us.”
She claps again—we are in the swing of it now—and then Glenn says slowly, with eyes as pale as water, “God does not own you, Stromm. God does not own any of us.”
Miss Dovecott stares back at him, but his gaze does not waver. “Let’s back up now,” she says, “and talk about that window.” But she can’t get us to do it, to explain why it opened like a pod, abruptly, mechanically. The mighty Achilles has silenced us, and Miss Dovecott has to stand there and watch her students fold into themselves, hunching away from the window in the poem, from the windows in the classroom, from everything. One of these students, the one who lost five dollars for believing in the woman he loves, wants desperately to come back to her world—her heavenly wide-open world—but it is roped off now, like an unsafe balcony.
Our World
Ten p.m. Friday night (last night). Outside the freshman dorm, upperclassmen in masks and no shirts stomp in unison. “New boys! New boys!” they chant, shaking their lit torches. Two years ago, at my first pep rally, I was afraid to come out of my dorm.
“Here they come!” someone shouts, and torches flare as the third-formers creep out the front door. Their hands fly to their foreheads, shielding their eyes, as they get absorbed by the mob. The crowd lurches across the quad, down the hill, and into the end zone of the football field. The cheer masters leap onto the wooden platform built especially for these occasions. When they raise their torches, the muscles in their biceps and shoulders harden.
“Are you ready?” the head cheer master, Ted Ferenhardt, shouts. Tonight he is a giant in an Afro wig, cutoff jean shorts, and combat boots. His chest is slick with Vaseline. The crowd roars back. “Are you ready?”
On the sidelines, a flock of frightened faculty children take a few steps back into the shadows where their parents are huddled.
“Chase Harper!” the cheer masters yell and clap in rhythm. “Chase Harper!” The quarterback of the football team hops onto the platform. One of the cheer masters hands him a torch.
“New boys!” shouts Chase. “You see this torch? This is what you are going to have to be for us tomorrow. Every single one of you better be in those stands cheering your gutsout. If you don’t, you run the gauntlet, and you all know what that means. Now, let’s hear it! Go, Bulldogs! Go, Bulldogs!”
All of the new boys are yelling it now. “Go, Bulldogs!” The defensive line of the football team mobs the stage: more guys with painted chests, more guys with wigs and masks. Out of the mass rises a new chant, a slower one that folds on itself one screeching letter at a time: “B! U! L! L! D! O! G! S! Gooooooo, Dawgs! Dawgs! Dawgs! Dawgs!” The guys on the stage erupt into chaotic barking, and Ted silences them by raising his torch.
“Who’s ready to kiss the Buddha?” he shouts. Chip Donnelly, with his jiggling stomach, struggles onto the platform, and Ted puts his hand on the other boy’s shoulder. The two of them scan the crowd with demonic eyes. “Where is he?” Ted shouts. “Where’s the Little Dipper?”
The Little Dipper is the younger brother of the Big Dipper, who got caught dipping tobacco during the first week of his new-boy year and racked up sixty demerits, which took five months to work off. Eyes wide, Lane Carter raises his hand, shaking, and he climbs onto the stage. His big brother, Silas, a cheer master, stands at the back of the stage, laughing his head off while the Little Dipper drops to his knees in front of Chip’s sumo wrestler stomach.
“Kiss the Buddha!” the crowd is shouting. “Kiss the Buddha!” The Little Dipper bows his head and puts his hands over his mouth, and Ted jumps behind him, arms spread and flapping like wings. He screams into the back of Lane Carter’s head, “Kiss the Buddha!” When Lane looks up, there are tears on his cheeks, and the Buddha grabs Lane’s head andpushes it into his stomach.
She claps again—we are in the swing of it now—and then Glenn says slowly, with eyes as pale as water, “God does not own you, Stromm. God does not own any of us.”
Miss Dovecott stares back at him, but his gaze does not waver. “Let’s back up now,” she says, “and talk about that window.” But she can’t get us to do it, to explain why it opened like a pod, abruptly, mechanically. The mighty Achilles has silenced us, and Miss Dovecott has to stand there and watch her students fold into themselves, hunching away from the window in the poem, from the windows in the classroom, from everything. One of these students, the one who lost five dollars for believing in the woman he loves, wants desperately to come back to her world—her heavenly wide-open world—but it is roped off now, like an unsafe balcony.
Our World
Ten p.m. Friday night (last night). Outside the freshman dorm, upperclassmen in masks and no shirts stomp in unison. “New boys! New boys!” they chant, shaking their lit torches. Two years ago, at my first pep rally, I was afraid to come out of my dorm.
“Here they come!” someone shouts, and torches flare as the third-formers creep out the front door. Their hands fly to their foreheads, shielding their eyes, as they get absorbed by the mob. The crowd lurches across the quad, down the hill, and into the end zone of the football field. The cheer masters leap onto the wooden platform built especially for these occasions. When they raise their torches, the muscles in their biceps and shoulders harden.
“Are you ready?” the head cheer master, Ted Ferenhardt, shouts. Tonight he is a giant in an Afro wig, cutoff jean shorts, and combat boots. His chest is slick with Vaseline. The crowd roars back. “Are you ready?”
On the sidelines, a flock of frightened faculty children take a few steps back into the shadows where their parents are huddled.
“Chase Harper!” the cheer masters yell and clap in rhythm. “Chase Harper!” The quarterback of the football team hops onto the platform. One of the cheer masters hands him a torch.
“New boys!” shouts Chase. “You see this torch? This is what you are going to have to be for us tomorrow. Every single one of you better be in those stands cheering your gutsout. If you don’t, you run the gauntlet, and you all know what that means. Now, let’s hear it! Go, Bulldogs! Go, Bulldogs!”
All of the new boys are yelling it now. “Go, Bulldogs!” The defensive line of the football team mobs the stage: more guys with painted chests, more guys with wigs and masks. Out of the mass rises a new chant, a slower one that folds on itself one screeching letter at a time: “B! U! L! L! D! O! G! S! Gooooooo, Dawgs! Dawgs! Dawgs! Dawgs!” The guys on the stage erupt into chaotic barking, and Ted silences them by raising his torch.
“Who’s ready to kiss the Buddha?” he shouts. Chip Donnelly, with his jiggling stomach, struggles onto the platform, and Ted puts his hand on the other boy’s shoulder. The two of them scan the crowd with demonic eyes. “Where is he?” Ted shouts. “Where’s the Little Dipper?”
The Little Dipper is the younger brother of the Big Dipper, who got caught dipping tobacco during the first week of his new-boy year and racked up sixty demerits, which took five months to work off. Eyes wide, Lane Carter raises his hand, shaking, and he climbs onto the stage. His big brother, Silas, a cheer master, stands at the back of the stage, laughing his head off while the Little Dipper drops to his knees in front of Chip’s sumo wrestler stomach.
“Kiss the Buddha!” the crowd is shouting. “Kiss the Buddha!” The Little Dipper bows his head and puts his hands over his mouth, and Ted jumps behind him, arms spread and flapping like wings. He screams into the back of Lane Carter’s head, “Kiss the Buddha!” When Lane looks up, there are tears on his cheeks, and the Buddha grabs Lane’s head andpushes it into his stomach.
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