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, she said, "Bring that he-ere…" The whole class stopped what they were doing and breathlessly awaited what might happen next.
Lindsey stood up to bring the eraser to Sister Constance, but the nun waved her aside and said, "Not yoo-hoo. The boy. I want to see the bo-oy."
Even back then Sister Constance resembled a salt-and-pepper cartoon dachshund with a mustache and a habit. With her long snout and imperious demeanor, she looked exactly like the Doggie Diner logo. Her socks were frequently mismatched from either getting dressed in her dark convent hovel or tossing back a few too many Long Island iced teas in the faculty lounge. As Dustin listlessly trudged up the aisle like a death row inmate headed for the electric chair, Sister Constance dangled her black-stockinged foot out of her shoe with flirtatious abandon, savoring the approach of her beloved.
Everyone watched as Dustin made the familiar pilgrimage to her podium. When he reached the front of the classroom, he stood a few feet away from the nun.
"Come closer, Mr. Lee," Sister Constance said. She then proclaimed that his "enormous length" from her and his "flaccid posture" were a disgrace.
"Come forward and be erect, Mr. Lee," she commanded.
Once poor Dustin stepped within reach, Sister Constance grabbed him. She held his hands outstretched like he was J. C. on the cross, and silently devoured him with her bulging peepers as he stood helplessly and pleaded, "Sister, please."
Within seconds Sister Constance secured him in an amorous headlock, pressing his head into her woolen-cloaked bosom. While he attempted to hold his face to the side, Sister Constance stroked his hair, and like a purebred canine whose incestuous pedigree had warped its mind, she swayed back and forth and hummed Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour." Cradled thusly, poor Dustin's head looked like a swollen, brown cabbage, as she stroked his neck and ears muttering, "Such a beautiful boy, such a shame to be so cheeky. Cheeky, cheeky boy. Such a shame to be acting the maggot."
Later that day out on the playground at lunchtime, Dustin resumed his teasing of Lindsey. He pointed at her robotically and said, "Chinese rat eater!"
When she didn't respond, Dustin went into a manic, Robin-Williams-as-Mork routine and started spastically flailing his arms and insisting that Chinese people ate rats for dinner every night.
Why was he calling her a Chinese rat eater, when he himself was Chinese? She wasn't able to decide which was more galling, his accusation or his voluntary affiliation with anything having to do with Robin Williams. Meanwhile, a circle of sixth and seventh graders formed around them.
The previous Sunday, Lindsey had seen
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane
? The image of the dead rat on the silver salver stuck in her consciousness. While kids began to congregate around them, she was mortified to think that anyone believed her family ate fricasseed rats instead of McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwiches which, at that time, happened to be all the rage amongst the St. Maude's preteen cognoscenti.
"Rodent eater!" Dustin said again, with Orkian detachment.
Standing there she thought of all the different kinds of rodents and how they might be prepared in Chinese cooking. She imagined marmots in black bean sauce, sweet 'n' sour gerbils, Peking squirrel with hoisin sauce, chipmunks cubed in a dry wok, and chinchilla chow fun.
She was not a rodent eater. Nor did she know any Chinese people who ate rats. As she considered what she might do next, it seemed, somehow, that the pride of her people was at stake.
The circle of kids closed in tighter around them.
Before her brain could talk her arm out of it, with dead calm, Lindsey picked up her
Dukes of Hazzard
lunchbox, wound back like she'd seen Atlee Hammaker do at Candlestick Park, and swung her weight forward, pivoting from the hip so her arm carried the full force of her body. She clocked Dustin square across the chin with her lunchbox. The sound
, she said, "Bring that he-ere…" The whole class stopped what they were doing and breathlessly awaited what might happen next.
Lindsey stood up to bring the eraser to Sister Constance, but the nun waved her aside and said, "Not yoo-hoo. The boy. I want to see the bo-oy."
Even back then Sister Constance resembled a salt-and-pepper cartoon dachshund with a mustache and a habit. With her long snout and imperious demeanor, she looked exactly like the Doggie Diner logo. Her socks were frequently mismatched from either getting dressed in her dark convent hovel or tossing back a few too many Long Island iced teas in the faculty lounge. As Dustin listlessly trudged up the aisle like a death row inmate headed for the electric chair, Sister Constance dangled her black-stockinged foot out of her shoe with flirtatious abandon, savoring the approach of her beloved.
Everyone watched as Dustin made the familiar pilgrimage to her podium. When he reached the front of the classroom, he stood a few feet away from the nun.
"Come closer, Mr. Lee," Sister Constance said. She then proclaimed that his "enormous length" from her and his "flaccid posture" were a disgrace.
"Come forward and be erect, Mr. Lee," she commanded.
Once poor Dustin stepped within reach, Sister Constance grabbed him. She held his hands outstretched like he was J. C. on the cross, and silently devoured him with her bulging peepers as he stood helplessly and pleaded, "Sister, please."
Within seconds Sister Constance secured him in an amorous headlock, pressing his head into her woolen-cloaked bosom. While he attempted to hold his face to the side, Sister Constance stroked his hair, and like a purebred canine whose incestuous pedigree had warped its mind, she swayed back and forth and hummed Stevie Wonder's "My Cherie Amour." Cradled thusly, poor Dustin's head looked like a swollen, brown cabbage, as she stroked his neck and ears muttering, "Such a beautiful boy, such a shame to be so cheeky. Cheeky, cheeky boy. Such a shame to be acting the maggot."
Later that day out on the playground at lunchtime, Dustin resumed his teasing of Lindsey. He pointed at her robotically and said, "Chinese rat eater!"
When she didn't respond, Dustin went into a manic, Robin-Williams-as-Mork routine and started spastically flailing his arms and insisting that Chinese people ate rats for dinner every night.
Why was he calling her a Chinese rat eater, when he himself was Chinese? She wasn't able to decide which was more galling, his accusation or his voluntary affiliation with anything having to do with Robin Williams. Meanwhile, a circle of sixth and seventh graders formed around them.
The previous Sunday, Lindsey had seen
Whatever Happened to Baby Jane
? The image of the dead rat on the silver salver stuck in her consciousness. While kids began to congregate around them, she was mortified to think that anyone believed her family ate fricasseed rats instead of McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwiches which, at that time, happened to be all the rage amongst the St. Maude's preteen cognoscenti.
"Rodent eater!" Dustin said again, with Orkian detachment.
Standing there she thought of all the different kinds of rodents and how they might be prepared in Chinese cooking. She imagined marmots in black bean sauce, sweet 'n' sour gerbils, Peking squirrel with hoisin sauce, chipmunks cubed in a dry wok, and chinchilla chow fun.
She was not a rodent eater. Nor did she know any Chinese people who ate rats. As she considered what she might do next, it seemed, somehow, that the pride of her people was at stake.
The circle of kids closed in tighter around them.
Before her brain could talk her arm out of it, with dead calm, Lindsey picked up her
Dukes of Hazzard
lunchbox, wound back like she'd seen Atlee Hammaker do at Candlestick Park, and swung her weight forward, pivoting from the hip so her arm carried the full force of her body. She clocked Dustin square across the chin with her lunchbox. The sound
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