Out of Order by A. M. Jenkins

biology and English. Now, I understandMr. Hammond insists on writing little notes on everybody’s paper. I don’t mind waiting for that, because it’ll be nice to get a bunch of good comments in red ink for a change.
    But Ms. Keller is just plain lazy. She’s sitting on her ass letting my muscle test gather dust. She gets off work at three thirty, for cripe’s sake! She could have given me my A the same day I took the test.
    With all the waiting I’ve had to do lately, I spend as much time outside as I can. For one thing, I eat lunch outside a lot at school. The weather’s been nice, and even just being out there in the sun and wind clears my brain. Any worries I have get vacuumed right out.
    Today Eric, Patrick, Stu, and I are sitting near the top of the bleachers. The guys are eating sandwiches from Carshon’s. I’ve already finished mine. I’m stretched out across three rows, my equipment bag on the footboard under me while I wait for the guys to be done so we can hit a few balls, or toss a few back and forth, or whatever.
    I love days like this—out-the-classroom-window kind of days. The sun is out, but it’s fall so it’s not too hot, and the breeze feels like it’s going to lift you off the bleachers, just pick you up and float you away.
    The other guys are eating really slow, and Eric’s going on about his grandma, or maybe it’s his sister, I’m not really sure. It’s always whoever’s fucking up his familythe most at the moment. Whatever. If I’m not worried about my worries, I’m sure not worried about Eric’s.
    â€œEither my parents’ve got to give up their room,” Eric’s saying, “or they’re going to have to build a bathroom next to the family room and put in doors and everything.”
    I only halfway listen. I’m noticing that the old backstop way back by the farthest fence is completely gone now. It was mostly gone before—there were just a couple of steel posts sticking out of the ground. But now there’s not even that. Now nobody would even know that used to be a field.
    Too bad; that’s where my coach called practices when I was a little kid, on my first team. That’s where I learned that there are places where nobody cares if you can sound out words or not.
    â€œI don’t see why they can’t put her in Christine’s room.” Eric takes another bite of his sandwich. “I mean, Grandma could make it up the stairs if she really tried,” he adds with his mouth full. “And we could take her meals up to her. That way she’d be guaranteed a visitor at least three times a day. And why would she ever have to come back down? It’s not like she’s got a life.”
    Patrick and I nod agreement, although I haven’t really been listening and I’m sure Patrick hasn’t either. Stu opens his mouth to say something, but then he shuts itreal quick, because here comes Max Gutterson, the senior, walking around the corner of the refreshment stand. Max is carrying an equipment bag. Only the bag’s moving, and it’s making these ungodly yowling sounds.
    There’s a cat in there.
    We all stare at the bag. Eric’s been talking nonstop since we sat down out here—but looking at that bag, he doesn’t have much to say all of a sudden.
    â€œThat the cat that’s been hanging around all the time?” I ask Gutterson. Because I heard some of the cheerleader girls saying how they’ve been feeding this cute kitty that lives under the concession stand. I’ve also heard some of the guys complain how some stray cat’s been shitting in the dirt around home plate.
    â€œRight now it is,” says Gutterson.
    The bag twists and quivers and yowls. You got to wonder how it can breathe in there.
    â€œWe’ve all cleaned crap out of our cleats for the last time,” Gutterson adds. “Gimme a bat, Trammel.” He