Becky's Kiss by Nicholas Fisher

it.
    “Look at my handwriting,” he said. “I mean, look at it! Am I imagining this, or does it sort of slope down to the right and fall off the cliff?”
    “Sure does, Mr. Marcus, sir,” Hatcher said.
    Marcus spun.
    “If I’d wanted you to chirp, Hatcher, I’d have built you a little house and fed you birdseed.”
    That one made the class chuckle, even more openly when Mr. Marcus forfeited a grin, letting on that he’d played for the laugh all along. Yes. That was going to be his thing. Fearlessness, raw humor, and you’d never quite know when he was joking. K. Got it.
    Mr. Marcus went to his desk and rummaged a bit. No chalk. He put his hands down then, palms flat.
    “Your attention, please. I’m going to go thirty feet down the hall to the office to sign out some chalk. Cody Hatcher will erase the board for me, and you will all sit here in cheerful obedience.” His eyes gained an extra twinkle. “Now, now, kiddies. No pencils chucked into the drop ceiling, no fires in the trash can, no pianos pushed out the window.” He looked at them all meaningfully. Then, abruptly, he left.
    Silence.
    Then came the whistling.
    Whistling with a trill in it. Horror movie whistling.
    It was Cody Hatcher, feet jutted out from under his desk, unbuckled black boots crossed at the ankles, fingers webbed behind his head: the La-Z-Boy pose. Suddenly he stopped whistling and faked waking up violently, “What? Huh? Gosh!” all jerking and flailing and banging his forearm into the big kid sitting next to him, who shoved Hatcher away with a tight grin.
    ‘Sorry,’ he motioned, palms out. ‘Sorry.’ He turned, looking slowly around him, and then he slapped the desk.
    “Well looky-looky what kind of crew we got here now, will ya?” He cleared his throat, his signature move evidently, then made like straightening a bow tie. Suddenly he was up on his feet, and as he made his way behind people across from where Becky was sitting, he purposely kicked into their chair legs, apologizing in the overplayed tone of a country simpleton, “Sorry ma’am, golly gee, pardon, shucks.”
    Becky blinked. A hick joke? Really? A Syracuse insult? Her stomach had tightened into a slick knot a few seconds ago, and now her mouth went coppery. Hatcher poked his head out into the hall and looked up and down. Then he let the door swing slowly shut. When he turned to again take measure of the room, his eyes were smiling so brightly it stung to look at him.
    He started whistling again, to the tune of “It’s Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas,” and his hands were behind his back. He made his way over to the board like he was strolling through the park in one of those old fashioned movies where guys wore crew-neck sweaters and slacks and broke into song for no reason.
    He took the eraser in his hand and stopped whistling. He seemed to weigh it, bobbing it up and down slightly. With his other hand, he stroked his goatee all professor-like, and nodded in casual, professional approval of the instrument. He gave it a soft test-sweep across the board, and muttered, “Hmmm, yes, that’ll do,”and then he was erasing the board in slow motion, relishing every stroke, making sure to get every little line and scribble, using it flat, then at its edge to wipe up every possible trace of powder.
    “Stop staring at me, you weirdos,” he said to the board. Laughter rippled, but not much, a few weeds poking up, that was all. He made sure to dab at the chalk dust gathered in all four corners and even rubbed across some stray marks up at the top of the board that were hardened and permanent. Then he turned slowly, looking around the ‘U.’ He was holding the eraser felt-side up, nodding patiently like everyone’s daddy, making it seem there was going to be a punishment and that it was going to hurt him far more than it was going to hurt them.
    He started walking over to the side of the ‘U’ near the door, lips pursed, shaking his head like he was so