of industrial-strength metal catching against his tooth enamel was quite unique.
"YEAH!" Cheers erupted from all around. Kids who hated Dustin slapped Lindsey on the back and offered her congratulatory remarks.
She noticed the bloody cut on her victim's chin and couldn't believe what she'd done. The kids began shoving Dustin and started chanting, "Rat Boy! Rat Boy!"
Stunned, Dustin still managed to affect his robot-voice and said, "I am not a rat. I am a homosapien."
Peals of laughter erupted. "He's a homo! He says he's a homo!"
"No! Not homosexual
, homosapien
. I am a homosapien like all of you…" He tried to explain the difference in meanings, but at the word "sexual" his audience howled even louder.
Like Mork from Ork at the end of each show, Dustin began tugging on his ears and exclaiming, "Na-nooh, na-nooh! Na-nooh, na-nooh!"
His defeat at the hands of a girl, his allusion to homosexuality, his Texan-ness, and his all-around dorkiness invisibly sparked what happened next. A mob of hormone-fueled preteens swept Lindsey aside, then proceeded to kick and pummel Dustin every which way they knew how. Girls yanked his hair, boys socked him in the face, and Franklin Ng performed an impressive, kung fu flying kick to the groin. Lindsey stood aside and watched the whole melee unfold like Shirley Jackson's
The Lottery
.
At 1:20 P.M., Dustin Lee lay in a crumpled heap. A few minutes later, Lindsey's class returned to their homeroom and Sister Constance noticed immediately that her beautiful boy was missing. Lindsey watched from the window as a few nuns hurried out from the convent to scrape him off the playground asphalt. When his silent whimpers turned to pained wails, Lindsey was relieved to know that she hadn't killed him.
That was the last day she saw Dustin Lee until today. Over the years she had, in fact, thought of him a couple of times, but mostly out of guilt. She'd wondered if the creepy romance that Sister Constance inflicted upon him had sent him off the deep end. She once speculated that he was dead, perhaps killed in a Texas tornado.
Well, now she knew. He was alive and well and living in San Francisco.
----
How She Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Broccoli Beef
Walking home from St. Maude's the next day, Lindsey peeled off a few layers of clothes as she sweltered in the afternoon sunlight. It had been damp and cold that morning, but now all the fog had burned off and retreated to the coastline, leaving just a few puffy clouds in the distance.
She was beginning to regret having told her dad she would spend the upcoming weekend helping clean Yeh Yeh and Yun Yun's house. In theory, she thought it was great that Chinese families were tightly knit and valued togetherness, but in reality she dreaded spending her Saturday unloading cases of Depends and Metamucil, having to make sure she kept a tight lid on her casual swearing for fear that Yun Yun might catch her uttering the f-word and administer a swift knuckle to her head.
As she crossed the Panhandle, Lindsey surveyed the street lined with Victorian houses. All the buildings looked as if they were painted in either 1875 or 1975, she couldn't decide which. One house was the curry-ochre of a Hari Krishna's dusted forehead, another the hue of a Willy Wonka peanut butter candy, and a few paces up ahead, a faded bungalow reminded her of a melted Creamsicle.
Crossing the street to avoid an oncoming hippie in a poncho, Lindsey made her way toward the intersection and passed a decrepit, pink mansion perched high on a cement foundation. She was admiring the impressive stone wall on the building's west side, when she had the sudden, eerie sensation of someone watching her.
Even without looking around, Lindsey had a hunch who it was. Over the last few weeks she had grown familiar with a certain pair of eyes that had been following her. Although overheated just minutes before, she now felt a chill around her neck.
The eyes belonged to an elderly Caucasian
"YEAH!" Cheers erupted from all around. Kids who hated Dustin slapped Lindsey on the back and offered her congratulatory remarks.
She noticed the bloody cut on her victim's chin and couldn't believe what she'd done. The kids began shoving Dustin and started chanting, "Rat Boy! Rat Boy!"
Stunned, Dustin still managed to affect his robot-voice and said, "I am not a rat. I am a homosapien."
Peals of laughter erupted. "He's a homo! He says he's a homo!"
"No! Not homosexual
, homosapien
. I am a homosapien like all of you…" He tried to explain the difference in meanings, but at the word "sexual" his audience howled even louder.
Like Mork from Ork at the end of each show, Dustin began tugging on his ears and exclaiming, "Na-nooh, na-nooh! Na-nooh, na-nooh!"
His defeat at the hands of a girl, his allusion to homosexuality, his Texan-ness, and his all-around dorkiness invisibly sparked what happened next. A mob of hormone-fueled preteens swept Lindsey aside, then proceeded to kick and pummel Dustin every which way they knew how. Girls yanked his hair, boys socked him in the face, and Franklin Ng performed an impressive, kung fu flying kick to the groin. Lindsey stood aside and watched the whole melee unfold like Shirley Jackson's
The Lottery
.
At 1:20 P.M., Dustin Lee lay in a crumpled heap. A few minutes later, Lindsey's class returned to their homeroom and Sister Constance noticed immediately that her beautiful boy was missing. Lindsey watched from the window as a few nuns hurried out from the convent to scrape him off the playground asphalt. When his silent whimpers turned to pained wails, Lindsey was relieved to know that she hadn't killed him.
That was the last day she saw Dustin Lee until today. Over the years she had, in fact, thought of him a couple of times, but mostly out of guilt. She'd wondered if the creepy romance that Sister Constance inflicted upon him had sent him off the deep end. She once speculated that he was dead, perhaps killed in a Texas tornado.
Well, now she knew. He was alive and well and living in San Francisco.
----
How She Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Broccoli Beef
Walking home from St. Maude's the next day, Lindsey peeled off a few layers of clothes as she sweltered in the afternoon sunlight. It had been damp and cold that morning, but now all the fog had burned off and retreated to the coastline, leaving just a few puffy clouds in the distance.
She was beginning to regret having told her dad she would spend the upcoming weekend helping clean Yeh Yeh and Yun Yun's house. In theory, she thought it was great that Chinese families were tightly knit and valued togetherness, but in reality she dreaded spending her Saturday unloading cases of Depends and Metamucil, having to make sure she kept a tight lid on her casual swearing for fear that Yun Yun might catch her uttering the f-word and administer a swift knuckle to her head.
As she crossed the Panhandle, Lindsey surveyed the street lined with Victorian houses. All the buildings looked as if they were painted in either 1875 or 1975, she couldn't decide which. One house was the curry-ochre of a Hari Krishna's dusted forehead, another the hue of a Willy Wonka peanut butter candy, and a few paces up ahead, a faded bungalow reminded her of a melted Creamsicle.
Crossing the street to avoid an oncoming hippie in a poncho, Lindsey made her way toward the intersection and passed a decrepit, pink mansion perched high on a cement foundation. She was admiring the impressive stone wall on the building's west side, when she had the sudden, eerie sensation of someone watching her.
Even without looking around, Lindsey had a hunch who it was. Over the last few weeks she had grown familiar with a certain pair of eyes that had been following her. Although overheated just minutes before, she now felt a chill around her neck.
The eyes belonged to an elderly Caucasian
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