Searching for Love, Found Wealth

On getting home, my new home-school teacher had arrived. She was beautiful – Her name was Mrs. Basset and she seemed nice to me. Well, I shrugged “got to get used to being homeschooled”.

Also, the fact people aren’t nice to you doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be nice to them. She was to teach arts. I had questions in that topic.

I still wondered why some whites didn’t like blacks. Was it due to skin color or there was a misunderstanding some time?

Well, that would be all in America’s history. And since I’m into arts, I’ll come by it one day.

Speaking of being art inclined, I wasn’t really sure what my attraction was I had the same problems most teenagers had – choosing career courses.

To me, I wasn’t good in Math to go for accounting. Wasn’t eloquent enough to be a journalist. And I couldn’t think fast to be a lawyer. All I did was study arts because it seemed easier than science.

But if I should be really art inclined, then I’ll go for law. I lack confidence but I’m willing to try. The past times when bullies broke our window glasses and terrified my mom and I made me feel weak.Nôvel(D)rama.Org's content.

My mother feared taking it to court maybe because she thought she thought she would lose.

I must stick to my mission of stopping bullying. I still had a long way to go.

Many kids suffer bullying on daily basis and, if I can, I should at least attempt to be part of it’s eradication team.

“Mrs. Bassey, Why are some folks mean to single parents and their kids?” I asked my home-school teacher.

She didn’t expect such a direct question, she looked stunned, “Well dear, people are mean, doesn’t matter single parent or not” I understood her.

She continues “And, I hope you know the difference between acts of correction” and “acts of hate”.

A person could try correcting a single mom or dad, say something about them not guiding their child right, and the single parent term it ‘hate’.

It could be “act of correction” and not “act of hate. Try to know the difference, dear”.

While Mrs. Bassey searched for a lesson in her notes, I pondered on her last words. It is possible “acts of correction” could be seen as “acts of hate”.

Like my case with the VIP lady, she was just reprimanding me for moving around without a pass. Though she was a little harsh but she was doing her job.

Also, my former African-American female biology teacher, maybe she wasn’t good enough so she was changed. Not because she was a single mom.

Indeed some “acts of correction” has been misunderstood for “acts of hate”.

But I still had many outstanding “acts of hate” that were actually acts of racism. I should just learn to differentiate the two.

My class with Mrs. Bassey was like a breeze going smoothly and fine. She was nice and I liked her. I may have better grades this time. It is said that if you like a teacher, you automatically like the subject.

And since Mrs. Bassey will be taking most of my major subjects now, I had a good feeling I’d pass my grades better this time.

I was still working on some school work when Charles came visiting me.

“Need some help?” he stood behind me. I shook my head. He sat beside me and checked my sums. Since he was done with school, he had to be good at it.

This math sounded easy while Mrs. Bassey taught, I would like to check for myself if it was as easy ass I understood.

“Would you support my Facebook page? Clara would kill me if I hadn’t opened one” Charles sounded tired. These days he was always tired. Clara? Oh, she was that fair model girl, with an enviable aura.

I began wondering if modelling wasn’t just about having a perfect size, looks and taking random pictures.

It seemed like it was more tiresome than mom’s job. “How would I support your page?” I asked, my eyes glued to my book. He didn’t answer me but took my phone.

I wondered what he was doing. Maybe checking my messages. Well, I hardly get any messages. And my call logs were mostly just mom. Why would her check my messages though? Was he being the “protective best friend?”

“You don’t have a Facebook account?” Charles waved my phone at me. He was on the Facebook app. I hardly opened the app. Charles made it sound like it was weird for me not to have a Facebook account.

I didn’t fancy the app much. I preferred watching the television to staring at a phone screen waiting for a message or notification.

My phone had one sole function – to receive and make calls. Nothing more. Except playing candy crush at my most boring days.

“You could make an account. Use it how you like” I responded non-chalantly. Having an account would require you to fill some data, update regularly and the most difficult: ALWAYS REMEMBER YOUR PASSWORD.

Password stuffs don’t go well with me. The only thing I really remembered well was my mom’s phone number and her birthday date. If not people call me by my name, I could have forgotten that too.

Also each year, at school, I follow my old classmates to the new class, whatever class they are in, I presume I am too. My life was that messed up. It was more chronic on my bad days.

I forget my birthdays.

Speaking of birthdays – “Charles, what do you need my date of birth? What does Facebook want it for?” I know I sounded like a child but he really shouldn’t be asking me. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if it’s a 15th or 5th October.

“Just answer me. I forgot if it’s a 5th or 15th”. Charles still sounded tired. I grabbed my phone and checked my Google calendar, that app had saved my life so many times.