thought he had launched it in my direction by accident.
“Fuck if I know,” the boy answered, flicking the cap again, this time with better aim.
Then he reached for the knob of a door marked 106, which was either the place I was looking for or he was going out of his way to make my search difficult. I asked Mr. Rebel Rebel if he could tell me how to find Mr. Fisher, the person whose room I was looking for. He pretended not to hear while he held the knob. A teacher opened the door from theinside. The teacher and the boy each pulled like two dogs on either end of the same bone.
“Is this 106?” I asked again about the number I had seen.
“Jesus,” the boy said, and the teacher let go of the knob.
“You are late, Mr. Stockhausen,” Mr. Fisher remarked, and to me he explained, “This is the classroom you are looking for.”
I stepped out of the way while Kenny slunk to the other side of the room and sprawled into his chair (if it can be called sprawling when you are only five feet tall). Kenny was dark but not handsome and far too trigger-happy. Two days earlier, Natalie had predicted his path would intertwine with mine. Hopefully we were all done with that little slice of destiny.
The room smelled of chalk. A screen covered the blackboard, and an overhead projector perched on a dusty rolling table. Natalie sat next to Little Blondie in the front. Little Blondie now only seemed like the third scariest person in Heaven—after Natalie and Kenny Stockhausen.
Just when I thought I might want to hitchhike home, I noticed a boy behind Natalie so good-looking it jolted me nearly out of my skin. He had incrediblygreen eyes and looked exactly like my future husband. What a pick-me-up after my last few difficult days. A boy like Mr. Green Eyes could take a person’s mind off anything. He appeared just when the books and movies said he would, right when my day was looking dark.
“Over there, Miss Sorenson.” Mr. Fisher motioned me away from Perfect Boy to a row of empty seats behind Kenny. He warned me not to sit directly behind Kenny because the desk was damaged.
I settled into my seat and listened to Mr. Fisher lecture about the trial scene in To Kill a Mockingbird . He called on the green-eyed boy and I learned his name was Steve Allen. Steve said he had read the book but didn’t remember who Atticus Finch was. The class would have to figure out little Scout’s big dilemma—that racism was bad, that her dad was too nice—without either Steve or me. Steve, to express how overcome he was at the first glimpse of me, drew a picture of Bart Simpson on a folded piece of paper.
I had read To Kill a Mockingbird in my previous English class and enjoyed most of the book’s plot, but I kept thinking Boo Radley had to be a serial killer and it made me very nervous when, at the end, everybody made such good friends with him.
In front of me, Kenny stabbed at his desk with a pen. Mr. Fisher’s overhead projector gave off a smell of overheated plastic.
I designed a little universe of stars and scribbled several versions of my name with different surnames, including Allen, in my notebook. It felt good to be in the familiar territory of classroom boredom, a place that, if not thrilling, was at least not as unnerving as the bus ride had been as we passed the Quonset huts. Natalie sat with her hands folded on her desk. A boy a row over flipped his watch around and around his wrist. Steve drew another picture of Bart Simpson, this time peeing on a rock. I mentally measured Steve’s eyelashes so I could text the figure to Katy. Mr. Fisher wrote a set of page numbers on the board for us to review the next day.
“Miss Sorenson, Mr. Stockhausen.” He interrupted my mental drifting. “Would you two be so good as to remove this to the hallway?” He knocked on the abused empty seat in front of me.
My cousin heard the words good and Sorenson and rose, but after a second, she realized that Mr. Fisher meant me. She managed to sit
“Fuck if I know,” the boy answered, flicking the cap again, this time with better aim.
Then he reached for the knob of a door marked 106, which was either the place I was looking for or he was going out of his way to make my search difficult. I asked Mr. Rebel Rebel if he could tell me how to find Mr. Fisher, the person whose room I was looking for. He pretended not to hear while he held the knob. A teacher opened the door from theinside. The teacher and the boy each pulled like two dogs on either end of the same bone.
“Is this 106?” I asked again about the number I had seen.
“Jesus,” the boy said, and the teacher let go of the knob.
“You are late, Mr. Stockhausen,” Mr. Fisher remarked, and to me he explained, “This is the classroom you are looking for.”
I stepped out of the way while Kenny slunk to the other side of the room and sprawled into his chair (if it can be called sprawling when you are only five feet tall). Kenny was dark but not handsome and far too trigger-happy. Two days earlier, Natalie had predicted his path would intertwine with mine. Hopefully we were all done with that little slice of destiny.
The room smelled of chalk. A screen covered the blackboard, and an overhead projector perched on a dusty rolling table. Natalie sat next to Little Blondie in the front. Little Blondie now only seemed like the third scariest person in Heaven—after Natalie and Kenny Stockhausen.
Just when I thought I might want to hitchhike home, I noticed a boy behind Natalie so good-looking it jolted me nearly out of my skin. He had incrediblygreen eyes and looked exactly like my future husband. What a pick-me-up after my last few difficult days. A boy like Mr. Green Eyes could take a person’s mind off anything. He appeared just when the books and movies said he would, right when my day was looking dark.
“Over there, Miss Sorenson.” Mr. Fisher motioned me away from Perfect Boy to a row of empty seats behind Kenny. He warned me not to sit directly behind Kenny because the desk was damaged.
I settled into my seat and listened to Mr. Fisher lecture about the trial scene in To Kill a Mockingbird . He called on the green-eyed boy and I learned his name was Steve Allen. Steve said he had read the book but didn’t remember who Atticus Finch was. The class would have to figure out little Scout’s big dilemma—that racism was bad, that her dad was too nice—without either Steve or me. Steve, to express how overcome he was at the first glimpse of me, drew a picture of Bart Simpson on a folded piece of paper.
I had read To Kill a Mockingbird in my previous English class and enjoyed most of the book’s plot, but I kept thinking Boo Radley had to be a serial killer and it made me very nervous when, at the end, everybody made such good friends with him.
In front of me, Kenny stabbed at his desk with a pen. Mr. Fisher’s overhead projector gave off a smell of overheated plastic.
I designed a little universe of stars and scribbled several versions of my name with different surnames, including Allen, in my notebook. It felt good to be in the familiar territory of classroom boredom, a place that, if not thrilling, was at least not as unnerving as the bus ride had been as we passed the Quonset huts. Natalie sat with her hands folded on her desk. A boy a row over flipped his watch around and around his wrist. Steve drew another picture of Bart Simpson, this time peeing on a rock. I mentally measured Steve’s eyelashes so I could text the figure to Katy. Mr. Fisher wrote a set of page numbers on the board for us to review the next day.
“Miss Sorenson, Mr. Stockhausen.” He interrupted my mental drifting. “Would you two be so good as to remove this to the hallway?” He knocked on the abused empty seat in front of me.
My cousin heard the words good and Sorenson and rose, but after a second, she realized that Mr. Fisher meant me. She managed to sit
Similar Books
