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“Some friends.”
    “Which beach?”
    “Ocean City. You?”
    “I worked for my father all summer.”
    “Doing what?” Paul asks.
    “Landscaping.”
    I focus on keeping my breathing as quiet as possible, keeping my feet from squeaking on the toilet seat. They’re quiet now, and the more I listen to the silence, the more I can hear myself think and know I am going to do something to give myself away.
    I close my eyes and think
please go away, please go away, please go away
, but they don’t go away and are no longer silent.
    They crash into the stall next to me.
    They grab and grunt and go at each other.
    Their stall door closes and locks and Paul says, in a way that I know he is smiling, “Zink, let me show you what I learned on my summer vacation.”

8
    T he rest of the day blows by in a blur with classes and lectures and roll calls and seating assignments in neckties and khaki pants, all the while I can’t get that girl with the deadly red hair out of my head.
    My teachers for the most part are old and irritatingly excited that school has started, except for one who doesn’t show for class at all—my English teacher, Mr. Rembrandt. How random is that? First day of school and already there’s a substitute in the room, putzing around with nothing to teach. In each class, the teachers seat us alphabetically in some way around the room, but in English the substitute lets us sit wherever we want. Of course, I wind up between two winners. On my left, there’s this Super Shy Kid who refuses to look at me or say his name when I introduce myself as I sit down. He even flinches when I dig into my bag for a pen. Fragile bitch. And then on my right, there’s the Dirtbag Boy who needed some serious cosmetic surgery. Maybe a chemical peel and a power scrub and a round of dermatologist appointments. Pimples so big they could be seen from space. I can only imagine what the Plaids are going to do to these sad suckers.
    The substitute isn’t like any substitute that I’ve ever seen before, either. Not only is he the on-call for the entire school—here every day, waiting to sub for any teacher that calls out sick or comes in late or leaves early for a family emergency—but he’s also the head coach of the varsity football team. He says his name is Dennis Vojzischek, but we should call him Mr. Vo. He doesn’t look like a football coach, but more like a thick-necked, post-collegestockbroker in a pinstriped, three-piece suit, slicked back hair, and brown leather briefcase open on the desk. A white pocket square peeks out form the breast pocket of his sport coat. He takes off his coat and hangs it on the back of a chair, revealing his vest fully buttoned up and a Windsor knot exposed. He doesn’t say much during class, except to call out our names and instruct us to read quietly. There’s no trace of an accent, despite his foreign-sounding last name. He’s soft spoken, but his voice is crystal clear, hitting every syllable hard. He never sits, but instead walks up and down each row and along the walls, his spit-shined shoes clicking with each step. At the end of class, he makes a fist and holds it in front of him.
    “This is a Catholic school, gentlemen. Yes?”
    No one answers.
    He lowers his fist, flexes his fingers, and then raises his fist again. “This is a Catholic school, gentlemen, yes?”
    “Yes,” we say.
    “Yes, sir,” he says.
    “Yes, sir,” we say.
    “And in a Catholic school we have prayer. In this Catholic school, we pray to St. John Baptist de La Salle and we pray to Jesus Christ. You will pray every day you are here. You will pray in every class of the day. Someone will say
St. John Baptist de La Salle
.” He punches his fist at us. “You will say
pray for us
.” He retracts his fist. “Someone will say
live Jesus in our hearts
.” He punches his fist back out. “You will say
forever
.” He lowers his hand. “So let’s try this one time and then call it a day. St. John Baptist de La