during this time.
“Yeah, I was just coming in here to replenish the oracle.”
That was when we noticed the hot plate on his desk.
“They’re rewiring the teachers’ lounge,” explained Mr.McCarthy. “This, my boys, is the source of all wisdom. Gaze into the waters of the oracle.”
We looked into Mr. McCarthy’s huge vat of soup. Earl’s description was pretty much on the money; the noodles looked like tentacles, and there were a lot of soggy wispy green leafy things. Actually, it looked like an entire ecosystem in there. I was sort of expecting to see snails.
“It’s called
pho
,” said Mr. McCarthy. “Pho” is apparently pronounced “fuh.”
“Lemme try some,” said Earl.
“Nope,” said Mr. McCarthy.
“Dag,” said Earl.
“Can’t give you guys food,” apologized Mr. McCarthy. “It’s one of those things they really don’t like teachers doing. It’s a shame. Earl, I can recommend a particular Vietnamese restaurant for you if you want. Thuyen’s Saigon Flavor, over in Lawrenceville.”
“I ain’t eatin out in no
Lawrenceville
,” said Earl with disdain.
“Earl refuses to go to Lawrenceville,” I said. I found that sometimes with Earl and another person around, a fun thing to do was narrate Earl’s behavior, especially if it meant simply rephrasing things that he said. Basically, the premise was that he had some irritating personal assistant who actually wasn’t useful in any way.
“I ain’t got eatin-out
money.
”
“Earl has no money allocated for that purpose.”
“Tryna get some
soup
up in here.”
“Earl was hoping to have some of
your
soup.”
“Not gonna happen,” announced Mr. McCarthy cheerfully, closing the tureen of soup. “Greg, throw me a fact.”
“Uh . . . Like much Vietnamese cuisine, pho includes elements of French cooking, specifically the broth, which is derived from the consommé.” I’m embarrassed to say this, but that fact came from the Food Network.
“RESPECT THE RESEARCH,” barked Mr. McCarthy. “Greg, you beasted on that fact.” He flexed his right biceps, then punched it with his left fist. “Continue the dominance.” He was insanely fired up. He was actually snarling a little. I thought he was going to attack me. Instead, he turned to face Earl.
“Earl, if you change your mind, you can tell Thuyen to put it on Mr. McCarthy’s tab. All right?”
“Awright.”
“His pho is much better than mine anyway.”
“Awright.”
“Gentlemen.”
“Mr. McCarthy.”
As soon as Mr. McCarthy left, of course, we got some paper cups and macked on that soup. It tasted OK: like chicken soup, but with strange overtones that we couldn’t identify. Sort of garlicky and licoricey at the same time. Anyway, it wasn’t mind-blowing. At least, not at first.
I first started to feel funny when the bell rang at the end of the day. I stood up and all the blood rushed to my head and I got that brown fuzzy wall in front of my eyes that you sometimes get when the blood rushes to your head, and I had to standthere until it went away. Meanwhile, my eyes were still open, and apparently they were staring at Liv Ryan, the first girl at our school to get a nose job. Specifically, my eyes were staring at her boobs.
From behind the brown fuzzy wall, Liv said some words. I could definitely hear the words, but for some reason I wasn’t able to put them together.
I had no idea what the fuck was going on.
“Greg, what’s your
problem
,” said Liv again, and this time I was able to determine what she was saying, and also her boobs slowly materialized.
“Blood,” I said. “My, uh, head.”
“What,” she said.
“Couldn’t see,” I said. It was hard to talk. Also, I had become aware that I looked and sounded like a moron. My voice sounded ridiculously nasal, like my face was about 80 percent nose.
“Blood rushed to my head and I couldn’t see,” I explained, although I may not have said all of those words correctly, or in that order.
“Greg,
“Yeah, I was just coming in here to replenish the oracle.”
That was when we noticed the hot plate on his desk.
“They’re rewiring the teachers’ lounge,” explained Mr.McCarthy. “This, my boys, is the source of all wisdom. Gaze into the waters of the oracle.”
We looked into Mr. McCarthy’s huge vat of soup. Earl’s description was pretty much on the money; the noodles looked like tentacles, and there were a lot of soggy wispy green leafy things. Actually, it looked like an entire ecosystem in there. I was sort of expecting to see snails.
“It’s called
pho
,” said Mr. McCarthy. “Pho” is apparently pronounced “fuh.”
“Lemme try some,” said Earl.
“Nope,” said Mr. McCarthy.
“Dag,” said Earl.
“Can’t give you guys food,” apologized Mr. McCarthy. “It’s one of those things they really don’t like teachers doing. It’s a shame. Earl, I can recommend a particular Vietnamese restaurant for you if you want. Thuyen’s Saigon Flavor, over in Lawrenceville.”
“I ain’t eatin out in no
Lawrenceville
,” said Earl with disdain.
“Earl refuses to go to Lawrenceville,” I said. I found that sometimes with Earl and another person around, a fun thing to do was narrate Earl’s behavior, especially if it meant simply rephrasing things that he said. Basically, the premise was that he had some irritating personal assistant who actually wasn’t useful in any way.
“I ain’t got eatin-out
money.
”
“Earl has no money allocated for that purpose.”
“Tryna get some
soup
up in here.”
“Earl was hoping to have some of
your
soup.”
“Not gonna happen,” announced Mr. McCarthy cheerfully, closing the tureen of soup. “Greg, throw me a fact.”
“Uh . . . Like much Vietnamese cuisine, pho includes elements of French cooking, specifically the broth, which is derived from the consommé.” I’m embarrassed to say this, but that fact came from the Food Network.
“RESPECT THE RESEARCH,” barked Mr. McCarthy. “Greg, you beasted on that fact.” He flexed his right biceps, then punched it with his left fist. “Continue the dominance.” He was insanely fired up. He was actually snarling a little. I thought he was going to attack me. Instead, he turned to face Earl.
“Earl, if you change your mind, you can tell Thuyen to put it on Mr. McCarthy’s tab. All right?”
“Awright.”
“His pho is much better than mine anyway.”
“Awright.”
“Gentlemen.”
“Mr. McCarthy.”
As soon as Mr. McCarthy left, of course, we got some paper cups and macked on that soup. It tasted OK: like chicken soup, but with strange overtones that we couldn’t identify. Sort of garlicky and licoricey at the same time. Anyway, it wasn’t mind-blowing. At least, not at first.
I first started to feel funny when the bell rang at the end of the day. I stood up and all the blood rushed to my head and I got that brown fuzzy wall in front of my eyes that you sometimes get when the blood rushes to your head, and I had to standthere until it went away. Meanwhile, my eyes were still open, and apparently they were staring at Liv Ryan, the first girl at our school to get a nose job. Specifically, my eyes were staring at her boobs.
From behind the brown fuzzy wall, Liv said some words. I could definitely hear the words, but for some reason I wasn’t able to put them together.
I had no idea what the fuck was going on.
“Greg, what’s your
problem
,” said Liv again, and this time I was able to determine what she was saying, and also her boobs slowly materialized.
“Blood,” I said. “My, uh, head.”
“What,” she said.
“Couldn’t see,” I said. It was hard to talk. Also, I had become aware that I looked and sounded like a moron. My voice sounded ridiculously nasal, like my face was about 80 percent nose.
“Blood rushed to my head and I couldn’t see,” I explained, although I may not have said all of those words correctly, or in that order.
“Greg,
Similar Books
