by Lexi Kupor
Juniors who find themselves in Kristen Austin’s classroom will testify that their year’s worth of education consists of much more than just the English language. Rhetorical devices, synthesis essays, and even The Great Gatsby quiver in comparison to the true knowledge gained throughout those two short semesters: the ghost stories of LGHS. Seriously, that woman deserves to be hired by Buzzfeed Unsolved. If you’ve been lucky enough to be graced by Ms. Austin’s bone-chilling tales, you’ve probably heard of me. I am the ghost of Los Gatos High School.
Many who know of my presence believe that I stay tethered to Mr. Bowman’s second floor classroom: Room 11. Those people are wrong. Ever wonder why no one ever figured out who the boys’ bathroom poop phantom was? That’s because it was me, a literal phantom, all along. When I saw the opportunity to stir up drama by means of human feces, I just couldn’t resist the temptation. The look of simultaneous disgust and euphoria on those boys’ faces when they walk into my crime scene is worth every revolting minute.
However, that’s not the only crap I mess with. I know you’re all fed up with the fact that we suffer through the fire alarms going off at least once a week, but this is one of the few times that it’s not justified to blame every small inconvenience on the Juuler population. It’s not my fault that the smoke detectors also detect my airy presence any time I float by. I hate to break it to you, but that ‘fog’ you encounter upon entering the second floor Math-Language building bathroom isn’t Juul smoke; that’s my literal body that you just walked through.
I’ll also take credit for the strange odor and atmosphere of the cafeteria. I’m truly sorry for the out-of-place humidity you encounter whenever you venture to collect your textbooks or buy food. I know my presence causes annoyance and destruction, but at the end of the day, does that really make me any different than all of you? And in all honesty, what even is the purpose of that place? It’s like a weird, moist, underground lair that gets used twice a year for things that could literally be done anywhere else on campus.
Now, I’d like to dispel some rumors about myself. No, you’re not failing your English class because of the ‘curse of room 11.’ Suck it up and study for your vocab quiz, you lazy procrastinator. No, I wasn’t a former student that died in a mysterious fire in the early twentieth century. I’m just the embodiment of the old attendance secretary that was so old I literally died on the job. Legend has it that you’ll still get a dress code violation if you ever walk into the attendance office at 11:47am, the time of my death. Watch out, Los Gatos.