Kat Gets Sent to the Principal's Office
This is not the shirt that Kat wore.
I broke the dress code for the first time today. Well, this was the first time they made me actually change my clothes, I mean. I didn't think my shirt would be bad. It was long sleeved, didn't show any skin when I raised my arms over my head, and had no recognizable pattern except for a small flower over the shoulder. I really like this shirt. I decided to wear it, thinking that finally I had an item of clothing that I liked and could actually wear to school.
So I make it through first period fine. I was actually more worried about my pants, seeing as how they were a bit frayed on the bottom, but never gave a serious thought to my shirt. However, when the bell rang and I raced to second period, I had no idea that the fun was about to begin. Second period is English. Second period is Hell. I sit behind the guy most likely to blow up the school (as he incessantly reminds us) and next to the biggest pothead at school (as he incessantly forgets to remind us).
So I'm sitting there and I raise my hand to ask a question about the grammar problems she gave us (a question which, by the way, I never got a chance to finish), and she walks over, eyebrow raised. My English teacher does the eyebrow raise better than anyone I know. She should have her own plaque. She comes over and looks at me and says, "Katherine, I think you may need to go to the office for your shirt. It's against school dress code." I'm thinking, "What? What's wrong with it?" But as my own little act of rebellion, I pick up a pass and go down there.
The office ladies are nice (they give free candy to those children who come in looking like lost puppies!) but old. Mrs. Thurman sends me to Mrs. Degenhart who sends me to someone I don't know who looks like my grandmother who then sends me to the bathroom to change my shirt.
Anyone who's heard my griping knows that I'm not exactly the tallest person in the world. In fact, I could still shop in the little kids section of stores if I chose to. So the largest size I can possibly fit into without tripping over the hem is a medium and the only shirts they have are Large and XX Large. She (the grandmother lady) insists that it looks fine and if I have any problems with this huge white potato sack of a shirt hanging off me, I should use a rubber band and tie a corner up. And (silly me) I do. So now I look like Kimmy Gibbler from Full House, walking around with this huge white shirt that's kinda tucked and sticking out at one end, with a rearing purple horse on it. That's right, a rearing purple horse. Framing the horse are the words "Pride... the Mustang Way", which make me want to puke and curl up into a ball at the same time.
And the rest of the day I walked around with a huge shirt because my good shirt had a flower on it that was recognizable, so could be called a pattern. Maybe I should break out a dictionary and define "pattern", but I just don't want to right now. I forgot to get my shirt back and these Mustang shirts are just so darn comfortable.