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As I trudged up the steps of the Abbott bus, I began to realize the leisure the day ahead would bring. I would not have to deal with the normal routine of book work, hustle and bustle of crowded halls, and confinement of a classroom. I ascended up the last step and shuffled down the aisle towards the back of the bus where I sat down next to my friends. Soon the principal was on the bus's microphone announcing we would be on our way to Monticello shortly.
I sunk back into my seat and situated myself into a comfortable position for the long ride ahead. I began to notice a rough feeling within my throat, but shrugged it off as a side effect of my excitement. Little did I know a simple class field trip was about to turn into a chaotic, twenty four hour ordeal.
The ringing of the school bell startled me as I hurriedly sat down in my seat in the front of the room.
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Another morning had just begun at Back Creek Elementary school. My fourth grade homeroom teacher, Mrs. Barnes, quickly took attendance and informed the class that we would start our day by receiving an announcement from one of our other teachers. Without taking our books, we filed into the neighboring classroom to join the rest of our grade. Standing at the front of the room was our history teacher Mrs. Casazza. Once all of the students had taken a seat she hushed us and began by asking a question; "Who has heard of Thomas Jefferson.” After thirty seconds of no one having a clue, she went on by saying we would be taking a field trip to his home in Charlottesville known as Monticello.
Following this statement she handed everyone a field trip form containing a permission slip, a list of what to bring, and a departure date.
We would be leaving in one week at approximately five in the morning and be arriving home at roughly nine in the evening. If we were to attend, the form needed to be signed and returned to her, two days prior to our trip. Along with the permission slip we must pay a fifty dollar fee to account for the bus rental and admission ticket into Jefferson's home. When asked if there were any questions, I replied by saying, “Do we get a refund if we are sick on the day of the trip?” I was awarded a sharp "no". With no more questions asked, we headed back to our rooms to finish out the day.
I am awoken by the buzzing of my alarm clock and excitedly jump out of bed thinking, “Its field trip day!” I dash into my room where I throw on a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. In the kitchen is my mother waiting with my breakfast and bagged lunch. I grab both and hurry down to the bottom of my driveway where my friend's mom is waiting to transport her son and me to school. As we pull into the parking lot I spot fellow classmates already boarding the bus. I quickly get on and head towards the very back where my buddy Zach has already claimed us seats. I sit down next to him and in no time we are down the road, almost out of Roanoke. It is not until we are half way through our journey when I begin to really notice the tenderness of my throat.
Each swallow is followed by a roughness similar to sandpaper. By the time we are within 30 miles of our destination I feel like my throat has been rubbed raw. Not only that, but between the constant rocking and jolting of the back of the bus and the smell of the bus's bathroom, I am soon taken ahold of by nausea. Before I know it I am at the front of the bus, seated beside the principal with a blue barf bag practically glued to my face. Finally the bus pulls into the gravel driveway leading to the Monticello visitor's center. As we begin to unload the bus, rain droplets steadily begin to fall until you could categorize the storm as a torrential downpour. Everyone hurries to find shelter, until under one awning there are seventy students and teachers staring at a boy dry heaving into a plastic bag.
That boy is me. Back in Roanoke at Lewis Gale my mom receives a phone call saying, “Mrs. Altice, you need to pick your son up, he is sick.” Without thinking much about the situation she sighs realizing she must find coverage for her patients and complete her paper work. Eventually the thought enters her mind that I am not just down the road at Back Creek, but am three counties north in Charlottesville. Quickly she calls back Miss Poff, my principal, to clarify it will be at least three hours before she can pick me up, is there anything else they can do. Miss Poff responds by saying I need to be removed from the vicinity of the other children as soon as possible. The only solution my mom can produce is my family who are thirty minutes away in Staunton could meet Miss Poff halfway. Miss Poff agrees it could work and waits on hold as my mom contacts my family to see if the plan suits them.
As I sit under the awning watching the rain finally slow, I notice Miss Poff slowly approaching me. She takes a seat beside me and explains that it would be at least three hours before my mom can get here and everyone in Staunton is at work, so she will be driving me herself to my Grandparents house. There I will wait for the arrival of my mother once she gets off work. Relived that I am getting out from under the hot and sweaty awning that seems to only intensify my nausea, the two of us head to her black suburban. To me, that car is my ticket out of what feels like torture. As I buckle my seatbelt and we slowly make our way towards the interstate, I realize how much I would love to fall asleep, but since it being an age before GPS, I must be the one to navigate.
The next thirty five miles feel like an eternity as we slowly make our way to good ole Staunton, Virginia. Finally I find us rounding the curve that leads into my Grandparents driveway. There I see my grandma making her way towards our car, where she blesses Miss Poff for driving all this way. The last thing I remember from this moment is my grandma leading me to the spare bedroom where I lay down and immediately crash. Before I know it, I am awoken by my mom taking a seat at the foot of the bed which I am lying in. I can tell by the expression on her face she knows I have taken on something greater than the common cold.
After taking a hot shower, we head down to the local physician where I am thoroughly checked out. The doctor instantly informs me without even taking a swab, I have strep throat. I am then written an illegible prescription for my antibiotic and sent on my way. As I settle into the passenger seat of my mom's car, it begins to dawn on me the irony of what has just happened. Me being the one who asked if we get a refund if sick, has been the one to actually fill that description. "Oh well." I think as we head to CVS to pick up my prescription. One can never be quite sure when such simple events can turn into a chaotic experience.
A Simple Class Field Trip Turned Chaotic. (2021, Dec 23). Retrieved from https://studymoose.com/a-simple-class-field-trip-turned-chaotic-essay
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