Sorry about the delay. Someone once said, “Life is what happens to us while we are making other plans.”  And, no, it was not John Lennon, it was Thamas la Mance. So, life interrupted my blog schedule. I’ll try again to post the next installment on Tuesday, the 18th.

For now, enjoy.

Karen turns fully away from me and slumps there, staring straight ahead.

It’s then Mr. Goodwin, our homeroom teacher, strolls in.

Where’s a cop when you need him.

He looks around the room. He turns his attention to his desk and sits. He picks up the attendance roster.

“Amirault?”

“Here.”

“Amos?”

“Here.”

“Blanchard?”

“Here.”

As the attendance drones on, I keep looking over at Anne. She appears to be busy with her book or taking notes or something. I don’t know if she even noticed the commotion.  When her name is called, she answers but doesn’t look up. I can’t see her face for the shimmering curls. There are stirrings in my groin. I think back to the Spin the Bottle game. I remember touching her hand when she gave up the tie. Her skin was smooth and warm as she passed the tie to me. I remember the perfume, too. There were stirrings then.

The bell ringing breaks me out of my damp daydream. The room bursts to life. I grab my stuff. As I get up, I see Joe is at the door already. So does Karen.  She seems to be taking her time gathering her books, notebook and pocketbook.

“Hey, Karen,” Joe says impatiently, “let’s go.”

I get by Joe without incident or comment. He’s too busy with Karen to bother with me this time. I look back into the room for Anne. She’s talking to Peter.

I head up the corridor to my bookkeeping class. What a way to start the day with the worst class of the day or the week, for that matter.

Bookkeeping turns out to be as bad as I thought. Since I didn’t finish my homework last night, I have trouble following what to do next.  The ants are back.

It doesn’t help that I keep thinking about Anne.

What class is she in right now? What was she talking to Peter about? Was he asking her to the Fall Ball?  That’s in a couple of weeks. Maybe I should ask her. What do I say, though?  Maybe I could be like Little Joe Cartwright in Bonanza. When he asked that farmer’s daughter to the barn dance that time. He took his hat off and looked humble. I think he even blushed a little when he asked her. He did something else that I can’t remember. Anyway, maybe, I can ask Anne to the Fall Ball. Kathleen showed me a few steps. Well, Anne is in Art today so maybe I can ask her then.

Now bookkeeping was looking better. The ants are gone. I didn’t care if I was behind. I didn’t care that I couldn’t answer the question Mr. Tringale asked. I was going to the Fall Ball with Anne.

Bookkeeping finally ends. I pick up my books and head into the corridor toward the West Wing and Biology.

Suddenly, I’m hit on my left shoulder from behind.

“Hey, fag, I see you talking to my girl again, I’ll hit you harder.”

Joe’s mouth is right next to my ear. I smell bad teeth and cigarettes.

I mutter, “Okay.”

The sweat dribbles down my back and my heart is pounding.

Then he’s gone, blending into the stream of students ahead of me.

Still a little shaken from Joe’s warning, I take my seat. Today’s the day the Leaf Project is due. We had to find nine different kinds of leaves and identify them.

I open my book bag. As I pull the Leaf Project notebook out, I hear a riffling and a whishing sound. I lay the notebook on the desk and open it. The sounds are more distinct now and are coming fro the back. When I get to the back pages, all the evergreen samples in the wax paper bags have lost their needles. They weren’t that way when I finished everything on Wednesday.

What happened? All the deciduous leaves are all okay.

Then I remember. When I was putting the first evergreen branches in a bag I noticed a needle or two fall off. So, thinking I was as clever as Mr. Wizard, I sprayed all the branches with fixative. I thought it would “fix” them to the branches. Then I stapled the bags to each page.

Now I see that the fixative must have made all the needles fall off each branch.

What am I going to do now?

Now to make things worse, I have to face Mr. Craigson. When I was telling Mom that Mr. Craigson was like a drill sergeant, I wasn’t exaggerating. He used to be in the Marines, as he’s always telling us. He looks kind of like Joe. They both have crew cuts. They both have jet-black hair. And are both bigger than me. But Mr. Craigson has a couple tatooes one of which is a heart with a knife through it.

By now kids are coming into class. Some of them are showing each other their notebooks. I put mine back in my bag. I have no friends to share with in this class. Being in the very front makes it hard to talk with anyone. In fact, I face Mr. Craigson. He insisted that we all sit alphabetically so I ended up in this seat.

Mr. Craigson strides into the room followed by the smell of old Spice cologne. He has his uniform on: black shiny shoes, black pants, a white shirt and tie. By the time he gets to his desk, the room is quiet.

He takes attendance.

“All right, people,” he utters, “pass up the project starting from the back and pass them forward. Be sure to put yours on top as you pass it.”

As he’s speaking, I pull my notebook slowly out of my bag, trying not to have it make any noise. As the pile gets to me, I grab it and ever so carefully place mine on the top.

Mr. Craigson takes a pile from each row and methodically places them on a table near his desk.

When he gets to my row, my notebook makes that noise as he gruffly takes the pile from me.

He looks at the pile momentarily and then at me.

“What do you have in your notebook, Joyce? A baby’s rattle?”

There’s sporadic tittering and chuckles.

He puts the pile on my desk and takes my notebook in his hands. He shakes it.

“What the devil?”

Now I’m feeling like I want to hide under the desk. Everyone is looking.

He opens the notebook and it rains needles. They’re bouncing off my desk and my head.

The room explodes in laughter.

He looks up from the notebook at the class.

“Quiet!”

He looks back to me.

“You want to fix this, Joyce?” he asks, handing me the notebook. He turns and snatches a stapler from his desk and plunks it on mine. “Now.”

I fumble with the notebook pages to find the broken bag. It’s the next to last. I hastily push the needles into a pile on my desk but many stick to my sweaty fingers. I get most of the needles back into the bag. I staple the bag back together and onto the page. I hand the notebook back.

“Now clean up that desk.”

I brush the needles off my desk.

“Not on my nice clean floor, Joyce! You’d never make it as a Marine. Pick them up and dispose of them correctly,” his voice edgy with irritation.

I scramble out of my seat. I pick up the needles clumsily and deposit as many of them as I can into the wastebasket.

During all of this, Mr. Craigson finishes collecting all the notebooks.

Just as I’m sitting down, he says to me, “Joyce, I still see some of those needles around your desk. Do a better job of policing that area.”

I pick up more needles and throw them away.

“Joyce, I still see more. Don’t be so lazy and careless. Pay attention to what you’re doing.”

I pick up even more needles. I’m on my hands and knees scouring the floor for the errant needle or two. They continue to stick to my fingers making the job difficult and slow.

“Joyce, hurry up. I have a class to instruct.”

At this point, I feel like crying. My face is flush and hot. There are still small burps of laughter that Mr. Craigson ignores.

I make yet another trip to the basket.

“All right, Joyce, that’ll have to do. I can’t wait any longer.”

I return to my seat. I can feel the stares from the other on my back. I shut my eyes but it doesn’t help. They’re making me feel stupid and helpless.

“All right, people, get out your textbooks. Turn to page 192, the section on the parts of a forest.”

The class just crawls by. What’s worse I can easily see the clock over the door. I swear there’s a lead weight on the minute hand. I keep looking at it every few minutes.

“Joyce, watching the clock won’t make it go any faster.”

“Joyce, if you paid as much attention to your book as the clock, you’d ace this course.”

“Joyce, I shouldn’t have to repeat my question. Now what is the canopy?”

Finally the bell puts an end to Biology. I cram my textbook, notebook, and pencil into my bag, hoist it onto my shoulder, and beat everyone out of the room.

I’m barely aware of my surroundings. I’m conscious of moving with the rush of everyone. But my mind is still on Biology class. I’m recalling the moment when Mr. Craigson reprimands me for brushing the needles onto the floor.

“Not on my nice clean floor, Joyce! Pick them up and dispose of them correctly.”

“Make me,” I scowl in his face.

“What did you say, you little runt?”

“You heard me.” My gaze doesn’t waver.

Now I have my Colt 45 out and pointed at Craigson’s middle. I pull the hammer back.

“You know what? You come over her and you pick them up.”

We stare at each other, neither one moving. Mr.Craigson is the first to break his stare and moves toward my desk.