The Upper East - Kerry Carroll Talbot, age 15

Have you ever had that feeling of such great hatred and anger that it consumes you?

You know, that blood-boiling rage?

When your face flushes? And your head is reeling to the point where you almost explode with rage, your hate-filled body in parts round the room?

That’s how I feel when I go to school. I would rather be stung on the eyeball by a bee than go to that school one more time.

I would rather jump off the Empire State Building and land in a pit of plug tops and Lego.

Today, I would rather drink bleach.

The student body of Equity High, home of exemplary education, are more sickening to me than that two-fingered man who mugged me on the subway. At least, he only mugged me once.

Equity High, what a laugh! Home of Exemplary Education, how ironic! I doubt if over a dozen of them can accurately recite their ABCs. They’re only at this school because Daddy must have only the best for his precious Carter and darling Poppy. New York’s finest! Of course, he wouldn’t bother spending one-tenth of the time equivalent to the money it costs to make them go away. They don’t seem to mind. So why should I care?

One thing I do care about is how much these students get away with. Interestingly, what you get away with is in direct proportion to the credits carried by your family name.

Let me illustrate. Erika Gilmore was sent home yesterday for dress-code violation. Coincidentally, this happened 10 days after her father was charged with embezzlement. Anthony Pascott was caught red-handed smoking a joint in the courtyard a week after his father was made a congressman. I saw it myself. Our admirable leader, Principal Burlesconi, didn’t even make a call home. What a sham! There are some boys who are a little more relaxed than the girls and there are a few who actually work hard for their grades. Most . . . well, let me give you a sample of hallway conversation over-heard yesterday

“C’mon Zachery, man. What happened next?

Well, my man, let’s just say there was some high grade scotch. And what happens in the back of a limo in Monaco stays in the back of a limo in Monaco.

They all erupt with laughter and cheer. Fist pumps. High fives.

The girls are worse. Vicious. It’s like they have blades for tongues and every time they sneer, every time they open their mouths, these razor sharp weapons slice at your being, searing you.

I remember my first day at Equity. I remember walking up those smooth granite steps. It was a long walk with all those eyes burning holes in your face. There was Olivia Highwell, Queen Bee, plaid skirt, Starbucks frappuccino in hand. She has the pure and innocent look down pat; pale skin, chestnut brown hair in perfect curls, the brightest smile, pearly white teeth, but with eyes as cold as Medusa’s and just as effective.

“So this is Queens,” she said with the smallest smile I have ever seen. She turned on her heels and walked away. My heart fell into my stomach.

She started it. It has never stopped.

“Here comes Queens. Cover your face. They have diseases in Queen’s there’s no cure for.”

Hey Queens! You dress like a homeless. Where did you get those shoes? The thrift?”

That’s how they are. You should hear the way they speak to their maids. Julia Newcomen is a junior – a junior Olivia Highwell. She delayed the start of lesson today by conducting a loud conversation with her maid. Here’s a sample:

“You get me that cocktail dress for the Hope Gala. You get it, or you’ll find yourself back in Russia with nothing to your name, but a failed American experience.”

When I worked last summer at Walmart, I thought I’d seen the heights of humiliation. I didn’t know the half of it.

They are so spoilt. I get up at 6am every morning and eat my breakfast on the subway from Queens. I walk five blocks. They are picked up every morning by sleek black Mercedes and emerge like butterflies at the steps of the school. It’s like the bloody Oscars.

The students in this school look down on everyone and it makes my blood boil.

I have never had anyone disrespect me like they do. Don’t I deserve their respect? Couldn’t they learn something from me?

I am their teacher, after all.