trying. Pat Chambers comes over to her side and gives her a little kiss on the cheek that she seems disgusted by (maybe, I dare to hope, we share a mutual revulsion for the odious P.C.—wishful thinking?). They don’t exactly look like a couple in love. She pulls back from his touch and stares at the dirty floor.
Purple Phimmul slides in next to her and starts patting her hair, an oddly sweet gesture. D. JONKER hovers in the background. And then the iron anvil head of Travis Bickerstokes drops in the seat across from my Leigha, effectively turning the channel on the only good thing to watch.
I continue to stare at the back of Travis’s head, just sort of zoning out on his bristly haircut and massive ears. I feel like when you’re a kid and you drop an ice cream cone on the sidewalk and are just so completely sad, like that ice cream cone is the whole world. Then Pat notices me staring at Travis’s head. His eyes light up like he is happy to see me. “Hey, Trav,” he says. “Looks like you have a new boyfriend.” Travis whips his massive head around and is staring at me eyeball to eyeball from just a few feet away, but he still doesn’t see me. He turns back toward Pat.
“That fat deaf kid,” Pat says. “I guess
(something something)
his relationship with Devon Smiley isn’t exclusive.” He then starts telling all of them (yes, including Leigha) about how he caught me and Devon chatting “like two little girls in love.”
I want to point out that what he is saying doesn’t make any sense. Are we boyfriends or girlfriends? How are two little girls supposed to be in love? What’s wrong with texting someone? I am not in love with Devon Freaking Smiley! I am in love with beautiful Leigha Pennington!
But Leigha laughs too, just like all the others. And then Travis comes over to my table, picks up my broccoli casserole, and throws it at me. It only sort of grazes my shoulder, and I didn’t want to eat it anyway, but, still, having food thrown at you is rarely a pleasant experience. The one upside of the incident is that it draws the fury of Mr. Yankowski. Old Yanky-Wanky comes flying across the room, a whirling tornado of gleaming scalp and khaki pants.
“Bickerstokes!” he yells, the vein in his neck throbbing like a drum. I don’t see the rest of the conversation because I slip behind him, skirt the traffic circle that inevitably forms to gawk anytime something terrible happens, and disappear into the hallway. I calmly walk toward the double doors to the parking lot and am gone.
Poof!
Trees and birds. The warmth of the sun. Sweet-smelling flowers. Cars cruising by, their drivers in their own little cocoons. Maybe I’ll just stick out the old thumb. That’s one sign that everybody knows. But what then? Where do I want to go?What if I get picked up by some scurvy perv with icky intentions toward a handsome young lad such as myself? I wish I had my own car, but there’s the matter of driver’s ed, a class where you need an interpreter, and neither the public school nor the deaf one offers one.
So I just walk. Behind the school grounds, the mountains slope down an ancient, ratty road built to search for coal, always searching for more coal. Up the hill is a barbed-wire patch labeled DANGER, ABANDONED MINE SHAFT: KEEP OUT! From the party rubble (beer cans, condom wrappers, cigarette boxes) stuck in the barbed wire, it seems like maybe everyone
isn’t
keeping out. I think about going up there and checking it out, but I’m not exactly a fan of physical exercise, so I walk only as far as seems necessary to escape being caught. I find a patch of surprisingly soft grass on the hill’s scarred side. The midday sun filters through the trees, making a twinkling pattern all around. I decide to lie down for a little while and just stare up at the big sapphire sky. I have never skipped school before and have no idea what to do next. Lots of uneasy thoughts flutter inside my head as birds and fat, lazy bees
Purple Phimmul slides in next to her and starts patting her hair, an oddly sweet gesture. D. JONKER hovers in the background. And then the iron anvil head of Travis Bickerstokes drops in the seat across from my Leigha, effectively turning the channel on the only good thing to watch.
I continue to stare at the back of Travis’s head, just sort of zoning out on his bristly haircut and massive ears. I feel like when you’re a kid and you drop an ice cream cone on the sidewalk and are just so completely sad, like that ice cream cone is the whole world. Then Pat notices me staring at Travis’s head. His eyes light up like he is happy to see me. “Hey, Trav,” he says. “Looks like you have a new boyfriend.” Travis whips his massive head around and is staring at me eyeball to eyeball from just a few feet away, but he still doesn’t see me. He turns back toward Pat.
“That fat deaf kid,” Pat says. “I guess
(something something)
his relationship with Devon Smiley isn’t exclusive.” He then starts telling all of them (yes, including Leigha) about how he caught me and Devon chatting “like two little girls in love.”
I want to point out that what he is saying doesn’t make any sense. Are we boyfriends or girlfriends? How are two little girls supposed to be in love? What’s wrong with texting someone? I am not in love with Devon Freaking Smiley! I am in love with beautiful Leigha Pennington!
But Leigha laughs too, just like all the others. And then Travis comes over to my table, picks up my broccoli casserole, and throws it at me. It only sort of grazes my shoulder, and I didn’t want to eat it anyway, but, still, having food thrown at you is rarely a pleasant experience. The one upside of the incident is that it draws the fury of Mr. Yankowski. Old Yanky-Wanky comes flying across the room, a whirling tornado of gleaming scalp and khaki pants.
“Bickerstokes!” he yells, the vein in his neck throbbing like a drum. I don’t see the rest of the conversation because I slip behind him, skirt the traffic circle that inevitably forms to gawk anytime something terrible happens, and disappear into the hallway. I calmly walk toward the double doors to the parking lot and am gone.
Poof!
Trees and birds. The warmth of the sun. Sweet-smelling flowers. Cars cruising by, their drivers in their own little cocoons. Maybe I’ll just stick out the old thumb. That’s one sign that everybody knows. But what then? Where do I want to go?What if I get picked up by some scurvy perv with icky intentions toward a handsome young lad such as myself? I wish I had my own car, but there’s the matter of driver’s ed, a class where you need an interpreter, and neither the public school nor the deaf one offers one.
So I just walk. Behind the school grounds, the mountains slope down an ancient, ratty road built to search for coal, always searching for more coal. Up the hill is a barbed-wire patch labeled DANGER, ABANDONED MINE SHAFT: KEEP OUT! From the party rubble (beer cans, condom wrappers, cigarette boxes) stuck in the barbed wire, it seems like maybe everyone
isn’t
keeping out. I think about going up there and checking it out, but I’m not exactly a fan of physical exercise, so I walk only as far as seems necessary to escape being caught. I find a patch of surprisingly soft grass on the hill’s scarred side. The midday sun filters through the trees, making a twinkling pattern all around. I decide to lie down for a little while and just stare up at the big sapphire sky. I have never skipped school before and have no idea what to do next. Lots of uneasy thoughts flutter inside my head as birds and fat, lazy bees
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