Struck by Lightning: The Carson Phillips Journal Read Online Free Page A

plague, graduation swept through Clover High and I found myself the only one left in the class the following year. Even the journalism teacher, who used to take the most devoted naps during class, just stopped showing up one day. The school couldn’t afford substitutes, so I was forced to take charge wholly. (Come to think of it, I’m not sure if this is even legal, but whatever.)
    I tried recruiting new members but no one wanted to join. I even went to the special ed class but they just pointed and laughed at me. Teenagers don’t wantto write unless it’s 140 characters or less these days.
    The school ended up sticking people in the class who didn’t have enough credits to graduate (which I’m half thankful for, half convinced they did out of spite). So the former Clover High hotshots have been replaced with the cast of Freedom Writers .
    The Clover High Chronicle is made up of myself, assistant editor Malerie Baggs, movie reviewer Dwayne Michaels, weather reporter Vicki Jordan, and El Salvadoran foreign exchange student Emilio López.
    We’ll get to them in a second.
    “Last week’s edition of the Clover High Chronicle was yet another disappointment,” I said at the start of class. “We did have new material for every section, but once again, it was all written by me. This has to stop.”
    I eyed them all with intense disapproval. Vicki yawned.
    “This is the Clover High Chronicle , not the Carson Phillips Chronicle ,” I reminded them. “Hopefully, this week will be different.” And with a clap I directed the room’s attention to Dwayne. “Dwayne, do you have your review of Manslaughter III ready?”

    Dwayne may be the most useless human being I’ve ever encountered. He usually wears beanies, even when it isn’t cold, and probably just pisses liquid weed at this point.
    “Yes!” he said.
    “Yes?” I said, trying to hide my surprise.
    “Oh wait … no .”
    “No?”
    “I went but I passed out,” he said. “You didn’t tell me it was in 3-D.”
    “It wasn’t,” I said.
    “ Whoooa ,” he said quietly to himself.
    I could barely stomach the situation. One day I swear an ulcer is gonna rip out of me like Alien and I’m going to name him Peer Incompetence.
    “Vicki, do you have your weather report ready?” I asked.
    She looked at me, clueless—correction, she took an iPod earbud out of her ear and then looked at me, clueless.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Your weather report?” I repeated.
    She half-consciously gazed out the window for asecond. “It’s cloudy,” she said, and put the earbud back into her ear.
    “Great,” I said. “Thank you, Vicki.” At least it was progress.
    Vicki Jordan is one of those “goth” students. Sometime during the eighth grade she ditched everything she owned that made her look alive and became the walking undead. She dyed her hair, smeared on some black lipstick, and discovered SPF 110.
    Personally, I don’t buy “rebellious phases.” I think they’re just dramatic ways of saying, “I have no real problems, so I’m going to dress differently and hurt myself so people think I’m more complex than I really am.” I’m sorry; you can kiss my ass with your “inner turmoil.”
    You want to be “left alone”? You don’t want to be “understood”? Then stop dressing up every day like it’s Halloween, you whiny little bitch. Get over yourself, get some Zoloft, and stop being a fucking eyesore to everyone around you.
    Apparently I feel strongly about that topic. Anyway, moving on…
    “Emilio, do you have a section you’d like to tacklethis week?” I asked. I might as well have been talking to a picket fence.
    “I love America,” he said in his thick El Salvadoran accent. I think that’s the only English sentence they taught him before he was sent to the States. At least Emilio has a real excuse for disregarding me.
    Language barrier or not, that guy gets around. I’ve lost count of how many American girls I’ve caught that El Salvadoran