I do recollect the apprehension I felt as I wondered into fourth hour newspaper class. I had heard through our school's seemingly never ending grapevine of students and students prior that he was a funny fellow, and that they had many great memories of his class, predominately from his newspaper students. Another thing that had come to my attention (mostly spoken through a low murmur, as though it was an exceptionally infectious ailment) was that he had a knack for jokes, nearly always at a student's own personal casualty. I was not made aware of the severity and cruelty of the jokes, however. I was to now fend for myself, clinging to the hope that he would not be the barbarous, atrocious man I had made him out to be. I determined my seating arrangement to be just adjacent to Mr. Allen's desk, where there was currently no others sitting. I looked up at the clock, menacingly ticking down the seconds, getting ever so closer to the black mark of three-quarters-after-ten. It was now forty-four minutes after ten. My anxiety increased as the seconds droned by. Promptly, at ten forty-five, the bell rang. Mr. Allen looked up at his new victims through his small, wire rimmed glasses. We went through the generalized greetings and explanations of the class. He seemed kind enough. Still, my angst disapproved of subsiding. At last, we advanced to the selection of our first pages. Mr. Allen, in his typical humor, deemed it necessary to develop a nickname for his new subjects. We went down the list of pages, with him haphazardly picking kids and assigning them their nicknames.
Then came my name.
He contemplates, looking thoughtfully at his computer screen. His hand begins to rub his chin.
Nothing he thinks seems the entice him.
Then it comes.
He begins to type.
Just three letters. B-r-a.
Bra. My new nickname was Bra. Great, just fantastic. Unfortunately, it stuck. I eventually conjured up his own nickname; Mallen.
But to this day, I still despise that nickname. But hey, that class was great.
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