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taking potshots.”
    â€œI suppose so,” he said, trying to seem indifferent.
    â€œYou know, saying it looks amateurish, asking what these people have to do withour school, saying you must be pretty full of yourself to think you, or anyone here, could ever be as good at anything as any of these people...”
    â€œSean...”
    â€œI don’t think that,” I clarified. “I’m just saying what they might say, to prepare you. So be careful.”
    Suddenly the bell rang and I jumped to my feet.
    â€œDon’t want to be late for Mr. Sfinkter’s class,” I said, bolting.

Chapter Nine
    As the semester went by, Chill and I talked less and less. Even when we worked together on the mural, I spoke to Chill only when necessary, to ask about a color or shade or which brush to use.
    I began giving Mr. Sfinkter updates on how the book was coming, and he gave me long and impressive lists of all the people he knew. He told me how tiring it was whenthey were always after him to spend time with them and give them advice on their own works.
    Mr. Sfinkter would only talk to me during class. It seemed that students were only visible to him during class time. We appeared when the bell rang and disappeared at the end of the period. It took a powerful mind to do that, the mind of a famous writer.
    The more he talked, the dumber I felt for not knowing who he was when he first came to class. All his books were in the library. Well, they weren’t when I first checked, but within a few days of his being at the school they were on the shelf. His website was filled with the wonderful things that he’d said and done and wonderful things others said about him. I couldn’t find much else on the web about him, but I think that’s because he was just so big he tried to avoid too much publicity.
    You could see by the way he joked with and talked to the other teachers that they all liked him, even Ms. Surette. I think he was only teaching because he loved to sharewhat he knew. Or perhaps he was just doing research for his next book.
    As for his critique of the students’ career choices, he was just trying to get us to look at things in a more realistic way, to prepare us for the “real world.”
    As the semester went by, I became certain that Chill’s dislike for Mr. Sfinkter was simply jealousy and anger at the brutality of his honesty. Chill hated that I was getting the attention for a change. He was jealous that Mr. Sfinkter would let me work on my book but wouldn’t let him work on his sketches. The day I finished the book and brought it into class was the day Chill’s jealousy boiled over.

Chapter Ten
    Chill and I ended up working behind a large tarp so that no one in the school would see the mural until it was completed. We were allowed to hook speakers up to my iPod as long as we kept it low. It made it easier to work without talking—less awkward.
    â€œI’ve got to go,” I told him one day.
    â€œWhere?” he asked. “The bell won’t go for a while.”
    â€œI want to get to class early to give Mr. Sfinkter my book.”
    â€œYou finished it? That’s great!” he said with what could have been taken for genuine excitement. “Can I read it?”
    â€œYeah, sure,” I told him. “I’ll get you a copy when I get a chance.”
    â€œYou can just e-mail it to me.”
    â€œOkay,” I said, collecting my things. “Is it okay if I go?”
    â€œOf course.”
    I started to get out from under the tarp when he called after me.
    â€œSean,” he said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œGood luck.”
    â€œSure.”
    Impatiently I waited at the front of the class for the bell to ring and for Mr. Sfinkter to appear. I think the rest of the class was there, although I didn’t notice. I hadn’t noticed them for most of the semester.
    Mr. Sfinkter came in wearing a bright green jacket and red bow tie,