A Troublesome Boy by Paul Vasey Page B

been thinking about a lot of bad stuff.”
    â€œYour parents?”
    â€œThem. And other stuff.”
    â€œWhat kind of stuff?”
    â€œStuff,” he said.
    â€œWordsworth help?”
    â€œWordsworth always helps.”
    He smiled again. Fiddled with his cigarette.
    â€œWhere’d you get that book?”
    â€œTeacher gave it to me. Ed Stevens. Back in grade seven. He was our homeroom teacher. He was really neat. He’d come into class in the morning reciting poetry. You could hear him coming down the hall. Some of the kids made fun of him at first. But after a while, everyone just shut up and listened for him. By the time he walked into the class, the only sound was the sound of his voice. He had a great voice.” Cooper dropped his voice down. “Like this.” He laughed. “He was amazing. He knew all kinds of stuff off by heart. It made you want to read it, just listening to him. Wordsworth was one of his favorites.
    Be now forever taken from my sight,
    Though nothing can bring back the hour
    Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
    We will grieve not, rather find
    Strength in what remains behind . . .”
    â€œWhat is that?”
    â€œIt’s from
Ode: Intimations of Immortality
. It was one of Mr. Stevens’ favorites. He kept reciting bits of it and I kept bugging him to recite more. Finally he just tossed me his book. I took it home and must’ve read it twenty times that night. Next day I came in and started reciting it. I went to give his book back and he just shook his head. ‘It’s your book now,’ he said.
    â€œThe worst thing about that year was, they moved me from one foster home to another and I had to switch schools. Came and got me on a Friday. Monday I was in a new school. I never even got to say goodbye to him.” Cooper tossed his cigarette and put his head down on the book on top of his knees.
    â€œJeezus,” he said.
    â€œYou want to be alone?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I got up and headed for the door.
    Cooper was right. About the shit raining down.
    â€”
    STUDY HALL WAS torture. Two hours of read a few pages, look at the clock, read a few more pages, look at the clock. There wasn’t a sound in the room except for the swish-swish of Sullivan’s robes as he snuck up and down the aisles. No one wanted to give him any excuse to send them to The Dungeon. There was nothing he seemed to love more than to catch at least one culprit and totally put the screws to his Saturday.
    No luck today. We were all as good as choirboys and then we were saved by the bell.
    Fifteen minutes later, I was at the counter of Rita’s diner.
    â€œHey, there, killer. You’ve survived?”
    â€œSo far.”
    â€œDon’t see too many bruises.”
    I smiled. “Want me to take my shirt off?”
    â€œI’ll take your word for it. What’ll it be?”
    â€œOne of Freddy’s famous burgers and one of your famous shakes. Vanilla. Please.”
    â€œWell, they haven’t beat the manners out of you yet.”
    â€œThey’ll be the next to go.”
    â€œHey, Freddy,” said Rita.
    â€œWay ahead of you, Rita. Burger’s already on.” Freddy looked through the window. “Fries with that?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œComin’ right up.”
    â€œSo, what’ve they been teaching you up there on Prison Hill.”
    â€œNever piss off a priest.”
    â€œSo I hear.” Rita was working on the shake. Three scoops of ice cream this time. She ran the metal container up under the thing that spun around and pressed the button. A couple of minutes later, she put the container and a tall glass in front of me, poured the glass full and stuck in a couple of straws.
    I took a sip. “Better than ever, Rita.”
    She gave me one of those smiles. A bit of lipstick on her front teeth. She sat on her stool, pushed a strand of hair away from her face, relit her