked me to join, so I agreed.
Later I found out that I have to stand behind a board and let others throw water balloons at me. I said I didn’t want to. I’m not that stupid to just stand there and let others hit me.
Draco said, “Then what else can you do, weasel? Take a look at the chart. It says: Collect coupons, count money, draw posters, etc…Can you do any of these?”
Hermione explained, “Don’t worry, Ronald. You won’t always get hit. You can move away. Those really good at moving away won’t ever get hit by the water balloon.”
So I decided to become someone really good.
Hermione even said that it’s for our class fund. If there’s enough money to buy a drinking water machine, I don’t have to go around carrying water everyday.
During the bazaar, I stood behind the board and waited for people to throw water balloons at me. Draco was like the people in the market shouting for business when he kept yelling, “Water balloons! Come one, come all, and have fun throwing water balloons!”
There was a hole on the board and I have to stick my face through that hole. Suddenly someone came over to throw water balloons. I looked at him nervously. When he threw, I moved my face away and it didn’t hit me. I was really good.
The second person also missed. He yelled, “That ain’t fun!”
Draco ran to me and said, “Stop moving, weasel. Or we won’t get any money.”
So I stood there and didn’t move. As expected, when the next person threw the water balloon, it hit me and broke. My clothes were wet and everyone was having a great time laughing.
I laughed too. It didn’t hurt when the water balloon hit me, and it was fun getting wet. Anyway, Mother is not there, so she wouldn’t be angry with me.
I wanted to try throwing it myself, but I can’t cut myself in half and let one half standing behind the board and the other throw a water balloon.
Draco said, “If you don’t stand there, who will?”
No one wanted to stand there and be hit, so I had to stay.
I did this for the drinking water machine.
Biology teacher Prof. Sprout came over and she was holding a little girl’s hand. The little girl said, “Mommy, I want to throw a water balloon.”
And yet when she threw her water balloon hard, it flew on the air for a while and fell onto her shoes. She curled her mouth and scolded at Prof. Sprout, “Stupid water balloon!”
Prof. Sprout picked her up, went up the board and asked her to throw it one more time. She frowned, moved her mouth sideways and hit me square on the nose. I rubbed my nose and muttered, “Ouch.” She laughed out loud.
“That was fun!” she said.
“Yeah, that was fun! That big brother is so silly,” Prof. Sprout replied.
She looked a lot like my sister Ginny, without the red hair, but my classmates kept saying, “What a doll your daughter is, professor!”
Maybe they do sell ugly dolls. There’s a lot of things for sale nowadays.
Finally the money we’ve earned is only enough to buy half a drinking water machine, but no one sells that sort of thing, so I still have to go get water for everyone everyday.
It’s alright, really. I like getting water. I used that time to secretly fill up a water balloon and throw it at my own feet. That was fun.
If there’s going to be another bazaar, I’m gonna ask them not to sell anymore water balloons. Because I got so wet and I forgot to bring dry clothes to wear, Mother gave me a sound scolding. I told her that it was decided by the class meeting and that everyone had to have a job to do, but Mother said, “You’re so stupid.”
Even Harry Scarface said, “Why should you let others throw water balloons at you, anyway?”
It doesn’t hurt, really. I only got my clothes wet.
But Harry Scarface said, “It’s not only your clothes that gets wet, you know.”
Sigh. He’s always saying stuff that I don’t understand anyway.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Ronald Weasley's Diary-Chp 10
CHAPTER TEN: I’VE BEEN HIT
When I was crossing the road that day, I’ve walked slowly and I’ve looked both sides before crossing, yet I still got hit.
There was a motorcycle suddenly speeding towards me. I didn’t manage to move away, so I fell. My leg hurt and was bleeding, and my lunch was all over the place. I saw what Mother made for me: ham and egg sandwich, an apple and a box of pear juice.
The motorcycle guy picked up his bike and picked me up. Someone across the street came over and asked, “Are you alright? There’s a clinic nearby.”
So they both took me to have my leg bandaged.
The guy who hit me kept on talking, first to the doctor, then to the nurse. He talked real quick, and I couldn’t even understand any of his words. Besides, my leg was so friggin’ painful. I’m trying hard to hold the pain.
Later Mother came and asked the doctor, “Anything wrong? Will he be lame? Who hit him?”
The guy who hit me came to her and said, “It’s me, Mrs. Weasley. I just told the doctor that your son wasn’t watching the road when he was crossing. He made me hit him.”
I then realized that he was our neighbour who works at a construction site. He was Mother’s regular customer. Every time he came for waffles he would asked, “Hey, egghead! Have you eaten your eggs today?” When I replied “Yes”, he would laugh out loud.
But Mother never laughed.
He turned to the doctor and said, “That kid’s brain’s a little slow and reflexes are bad. I did yell out for him to move away but he just stood there.”
He looked at me and said, “What bad luck.”
Mother touched my knee and scolded me silently, “Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”
I said, “I was careful.”
The guy who hit me took his helmet and said, “Alright, I gotta go work now. Tell your son to be careful next time.”
Mother said, “Hey! You just hit my son! Aren’t you gonna pay for the medical bills? You could’ve given my son a concussion!”
The doctor said, “We’ll have to monitor him for three days to confirm that.”
The guy who hit me replied angrily, “Your son’s brain ain’t gonna be any different whether he got a concussion or not. I told you, it was he who wasn’t careful. You can’t blame it all on me.”
He paused for a while and continued, “You shouldn’t be letting that kid walking around in the streets alone, or you’d be blaming everyone for every accident he gets into.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault?” Mother was also angry.
“What else you expect?”
Mother started to cry as she said, “You think you’re so tough bullying someone more dumb than you are, aren’t you?”
The doctor patted Mother’s shoulder and said, “Alright, alright, that’s enough. For now, the medical bills are on me. You just take your son back home and rest, and don’t let water get into his wound.”
So Mother took me home. I didn’t have to go to school today.
But I really felt like eating ham and egg sandwich. When I told that to Mother, she scolded me angrily, “Is there anything else you can do besides eating? Being bullied, that’s all you can do!”
I didn’t dare speak another word. My leg still hurt. Next time if I cross the road, I’m gonna walk even slower and I’m gonna wait until there’s absolutely no more cars before crossing.
But there are so many cars on the road. Do I have to wait until the middle of the night and there’s not a single person on the road before I cross?
The guy who hit was really fierce. Is he always like that when he hits other people? But then again, it’s better not to hit anyone else.
It hurts getting hit.
When I was crossing the road that day, I’ve walked slowly and I’ve looked both sides before crossing, yet I still got hit.
There was a motorcycle suddenly speeding towards me. I didn’t manage to move away, so I fell. My leg hurt and was bleeding, and my lunch was all over the place. I saw what Mother made for me: ham and egg sandwich, an apple and a box of pear juice.
The motorcycle guy picked up his bike and picked me up. Someone across the street came over and asked, “Are you alright? There’s a clinic nearby.”
So they both took me to have my leg bandaged.
The guy who hit me kept on talking, first to the doctor, then to the nurse. He talked real quick, and I couldn’t even understand any of his words. Besides, my leg was so friggin’ painful. I’m trying hard to hold the pain.
Later Mother came and asked the doctor, “Anything wrong? Will he be lame? Who hit him?”
The guy who hit me came to her and said, “It’s me, Mrs. Weasley. I just told the doctor that your son wasn’t watching the road when he was crossing. He made me hit him.”
I then realized that he was our neighbour who works at a construction site. He was Mother’s regular customer. Every time he came for waffles he would asked, “Hey, egghead! Have you eaten your eggs today?” When I replied “Yes”, he would laugh out loud.
But Mother never laughed.
He turned to the doctor and said, “That kid’s brain’s a little slow and reflexes are bad. I did yell out for him to move away but he just stood there.”
He looked at me and said, “What bad luck.”
Mother touched my knee and scolded me silently, “Didn’t I tell you to be careful?”
I said, “I was careful.”
The guy who hit me took his helmet and said, “Alright, I gotta go work now. Tell your son to be careful next time.”
Mother said, “Hey! You just hit my son! Aren’t you gonna pay for the medical bills? You could’ve given my son a concussion!”
The doctor said, “We’ll have to monitor him for three days to confirm that.”
The guy who hit me replied angrily, “Your son’s brain ain’t gonna be any different whether he got a concussion or not. I told you, it was he who wasn’t careful. You can’t blame it all on me.”
He paused for a while and continued, “You shouldn’t be letting that kid walking around in the streets alone, or you’d be blaming everyone for every accident he gets into.”
“Are you saying it’s my fault?” Mother was also angry.
“What else you expect?”
Mother started to cry as she said, “You think you’re so tough bullying someone more dumb than you are, aren’t you?”
The doctor patted Mother’s shoulder and said, “Alright, alright, that’s enough. For now, the medical bills are on me. You just take your son back home and rest, and don’t let water get into his wound.”
So Mother took me home. I didn’t have to go to school today.
But I really felt like eating ham and egg sandwich. When I told that to Mother, she scolded me angrily, “Is there anything else you can do besides eating? Being bullied, that’s all you can do!”
I didn’t dare speak another word. My leg still hurt. Next time if I cross the road, I’m gonna walk even slower and I’m gonna wait until there’s absolutely no more cars before crossing.
But there are so many cars on the road. Do I have to wait until the middle of the night and there’s not a single person on the road before I cross?
The guy who hit was really fierce. Is he always like that when he hits other people? But then again, it’s better not to hit anyone else.
It hurts getting hit.
Ronald Weasley's Diary-Chp 9
CHAPTER NINE: SUFFERING PEOPLE
Prof. McGonagall gave us all a notice.
As she gave them to each of us, she explained, “Please make sure that your parents can at least find a time to attend this Wednesday evening’s PTA meeting.”
But Prof. McGonagall treats me real nice. She told me, “I know your mother is busy selling her waffles, Ronald. She can be exempted.”
So I folded the notice and put it into my bag.
On Thursday, when Mother checked my bag and found the notice, she said angrily, “Why didn’t you tell me that there’s a PTA meeting yesterday?”
I replied, “The professor said you don’t have to go. Besides there were a lot of parents arguing. It was so friggin’ noisy, you’d be glad you didn’t go.”
Just the thought about yesterday made me quite afraid.
There were a lot of parents in school yesterday. They flipped through our books and exam papers and were standing around Prof. McGonagall chitchatting. I was going back and forth getting water for them to drink. Harry Scarface’s godfathers were there too—one who looked very handsome with long hair tied into a ponytail and another with dark brown hair and was wearing something that looked like it was bought from a flea market.
Then there came a father who smelt rather strong of the perfume Father wore. He was Draco’s father. He wore a very well ironed suit and a pair of shiny shoes, with a black cane to match, and didn’t want to sit on our chair. Prof. McGonagall told me to wipe the chair clean and asked him to sit down.
Draco was at the corridor playing ball and didn’t dare to come in. Mr. Malfoy said, “My boy Draco is a little arrogant and likes to have things his own way.”
Prof. McGonagall nodded.
Mr. Malfoy said immediately, “But he’s a smart boy, just a little careless.”
Prof. McGonagall nodded again.
“Oh yes, Draco told me,” Mr. Malfoy took out a really neat handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his nose before continuing, “that you have a retard in your class. How can this be?”
He shook his head and said, “This is very unfair, professor. Think about the other children here. It’s a very bad influence. You should be complaining to the Headmaster about this.”
Prof. McGonagall replied, “That’s not true. Yes, I don’t deny we have a mentally challenged student here, but he’s a good boy and means no harm…”
Before she could finish, Mr. Malfoy cut in, “Well, unfortunately, it’s a matter of quality here. If you have a retard in your class, how can you teach any better…”
Again, someone else cut off Mr. Malfoy’s words. It was Hermione Granger’s mother saying, “Excuse me, sir, don’t you think you’re a little bias here…”
Later, the more they talked, the more I couldn’t understand. Also, they’ve finished drinking their water, so I had to go get some more.
When I came back, I saw Prof. McGonagall’s nose quite red, as if she had just cried a great deal. Mr. Malfoy’s face was red with anger and his smooth forehead seemed to grow a lot of wrinkles as he stomped out of the classroom. Harry Scarface’s godfathers didn’t look too happy either. Mrs. Granger’s nose was also red as she shook her head with a hanky near her mouth, muttering, “How cruel…How heartless he is…”
Harry Scarface pulled me out of the classroom and told me, “You better not go in, Ron. They’re all arguing because of you.”
I was shocked. I don’t even know a single one of them. I only met them today.
“Oh, don’t mind about them. This had nothing to do with you,” Harry Scarface smiled a very small smile, but I didn’t think he was actually happy.
OK, they were arguing because of me, but it had nothing to do with me; I don’t get it.
“I don’t get it either,” Harry Scarface lifted his shoulders and sighed.
Soon, all the parents went home. Prof. McGonagall told us to come in and arrange the tables and chairs back in order. She looked at me and said, “Ronald Weasley, if only you know you’re suffering so much right now.”
I know what ‘suffer’ means. It has something to do with crying. But I’m not crying. Prof. McGonagall and Mrs. Granger are the ones crying.
Prof. McGonagall gave us all a notice.
As she gave them to each of us, she explained, “Please make sure that your parents can at least find a time to attend this Wednesday evening’s PTA meeting.”
But Prof. McGonagall treats me real nice. She told me, “I know your mother is busy selling her waffles, Ronald. She can be exempted.”
So I folded the notice and put it into my bag.
On Thursday, when Mother checked my bag and found the notice, she said angrily, “Why didn’t you tell me that there’s a PTA meeting yesterday?”
I replied, “The professor said you don’t have to go. Besides there were a lot of parents arguing. It was so friggin’ noisy, you’d be glad you didn’t go.”
Just the thought about yesterday made me quite afraid.
There were a lot of parents in school yesterday. They flipped through our books and exam papers and were standing around Prof. McGonagall chitchatting. I was going back and forth getting water for them to drink. Harry Scarface’s godfathers were there too—one who looked very handsome with long hair tied into a ponytail and another with dark brown hair and was wearing something that looked like it was bought from a flea market.
Then there came a father who smelt rather strong of the perfume Father wore. He was Draco’s father. He wore a very well ironed suit and a pair of shiny shoes, with a black cane to match, and didn’t want to sit on our chair. Prof. McGonagall told me to wipe the chair clean and asked him to sit down.
Draco was at the corridor playing ball and didn’t dare to come in. Mr. Malfoy said, “My boy Draco is a little arrogant and likes to have things his own way.”
Prof. McGonagall nodded.
Mr. Malfoy said immediately, “But he’s a smart boy, just a little careless.”
Prof. McGonagall nodded again.
“Oh yes, Draco told me,” Mr. Malfoy took out a really neat handkerchief and wiped the sweat off his nose before continuing, “that you have a retard in your class. How can this be?”
He shook his head and said, “This is very unfair, professor. Think about the other children here. It’s a very bad influence. You should be complaining to the Headmaster about this.”
Prof. McGonagall replied, “That’s not true. Yes, I don’t deny we have a mentally challenged student here, but he’s a good boy and means no harm…”
Before she could finish, Mr. Malfoy cut in, “Well, unfortunately, it’s a matter of quality here. If you have a retard in your class, how can you teach any better…”
Again, someone else cut off Mr. Malfoy’s words. It was Hermione Granger’s mother saying, “Excuse me, sir, don’t you think you’re a little bias here…”
Later, the more they talked, the more I couldn’t understand. Also, they’ve finished drinking their water, so I had to go get some more.
When I came back, I saw Prof. McGonagall’s nose quite red, as if she had just cried a great deal. Mr. Malfoy’s face was red with anger and his smooth forehead seemed to grow a lot of wrinkles as he stomped out of the classroom. Harry Scarface’s godfathers didn’t look too happy either. Mrs. Granger’s nose was also red as she shook her head with a hanky near her mouth, muttering, “How cruel…How heartless he is…”
Harry Scarface pulled me out of the classroom and told me, “You better not go in, Ron. They’re all arguing because of you.”
I was shocked. I don’t even know a single one of them. I only met them today.
“Oh, don’t mind about them. This had nothing to do with you,” Harry Scarface smiled a very small smile, but I didn’t think he was actually happy.
OK, they were arguing because of me, but it had nothing to do with me; I don’t get it.
“I don’t get it either,” Harry Scarface lifted his shoulders and sighed.
Soon, all the parents went home. Prof. McGonagall told us to come in and arrange the tables and chairs back in order. She looked at me and said, “Ronald Weasley, if only you know you’re suffering so much right now.”
I know what ‘suffer’ means. It has something to do with crying. But I’m not crying. Prof. McGonagall and Mrs. Granger are the ones crying.
Thursday, March 9, 2006
Ronald Weasley's Diary-Chp 8
CHAPTER EIGHT: IT’S ALL PRETEND
The Math teacher Prof. Snape, my class teacher Prof. McGonagall and I were in the office. The office had air-conditioning, and it felt great.
Prof. Snape smoothed his shoulder-length hair, opened my Math exercise book and said to Prof. McGonagall, “I cannot stand this kind of student.”
Prof. McGonagall said quietly, “I know you’re a Mathematics Master. I can’t really do anything. He’s born slow; you can’t blame him for that.”
Prof. Snape looked at me and asked me in his cold tone, “Have you heard and understood anything that I have been teaching, Weasley?”
I shook my head and said, “I heard, but I don’t understand.”
Of all the classes, I understood Math class the least, ‘coz I couldn’t find a single word I could write in my book. There were loads of numbers, but they were all jumping here and there and never followed in line like 1, 2 and 3.
Math class definitely is the most boring.
Prof. Snape pushed his hair back and said, “I refuse to believe that I cannot teach him. The great educator Watson once said, ‘I can teach any child’. I believe I can.”
So he told me to come to his office every recess to give me a little tuition. Harry Scarface patted my shoulder and said, “Work hard, Ron.”
I took my textbook, my exercise book and my pencil case and walked all the way to the office. Prof. Snape just finished eating his lunch. He cleaned his mouth and told me to recite the timetable.
I’ve forgotten all of them.
Prof. Snape gave me a small board and told me to memorize it everyday. He thought for a while and said, “Actually, you can use a calculator. Can you use one, Weasley?”
I shook my head.
“I shall teach you next time.”
Then he opened the textbook, wrote some numbers on a paper and said to me, “For now, I’ll teach you about division.”
He drew a huge circle, then drew a few lines on the circle and told me, “Imagine that this circle is a huge biscuit, or an orange, and cut them into eight pieces. Try counting them.”
I counted the pieces and he was right; there are eight pieces. Prof. Snape is really smart.
“If you eat off a piece, it’s called ‘an eighth’. One out of eight. Get it? Repeat after me, an eighth.”
So I said, “An eighth.”
Later, Prof. Snape told me to eat off two-eighth, three-eighth…of course, this is all pretend.
“This is called division, understand?”
I quickly nodded.
Prof. Snape then drew another circle, and, like cutting a cake, he drew two lines.
“Now it’s cut into four pieces. If you eat off one piece, what do you call it?”
I thought very, very hard and stared very, very long at the circle on that paper. Prof. Snape must’ve waited a long time for he finally said, “It’s called ‘a quarter’.”
Then he asked me to eat off two-quarter, three-quarter…again, of course, this is all pretend.
I spent that whole afternoon pretending to eat biscuits.
When the bell rang, Prof. Snape said, “Very well, we shall continue tomorrow.”
So I went back to class.
Once I got home, I followed exactly how Prof. Snape drew his circles. Somehow it made me feel smart. I went over to the fridge and took out an orange and cut them into pieces. Then I ate off a piece, but I forgot what it was called. I ate the second piece, the third piece…and in the end I’ve ate up everything.
When Ginny asked me what I was doing, I said, “I’m practicing Math. Go away. Don’t bother me.”
Why is it that we have to pretend eating biscuits in Math class? I just don’t get it.
The Math teacher Prof. Snape, my class teacher Prof. McGonagall and I were in the office. The office had air-conditioning, and it felt great.
Prof. Snape smoothed his shoulder-length hair, opened my Math exercise book and said to Prof. McGonagall, “I cannot stand this kind of student.”
Prof. McGonagall said quietly, “I know you’re a Mathematics Master. I can’t really do anything. He’s born slow; you can’t blame him for that.”
Prof. Snape looked at me and asked me in his cold tone, “Have you heard and understood anything that I have been teaching, Weasley?”
I shook my head and said, “I heard, but I don’t understand.”
Of all the classes, I understood Math class the least, ‘coz I couldn’t find a single word I could write in my book. There were loads of numbers, but they were all jumping here and there and never followed in line like 1, 2 and 3.
Math class definitely is the most boring.
Prof. Snape pushed his hair back and said, “I refuse to believe that I cannot teach him. The great educator Watson once said, ‘I can teach any child’. I believe I can.”
So he told me to come to his office every recess to give me a little tuition. Harry Scarface patted my shoulder and said, “Work hard, Ron.”
I took my textbook, my exercise book and my pencil case and walked all the way to the office. Prof. Snape just finished eating his lunch. He cleaned his mouth and told me to recite the timetable.
I’ve forgotten all of them.
Prof. Snape gave me a small board and told me to memorize it everyday. He thought for a while and said, “Actually, you can use a calculator. Can you use one, Weasley?”
I shook my head.
“I shall teach you next time.”
Then he opened the textbook, wrote some numbers on a paper and said to me, “For now, I’ll teach you about division.”
He drew a huge circle, then drew a few lines on the circle and told me, “Imagine that this circle is a huge biscuit, or an orange, and cut them into eight pieces. Try counting them.”
I counted the pieces and he was right; there are eight pieces. Prof. Snape is really smart.
“If you eat off a piece, it’s called ‘an eighth’. One out of eight. Get it? Repeat after me, an eighth.”
So I said, “An eighth.”
Later, Prof. Snape told me to eat off two-eighth, three-eighth…of course, this is all pretend.
“This is called division, understand?”
I quickly nodded.
Prof. Snape then drew another circle, and, like cutting a cake, he drew two lines.
“Now it’s cut into four pieces. If you eat off one piece, what do you call it?”
I thought very, very hard and stared very, very long at the circle on that paper. Prof. Snape must’ve waited a long time for he finally said, “It’s called ‘a quarter’.”
Then he asked me to eat off two-quarter, three-quarter…again, of course, this is all pretend.
I spent that whole afternoon pretending to eat biscuits.
When the bell rang, Prof. Snape said, “Very well, we shall continue tomorrow.”
So I went back to class.
Once I got home, I followed exactly how Prof. Snape drew his circles. Somehow it made me feel smart. I went over to the fridge and took out an orange and cut them into pieces. Then I ate off a piece, but I forgot what it was called. I ate the second piece, the third piece…and in the end I’ve ate up everything.
When Ginny asked me what I was doing, I said, “I’m practicing Math. Go away. Don’t bother me.”
Why is it that we have to pretend eating biscuits in Math class? I just don’t get it.
Wednesday, March 8, 2006
Ronald Weasley's Diary-Chp 7
CHAPTER SEVEN: A USELESS PAPER
Whenever there’s a class meeting, it would definitely be noisy.
Hermione had her hands on her waist, stood in front of the class and asked, “Then how else do you want it then?”
Prof. McGonagall was at her desk marking our books and paid no attention to us. During class meetings, she never bothered and asked us to solve our own problems. So we often argue. In the end, Prof. McGonagall would say, “One more argument and it’s curtains for this meeting.” And Hermione would follow up and say, “Alright, just do what I say.”
And that was the end of it.
Harry Scarface would say, “This is such a joke. What an insufferable know-it-all.”
I don’t know what joke Hermione said—there’s nothing funny about it—but I listen to every word she says, and whenever we needed to vote for something, I would always raise my hand.
Just like today, she was asking, “Those who vote for Ronald Weasley to be the Student of the Month raise your hand.”
I quickly raised my hand.
Draco exclaimed, “Thick-faced weasel! You dare vote for yourself?”
Hermione exclaimed even louder, “And why not? Ronald Weasley had been carrying water for us, sweeping the floor, taking out the garbage and picking up after us for the entire month now. If he doesn’t deserve this award, who does?”
She was actually talking about me.
Hermione continued, “The student council had laid down the line that every class must have a candidate to receive the award next Monday’s assembly. We have to decide on one today.”
When no one else said anything, Hermione said, “Alright, just do what I say,” and it was done.
“But that weasel is a retard. Can he even go up the stage to receive the award?” Draco asked the whole class, “If he were to pee on stage, do we need the Headmaster to help change his nappies?”
The whole class was laughing.
I was a little angry. He may meant it to be funny but in truth, I don’t wear nappies anymore.
Harry Scarface banged the table loudly, “Objection! Objection! Verbal assault on fellow classmate! Guilty!”
Hermione went up to Draco and pointed at him, saying, “Alright, if you think you’re so smart, you go ahead and take Ronald Weasley’s place on stage for the award.”
Draco immediately shook his head and shouted, “No way! Why should I go help the weasel get his lousy award?”
They began to argue loudly. Prof. McGonagall looked up and scolded, “What’s all the fuss about here?”
Hermione immediately reported, “We picked Ronald Weasley to be the Student of the Month and asked for Draco to represent for the award.”
Prof. McGonagall thought for a while and said, “Why don’t you let Ronald have a try?”
They then told me to go up front, pretend to receive a piece of drawing paper from Hermione and bow. I wanted to laugh out loud, but I can’t. I held out my hand real straight, took the paper and put it under my left arm like Hermione taught me before bowing down to her like a chicken.
“Just like that, Ronald. It’s a no-brainer,” Hermione said.
That Monday assembly, Hermione took me in front of the stage, lining up with everyone else. She told me, “Later when the council president calls your name, go up there and do what I’ve taught you to do, OK?”
During the hoisting of the flag I was sweating like mad. But I’ve waited like forever, yet still the president didn’t call my name. I keep hearing him say, “First Year-Slytherdor, First Year-Slytherdor. No one? Has he or she called in sick or something? Let the class monitor represent him or her then.”
Then I saw Hermione running up the stage to take the award. I smiled at her.
Maybe they’ve changed the vote, but it’s OK.
Back in class, Hermione gave me the piece of paper she took from the Headmaster and said, “You should’ve gone up when they called for First Year-Slytherdor. Oh, never mind. Here’s your award.”
That piece of paper had a lot of words on it. I didn’t like it. Drawing paper is much better. At least I can draw stuff on both sides of it.
Whenever there’s a class meeting, it would definitely be noisy.
Hermione had her hands on her waist, stood in front of the class and asked, “Then how else do you want it then?”
Prof. McGonagall was at her desk marking our books and paid no attention to us. During class meetings, she never bothered and asked us to solve our own problems. So we often argue. In the end, Prof. McGonagall would say, “One more argument and it’s curtains for this meeting.” And Hermione would follow up and say, “Alright, just do what I say.”
And that was the end of it.
Harry Scarface would say, “This is such a joke. What an insufferable know-it-all.”
I don’t know what joke Hermione said—there’s nothing funny about it—but I listen to every word she says, and whenever we needed to vote for something, I would always raise my hand.
Just like today, she was asking, “Those who vote for Ronald Weasley to be the Student of the Month raise your hand.”
I quickly raised my hand.
Draco exclaimed, “Thick-faced weasel! You dare vote for yourself?”
Hermione exclaimed even louder, “And why not? Ronald Weasley had been carrying water for us, sweeping the floor, taking out the garbage and picking up after us for the entire month now. If he doesn’t deserve this award, who does?”
She was actually talking about me.
Hermione continued, “The student council had laid down the line that every class must have a candidate to receive the award next Monday’s assembly. We have to decide on one today.”
When no one else said anything, Hermione said, “Alright, just do what I say,” and it was done.
“But that weasel is a retard. Can he even go up the stage to receive the award?” Draco asked the whole class, “If he were to pee on stage, do we need the Headmaster to help change his nappies?”
The whole class was laughing.
I was a little angry. He may meant it to be funny but in truth, I don’t wear nappies anymore.
Harry Scarface banged the table loudly, “Objection! Objection! Verbal assault on fellow classmate! Guilty!”
Hermione went up to Draco and pointed at him, saying, “Alright, if you think you’re so smart, you go ahead and take Ronald Weasley’s place on stage for the award.”
Draco immediately shook his head and shouted, “No way! Why should I go help the weasel get his lousy award?”
They began to argue loudly. Prof. McGonagall looked up and scolded, “What’s all the fuss about here?”
Hermione immediately reported, “We picked Ronald Weasley to be the Student of the Month and asked for Draco to represent for the award.”
Prof. McGonagall thought for a while and said, “Why don’t you let Ronald have a try?”
They then told me to go up front, pretend to receive a piece of drawing paper from Hermione and bow. I wanted to laugh out loud, but I can’t. I held out my hand real straight, took the paper and put it under my left arm like Hermione taught me before bowing down to her like a chicken.
“Just like that, Ronald. It’s a no-brainer,” Hermione said.
That Monday assembly, Hermione took me in front of the stage, lining up with everyone else. She told me, “Later when the council president calls your name, go up there and do what I’ve taught you to do, OK?”
During the hoisting of the flag I was sweating like mad. But I’ve waited like forever, yet still the president didn’t call my name. I keep hearing him say, “First Year-Slytherdor, First Year-Slytherdor. No one? Has he or she called in sick or something? Let the class monitor represent him or her then.”
Then I saw Hermione running up the stage to take the award. I smiled at her.
Maybe they’ve changed the vote, but it’s OK.
Back in class, Hermione gave me the piece of paper she took from the Headmaster and said, “You should’ve gone up when they called for First Year-Slytherdor. Oh, never mind. Here’s your award.”
That piece of paper had a lot of words on it. I didn’t like it. Drawing paper is much better. At least I can draw stuff on both sides of it.
Ronald Weasley's Diary-Chp 6
CHAPTER SIX: FOR HARRY SCARFACE
Why and how did Harry Scarface have his scar, I don’t really know how to say. He told me before that it was some terrible car accident that caused it, and it was also the cause of his parents’ death. I remember him telling me that he now lives with his two godfathers, whatever that means, and also him saying, “We both are bad-lucked people; you got bad luck by birth and I got bad luck by fate.”
I’m glad that we’re both bad-lucked. I think of Harry Scarface as a brother. He treats me very well and would always buy me soft drinks. If anyone calls me a ‘retard’, he would glare at him or her angrily.
But he was very, very afraid of P.E. class. If I had one lung smaller than the other, I’d be afraid. That was also another place he got hurt from his car accident. When you run with one lung smaller than the other, it slows you down, and the pain inside would make your face look weird.
The weird thing is whenever the P.E. teacher Prof. Hooch said, “You don’t have to run. Go rest under the tree,” Harry Scarface would be very angry and he was say in a very, very low voice, “I can run.”
So during every P.E. class, I accompanied Harry Scarface. Usually I can run very fast, and it’s rather hard for me to run slow. So I grit my teeth, slow down my breathing and jumped with every step. That should slow me down a little.
Harry Scarface laughed at me and said, “You run like someone trying to walk on pins and needles!”
I replied, “You run like there’s a scar on your face!”
“No duh! I am a scarface!”
During dodge ball, I would stand beside Harry Scarface. Whenever there’s a ball thrown to us, I would block it for him. But so far, for the whole period, no one threw any ball at us, so we end up chitchatting instead.
One day, Prof. Hooch said there was going to be a test. She blew the whistle and told us, “Everyone has to run around the field once and I shall time you.”
So everyone went running according to his or her names. She told Harry Scarface and I to run last so that there won’t be any waste of time. I think Prof. Hooch is very nice.
When it was our turn, Draco kept complaining, “Come on, professor, let us go back to class. Are we gonna just wait until they finish running by the next millennium?”
Prof. Hooch glared fiercely at him and said, “There is always something for you to complain about, isn’t it?”
Harry Scarface stood at the starting line and said to me softly, “Ron, this is a class with marks. Don’t accompany me, just run,” he then thought for a while and continued, “You don’t have much marks on your other subjects, so you can’t afford to fail P.E. class.”
I nodded.
As Prof. Hooch blew the whistle, Harry Scarface and I started running. He was running as hard as he could and his face was wrinkled up real tight. It looked rather funny. But I didn’t laugh; because I know he was trying his very best.
But I did hear the other classmates laughing at him. I looked at him and saw his mouth closed up real tight and sweat falling from his forehead into his eyelashes. If they didn’t know what I saw, they might think he was crying.
“Run, Ronald Retard!” Harry Scarface yelled at me. “Don’t wait for me, run!”
So I did.
I ran past the first year classes, past the assembly stage, then past Prof. Hooch. Almost a moment later, I ran past Harry Scarface. His face still looked wrinkled up.
I heard Prof. Hooch calling me from behind, “Hey! One round is enough! Come back! That’s enough!”
I still ran past the first year classes, past the assembly stage, then towards Prof. Hooch.
“You retard! Didn’t I just say round the field once? What was the second round for?” Prof. Hooch scolded me real bad.
I was gasping for breath as I answered her, “That second round was for Harry Scarface, ma’am.”
Harry Scarface was still running towards the flagpoles.
Prof. Hooch suddenly laughed and shook her head, “You’re such…”
She didn’t call me a ‘retard’.
Why and how did Harry Scarface have his scar, I don’t really know how to say. He told me before that it was some terrible car accident that caused it, and it was also the cause of his parents’ death. I remember him telling me that he now lives with his two godfathers, whatever that means, and also him saying, “We both are bad-lucked people; you got bad luck by birth and I got bad luck by fate.”
I’m glad that we’re both bad-lucked. I think of Harry Scarface as a brother. He treats me very well and would always buy me soft drinks. If anyone calls me a ‘retard’, he would glare at him or her angrily.
But he was very, very afraid of P.E. class. If I had one lung smaller than the other, I’d be afraid. That was also another place he got hurt from his car accident. When you run with one lung smaller than the other, it slows you down, and the pain inside would make your face look weird.
The weird thing is whenever the P.E. teacher Prof. Hooch said, “You don’t have to run. Go rest under the tree,” Harry Scarface would be very angry and he was say in a very, very low voice, “I can run.”
So during every P.E. class, I accompanied Harry Scarface. Usually I can run very fast, and it’s rather hard for me to run slow. So I grit my teeth, slow down my breathing and jumped with every step. That should slow me down a little.
Harry Scarface laughed at me and said, “You run like someone trying to walk on pins and needles!”
I replied, “You run like there’s a scar on your face!”
“No duh! I am a scarface!”
During dodge ball, I would stand beside Harry Scarface. Whenever there’s a ball thrown to us, I would block it for him. But so far, for the whole period, no one threw any ball at us, so we end up chitchatting instead.
One day, Prof. Hooch said there was going to be a test. She blew the whistle and told us, “Everyone has to run around the field once and I shall time you.”
So everyone went running according to his or her names. She told Harry Scarface and I to run last so that there won’t be any waste of time. I think Prof. Hooch is very nice.
When it was our turn, Draco kept complaining, “Come on, professor, let us go back to class. Are we gonna just wait until they finish running by the next millennium?”
Prof. Hooch glared fiercely at him and said, “There is always something for you to complain about, isn’t it?”
Harry Scarface stood at the starting line and said to me softly, “Ron, this is a class with marks. Don’t accompany me, just run,” he then thought for a while and continued, “You don’t have much marks on your other subjects, so you can’t afford to fail P.E. class.”
I nodded.
As Prof. Hooch blew the whistle, Harry Scarface and I started running. He was running as hard as he could and his face was wrinkled up real tight. It looked rather funny. But I didn’t laugh; because I know he was trying his very best.
But I did hear the other classmates laughing at him. I looked at him and saw his mouth closed up real tight and sweat falling from his forehead into his eyelashes. If they didn’t know what I saw, they might think he was crying.
“Run, Ronald Retard!” Harry Scarface yelled at me. “Don’t wait for me, run!”
So I did.
I ran past the first year classes, past the assembly stage, then past Prof. Hooch. Almost a moment later, I ran past Harry Scarface. His face still looked wrinkled up.
I heard Prof. Hooch calling me from behind, “Hey! One round is enough! Come back! That’s enough!”
I still ran past the first year classes, past the assembly stage, then towards Prof. Hooch.
“You retard! Didn’t I just say round the field once? What was the second round for?” Prof. Hooch scolded me real bad.
I was gasping for breath as I answered her, “That second round was for Harry Scarface, ma’am.”
Harry Scarface was still running towards the flagpoles.
Prof. Hooch suddenly laughed and shook her head, “You’re such…”
She didn’t call me a ‘retard’.
Tuesday, March 7, 2006
Ronald Weasley's Diary-Chp 5
CHAPTER FIVE: I MADE A FLOWER
“Come on, professor! We’re not babies anymore! This is high school!” Draco was complaining loudly again at our Arts teacher.
Today our Arts teacher, Prof. Trelawney gave us a red wrinkly paper and told us that we’re going to make a carnation as a present for our mothers on Mothers’ Day.
Prof. Trelawney glared at Draco and asked, “Being a high-schooler doesn’t mean you don’t have to honour your mother. Your mother wasted her life raising you!”
Draco didn’t say anything more. He lowered his head and cut hard on the paper with his pair of scissors.
I like Arts class. I took my pair of scissors and cut my piece of paper carefully. The idea is to cut sharp edges around them and tie them all up o make it into a shape of a flower.
But my paper did not become a flower but four pieces of torn paper. Prof. Trelawney walked to my class, took a look and said, “You’ve cut it the wrong way.”
Prof. Trelawney’s nice. She took my paper and helped me cut the way it should, then told me to tie it myself.
I tried to hold the paper stacked above each other like a sandwich and tie them up just like everyone else. They make it look so easy, but my paper felt rather weird. They just won’t stay where they should be.
“Ronald, come here. You hold and I’ll tie them for you,” Hermione came over to me with a piece of metal string in her hand.
My face was feeling quite warm when I held the paper and let her help me tie the metal string round and round my hand. She’s so pretty and so kind; I really wanted to invite her to my house for waffles and ask Mother to pour her three big spoonfuls of maple syrup.
But I didn’t dare say a word. After tying it, she pulled and stretched and arranged a couple more and soon my paper became a nice big flower.
“You must give this flower to your mother, understand?” So saying, she taught me that once I handed the flower to Mother I must say “Happy Mothers’ Day”.
She told me to repeat it a few times, and after making sure that I’ve memorized it, she walked away.
Harry Scarface had finished his flower too. His was way bigger than mine, almost as big as a soup bowl. He didn’t have parents anymore—both of them went to Heaven—but he made it all the same. He said something about wanting to put them at his mother’s resting place. I know what ‘resting place’ means. It’s where people die and sleep under the ground for a very, very long time. That’s where Grandpa and Grandma sleep. Harry Scarface said, “My mother isn’t alive anymore, but I know she suffered a lot for me.”
I know what ‘suffer’ means too. It’s got something to do with crying.
He then said to me, “Your mother must have suffered a lot for you.”
I know she’d ‘suffered’ a lot. She cried a lot when I was younger, but I don’t remember for what though. She was always crying and crying and crying and finally stopped when I went to first grade. I still don’t remember what she was crying for.
After school, I held the flower in my hand and kept on memorizing, “Happy Mothers’ Day.” Draco passed by me and threw his flower into the trashcan.
He turned to look at me and said, “Hurry home and give that stinking flower to your mother, you retard, so that she can feed you some baby milk!”
Maybe he didn’t know that I don’t drink baby milk anymore. Now I eat waffles. Could it be that he had no mother? Why did he throw away the flower?
But I didn’t stop to ask him. If I say anything else I might forget the “Happy Mothers’ Day” that I’ve memorized.
Once I’m home, I saw Mother making waffles and three customers in the shop. I held out my paper flower to her and said, “Happy Mothers’ Day.”
Mother seemed shocked when she took the flower and put it in her apron pocket.
One of the customers said, “What a nice boy you have!”
“Oh, pish-posh! Just as long as he doesn’t aggravate me to death,” Mother replied, but she was smiling when she said that.
The next day I saw Mother’s apron gone all red. It was then I knew the paper’s colour came off and it dyed Mother’s apron into a mess of red. I told that to Mother, but she said, “Don’t worry about it, love.”
She took out the paper flower and stared at it for a while before putting it back into her pocket. And for the next few days, it stayed in her pocket.
Next time I’ll make her another flower.
“Come on, professor! We’re not babies anymore! This is high school!” Draco was complaining loudly again at our Arts teacher.
Today our Arts teacher, Prof. Trelawney gave us a red wrinkly paper and told us that we’re going to make a carnation as a present for our mothers on Mothers’ Day.
Prof. Trelawney glared at Draco and asked, “Being a high-schooler doesn’t mean you don’t have to honour your mother. Your mother wasted her life raising you!”
Draco didn’t say anything more. He lowered his head and cut hard on the paper with his pair of scissors.
I like Arts class. I took my pair of scissors and cut my piece of paper carefully. The idea is to cut sharp edges around them and tie them all up o make it into a shape of a flower.
But my paper did not become a flower but four pieces of torn paper. Prof. Trelawney walked to my class, took a look and said, “You’ve cut it the wrong way.”
Prof. Trelawney’s nice. She took my paper and helped me cut the way it should, then told me to tie it myself.
I tried to hold the paper stacked above each other like a sandwich and tie them up just like everyone else. They make it look so easy, but my paper felt rather weird. They just won’t stay where they should be.
“Ronald, come here. You hold and I’ll tie them for you,” Hermione came over to me with a piece of metal string in her hand.
My face was feeling quite warm when I held the paper and let her help me tie the metal string round and round my hand. She’s so pretty and so kind; I really wanted to invite her to my house for waffles and ask Mother to pour her three big spoonfuls of maple syrup.
But I didn’t dare say a word. After tying it, she pulled and stretched and arranged a couple more and soon my paper became a nice big flower.
“You must give this flower to your mother, understand?” So saying, she taught me that once I handed the flower to Mother I must say “Happy Mothers’ Day”.
She told me to repeat it a few times, and after making sure that I’ve memorized it, she walked away.
Harry Scarface had finished his flower too. His was way bigger than mine, almost as big as a soup bowl. He didn’t have parents anymore—both of them went to Heaven—but he made it all the same. He said something about wanting to put them at his mother’s resting place. I know what ‘resting place’ means. It’s where people die and sleep under the ground for a very, very long time. That’s where Grandpa and Grandma sleep. Harry Scarface said, “My mother isn’t alive anymore, but I know she suffered a lot for me.”
I know what ‘suffer’ means too. It’s got something to do with crying.
He then said to me, “Your mother must have suffered a lot for you.”
I know she’d ‘suffered’ a lot. She cried a lot when I was younger, but I don’t remember for what though. She was always crying and crying and crying and finally stopped when I went to first grade. I still don’t remember what she was crying for.
After school, I held the flower in my hand and kept on memorizing, “Happy Mothers’ Day.” Draco passed by me and threw his flower into the trashcan.
He turned to look at me and said, “Hurry home and give that stinking flower to your mother, you retard, so that she can feed you some baby milk!”
Maybe he didn’t know that I don’t drink baby milk anymore. Now I eat waffles. Could it be that he had no mother? Why did he throw away the flower?
But I didn’t stop to ask him. If I say anything else I might forget the “Happy Mothers’ Day” that I’ve memorized.
Once I’m home, I saw Mother making waffles and three customers in the shop. I held out my paper flower to her and said, “Happy Mothers’ Day.”
Mother seemed shocked when she took the flower and put it in her apron pocket.
One of the customers said, “What a nice boy you have!”
“Oh, pish-posh! Just as long as he doesn’t aggravate me to death,” Mother replied, but she was smiling when she said that.
The next day I saw Mother’s apron gone all red. It was then I knew the paper’s colour came off and it dyed Mother’s apron into a mess of red. I told that to Mother, but she said, “Don’t worry about it, love.”
She took out the paper flower and stared at it for a while before putting it back into her pocket. And for the next few days, it stayed in her pocket.
Next time I’ll make her another flower.
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