Teri Litch, who is storming across the front of the room. “Forgot her books.”
The second hand sweeps past the numbers on the face of the clock, rushing to the bell. The football team rises. Teri Litch walks over to them. It happens in slow motion, a ballet. Pas de duel. Teri lifts a thick history book and swings it in a wide arc until it smashes into the mouth of Art Smith, defensive tackle. Art flies backward. A tooth sails over the team and lands near the door.
One freeze frame.
“Fight!” bellows a bull.
Action.
The team goes nuts. Teri plows her meaty fist into the side of Brandon Figgs’s head and he goes down without a word. Then Teri goes down, not even her red shirt visible under the shouts and the arms and the legs of angry boys.
We have to do something. We can’t walk away from a traffic accident in the middle of the cafeteria. Sara gets there first, screaming like a banshee, her black hair a flag waving behind her. It’s hard to tell who is fighting whom. The team is shoving, punching, pulling—each other. Sara wades in, plucking at sleeves with her long, pinchy fingers. Other people flow into the room, some fighting, some not-so-fighting.
A girl wails in the corner. “You guuuys, cut it out! You guuuys, cut it out!”
This is the suburbs. With the exception of Teri Litch, nobody knows how to land a real punch. A thought flashes by in record time, and I can’t keep it from unfolding—these guys are lucky she didn’t bring her daddy’s shotgun to school.
Travis yanks on football jerseys, pulling the scrum apart one body at a time. I should do something, I know I should.
The wailing continues, pitching up to a whine. “Cut it out, guuuuys! Guuuys, cut it out!”
Teri Litch’s glasses skitter across the floor.
Mitch, oh God, Mitchell Pangborn. He climbs up on the table next to the fray and raises his arms over his head to form a giant O. He looks like an apprentice mime.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.
“Making a statement,” he answers. “Zero tolerance.” He shakes his arms once for emphasis. “Get it? Zero?”
Sometimes it’s hard to believe he got into Harvard.
“Get down from there, Pangborn,” I say. “This is no time for performance art.”
The security squad finally arrives, followed by the principal and all sorts of pink-faced adults. Teri rises up from the pack, cursing at the top of her lungs. They grab her arms. Her watch is ripped off and falls to the floor.
The bell rings. It’s over. The fight is over. Sara flicks her hair out of her face and stalks past me muttering. “Oppressive bastards, think they own the place. I told them that karma’s going kick their asses. . . . ”
Security hustles Teri out of the room. She’s screaming that they broke her watch, that somebody better buy her a new one. The football players fade into the crowd, except for Art, the guy who lost the tooth. He wants to file a complaint.
I pick up Teri’s glasses. The nosepiece is grimy and the lenses are scratched. I fold the arms and set them on top of her books. Her watch has disappeared.
Mitch hops off the table, stumbling a bit when he hits the floor. I look over at him and say, “This day has been really—”
He grabs my face and kisses me. He tastes like coffee and doughnuts and toothpaste. I kiss him back until I have to breathe.
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed that.”
2.6 Boron
Third period English. Hell. Smell the sulfur, feel the flames. English is worse than a waste of time—it robs valuable brain cells that could be doing something practical.
I sit by the window. Mitchell slips into the seat in front of me.
“Get out your texts?” Miss Devlin whispers.
I am here under protest. I was promised that Mythology 231 would be a multiple-choice English class, with little “discussion” and no essays. I hate essays.
“Please get out your texts, your notebooks, and something to write with? With which to write? You know what I mean.” Miss Devlin
The second hand sweeps past the numbers on the face of the clock, rushing to the bell. The football team rises. Teri Litch walks over to them. It happens in slow motion, a ballet. Pas de duel. Teri lifts a thick history book and swings it in a wide arc until it smashes into the mouth of Art Smith, defensive tackle. Art flies backward. A tooth sails over the team and lands near the door.
One freeze frame.
“Fight!” bellows a bull.
Action.
The team goes nuts. Teri plows her meaty fist into the side of Brandon Figgs’s head and he goes down without a word. Then Teri goes down, not even her red shirt visible under the shouts and the arms and the legs of angry boys.
We have to do something. We can’t walk away from a traffic accident in the middle of the cafeteria. Sara gets there first, screaming like a banshee, her black hair a flag waving behind her. It’s hard to tell who is fighting whom. The team is shoving, punching, pulling—each other. Sara wades in, plucking at sleeves with her long, pinchy fingers. Other people flow into the room, some fighting, some not-so-fighting.
A girl wails in the corner. “You guuuys, cut it out! You guuuys, cut it out!”
This is the suburbs. With the exception of Teri Litch, nobody knows how to land a real punch. A thought flashes by in record time, and I can’t keep it from unfolding—these guys are lucky she didn’t bring her daddy’s shotgun to school.
Travis yanks on football jerseys, pulling the scrum apart one body at a time. I should do something, I know I should.
The wailing continues, pitching up to a whine. “Cut it out, guuuuys! Guuuys, cut it out!”
Teri Litch’s glasses skitter across the floor.
Mitch, oh God, Mitchell Pangborn. He climbs up on the table next to the fray and raises his arms over his head to form a giant O. He looks like an apprentice mime.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shout.
“Making a statement,” he answers. “Zero tolerance.” He shakes his arms once for emphasis. “Get it? Zero?”
Sometimes it’s hard to believe he got into Harvard.
“Get down from there, Pangborn,” I say. “This is no time for performance art.”
The security squad finally arrives, followed by the principal and all sorts of pink-faced adults. Teri rises up from the pack, cursing at the top of her lungs. They grab her arms. Her watch is ripped off and falls to the floor.
The bell rings. It’s over. The fight is over. Sara flicks her hair out of her face and stalks past me muttering. “Oppressive bastards, think they own the place. I told them that karma’s going kick their asses. . . . ”
Security hustles Teri out of the room. She’s screaming that they broke her watch, that somebody better buy her a new one. The football players fade into the crowd, except for Art, the guy who lost the tooth. He wants to file a complaint.
I pick up Teri’s glasses. The nosepiece is grimy and the lenses are scratched. I fold the arms and set them on top of her books. Her watch has disappeared.
Mitch hops off the table, stumbling a bit when he hits the floor. I look over at him and say, “This day has been really—”
He grabs my face and kisses me. He tastes like coffee and doughnuts and toothpaste. I kiss him back until I have to breathe.
“Thanks,” I say. “I needed that.”
2.6 Boron
Third period English. Hell. Smell the sulfur, feel the flames. English is worse than a waste of time—it robs valuable brain cells that could be doing something practical.
I sit by the window. Mitchell slips into the seat in front of me.
“Get out your texts?” Miss Devlin whispers.
I am here under protest. I was promised that Mythology 231 would be a multiple-choice English class, with little “discussion” and no essays. I hate essays.
“Please get out your texts, your notebooks, and something to write with? With which to write? You know what I mean.” Miss Devlin
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