The cheer masters hop up and down, and the crowd roars.
Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror. One of the little kids standing next to Miss Dovecott runs back to his father, a chemistry teacher, and lifts his arms to the sky, begging to be picked up. Miss Dovecott crosses her arms and hugs herself.
Green Fields
My new-boy year, to avoid the second pep rally because the first one was so scary, I snuck out of study hall one Friday night ten minutes before the bell rang and hid in the chapel until I knew it was over. I sat in the back of the room in study hall. Mr. Lyme, the proctor, could hardly see his own wrist-watch, not to mention what was happening where I was. I slid to the floor and crawled out. No one ratted on me. Other guys in study hall saw me do it and laughed, but they never turned me in, and Mr. Lyme, who was ancient, didn’t hear them, just as he didn’t hear me zip up my backpack and drop to the floor like I was escaping from an ambush. Which, of course, I was.
Our World, the Sequel
Last year, I played Would You Rather all the time on dorm. Now that Miss Dovecott has become a piece on the game board, it is much less funny.
Basically, the game goes like this: you sit around in someone’s room with the door closed and offer up a scenario involving Birch School characters and/or movie stars. Sex is almost always involved.
For example, Would you rather watch Mrs. Davido give a blow job to the Buddha or Mr. Lyme? The best answer in this case is “Neither,” but in the world of Would You Rather, that is not an option.
I am with Joe Bonnin and Andy Hedron after the pep rally, before Lights-Out, when I have to be back in my room. Their room is so different from most guys’ rooms. That is to say, it is not wallpapered with posters of
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit models. Joe owns one poster of Brooke Shields in her Calvins and two of the UNC basketball team, and Andy has got to be the only guy on campus with a poster of Audrey Hepburn à la
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
—very understated foxy.
“Would You Rather?” Joe says.
“Here we go,” says Andy.
“Would you rather watch Miss Dovecott give a blow job to Gaybrook or Everson?”
“Who cares about Gaybrook?” I say. “He’s gone.”
“Gaybrook,” says Andy. “No way she could get him off. Hey, but I bet Everson could.”
“Gaybrook,” I say, and nod.
“I’m going with Everson,” says Joe. “He’d splooge in about two seconds.”
“So would you,” Andy says.
“Yeah, I know, but it’d be interesting because Everson can’t stand her.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I know exactly what he means.
“He’s the only one in this whole school who doesn’t want to do her.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like English,” I say.
“She’s cool,” said Andy. “I’d definitely do her.”
“Me too,” I say, but it’s not exactly what I mean. What I mean is, I would like to lie on a bed with her, her face an inch from mine.
“Hey,” says Andy, “would you rather watch Mr. Olson or Reverend Black roasted alive over a slow-burning fire?”
“Black,” Joe and I say in unison.
“Juicier,” adds Joe.
“Ballpark franks,” says Andy. “Plump when you cook ’em.”
Hide-and-Seek
Miss Dovecott finds me this morning at breakfast. I am sitting by myself at the head of a long table, cramming for my Latin test.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she says.
I smile a closed-mouth smile to keep scrambled eggs from falling out.
“Do you have a minute?”
I nod.
“Finish your breakfast,” she says. “I’ll be in my classroom.”
But when I get to her classroom, Mr. Henley, the head of the English department, is there. They are looking at a sheet of paper that Miss Dovecott is holding in her hand. When I knock, they look up like they’re accusing me of something. Miss Dovecott comes to the door.
“Alex,” she says, “we’ll have to talk later. But now that you’re here”—she holds up the
Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror. One of the little kids standing next to Miss Dovecott runs back to his father, a chemistry teacher, and lifts his arms to the sky, begging to be picked up. Miss Dovecott crosses her arms and hugs herself.
Green Fields
My new-boy year, to avoid the second pep rally because the first one was so scary, I snuck out of study hall one Friday night ten minutes before the bell rang and hid in the chapel until I knew it was over. I sat in the back of the room in study hall. Mr. Lyme, the proctor, could hardly see his own wrist-watch, not to mention what was happening where I was. I slid to the floor and crawled out. No one ratted on me. Other guys in study hall saw me do it and laughed, but they never turned me in, and Mr. Lyme, who was ancient, didn’t hear them, just as he didn’t hear me zip up my backpack and drop to the floor like I was escaping from an ambush. Which, of course, I was.
Our World, the Sequel
Last year, I played Would You Rather all the time on dorm. Now that Miss Dovecott has become a piece on the game board, it is much less funny.
Basically, the game goes like this: you sit around in someone’s room with the door closed and offer up a scenario involving Birch School characters and/or movie stars. Sex is almost always involved.
For example, Would you rather watch Mrs. Davido give a blow job to the Buddha or Mr. Lyme? The best answer in this case is “Neither,” but in the world of Would You Rather, that is not an option.
I am with Joe Bonnin and Andy Hedron after the pep rally, before Lights-Out, when I have to be back in my room. Their room is so different from most guys’ rooms. That is to say, it is not wallpapered with posters of
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit models. Joe owns one poster of Brooke Shields in her Calvins and two of the UNC basketball team, and Andy has got to be the only guy on campus with a poster of Audrey Hepburn à la
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
—very understated foxy.
“Would You Rather?” Joe says.
“Here we go,” says Andy.
“Would you rather watch Miss Dovecott give a blow job to Gaybrook or Everson?”
“Who cares about Gaybrook?” I say. “He’s gone.”
“Gaybrook,” says Andy. “No way she could get him off. Hey, but I bet Everson could.”
“Gaybrook,” I say, and nod.
“I’m going with Everson,” says Joe. “He’d splooge in about two seconds.”
“So would you,” Andy says.
“Yeah, I know, but it’d be interesting because Everson can’t stand her.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, but I know exactly what he means.
“He’s the only one in this whole school who doesn’t want to do her.”
“Maybe he just doesn’t like English,” I say.
“She’s cool,” said Andy. “I’d definitely do her.”
“Me too,” I say, but it’s not exactly what I mean. What I mean is, I would like to lie on a bed with her, her face an inch from mine.
“Hey,” says Andy, “would you rather watch Mr. Olson or Reverend Black roasted alive over a slow-burning fire?”
“Black,” Joe and I say in unison.
“Juicier,” adds Joe.
“Ballpark franks,” says Andy. “Plump when you cook ’em.”
Hide-and-Seek
Miss Dovecott finds me this morning at breakfast. I am sitting by myself at the head of a long table, cramming for my Latin test.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she says.
I smile a closed-mouth smile to keep scrambled eggs from falling out.
“Do you have a minute?”
I nod.
“Finish your breakfast,” she says. “I’ll be in my classroom.”
But when I get to her classroom, Mr. Henley, the head of the English department, is there. They are looking at a sheet of paper that Miss Dovecott is holding in her hand. When I knock, they look up like they’re accusing me of something. Miss Dovecott comes to the door.
“Alex,” she says, “we’ll have to talk later. But now that you’re here”—she holds up the
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