off her.
“You have twenty minutes,” Mr. Warhead says sharply, and I jump. How did he get here? Next to my mother.Who is slumped on the gurney. With the sheet partially covering her face. And her hand, limp and cold, dangling out from under the sheet. Reaching for me.
I look around me—everyone is writing furiously. I am feeling hot and cold at the same time. And nauseous. I stare at the blank piece of paper on my desk. And the photo on the board. And every time I look up and see the slain woman my eyes fill up so much I cannot see the lines on my paper, so it is impossible to write anything even if I could think of something to say.
“Time’s up!” Mr. Warhead announces, and he walks around the class collecting the papers.
The bell is ringing and I clutch my paper and slowly get up, too slowly because Mr. Warhead is standing in front of me. He grabs the paper out of my hand before I can escape.
“Just a minute, young lady!” he sputters. There is spit shooting out of his mouth. He clenches his teeth and wrinkles his nose as if my paper stinks. “Let me tell you something.” He looks up from my paper and grinds his gun-barrel eyes into me.“I’m tired of your flippant remarks and bad attitude. I spoke with your guidance counselor.You know, you’re not the first AP student I’ve taught. Just because you’re a little smarter than the average kid, don’t think you’re exempt from work.You’ll be getting an F.This will definitely have an effect on your grade this quarter.You’d better watch yourself or you’ll end up failing.”
I do not answer and stagger out into the hall but my heart is pounding. I have to pass this class.And he is the only World Civ teacher. There is no getting around him. He can destroy my chance to escape to Canada. To graduate early. Maybe even to graduate at all.
I start down the hall to biology and see the pointed-toe boot too late. My palms hit the linoleum with a slap and I am sprawled on the floor. I can smell the smoke of the Rat above me and hear his snickering. I scramble up as fast as I can and run past a blur of pushing, laughing, and shouting.
When I round the corner, I slow down enough to catch my breath. As I walk, I realize that I am sore, but I am not dead. I can survive the Rat. I am still shaking, however. I think it is partly rage. How dare he get away with treating people like this?
And I am enraged by Mr. Warhead, too. How dare he threaten me like that? Sure, I know how to pass his class. I can become the kind of perfect “Patriot” he wants to see . . . like the Rat. Ha! That will never happen, Mr. Warhead. Do not count your chicken-shits before they hatch. I will die before I become a Rat.
What am I saying? Why do I care? What difference does it make, anyway? I should just give Mr. Warhead what he wants, and then, hopefully, I can get what I want.
I pass the Armed Services posters by my guidance counselor’s office and think of the Dead Marine photo and stop and shudder. I look through the front windows of the school and see the snowstorm that has started. The snow is falling thick, heavy, with occasional swirls that twist in a dizzying, sickening pattern. It snowed just like this the day they told me my mother was gone forever. I remember that now.The snow poured out of the sky, whiting out everything. And I am not sure who cried more, the sky or me.
Back at Casa Quaker, Jessica is stirring a pot of soup on the stove. She is the only person I know who makes soup from scratch. It comes in cans now, Jessica. I believe Napoleon started that trend for his troops a few years back.
She looks at me, her eyes squinting. “Are you okay?”
I do not know how to answer this question. Is there anything at all about me that is “okay”? I do not bother to answer.
The Blob is saying his “awsh” noise and standing against the cabinet under the sink. I look at him because it is unusual for him to be upright on his own. He mistakes my look for interest and
“You have twenty minutes,” Mr. Warhead says sharply, and I jump. How did he get here? Next to my mother.Who is slumped on the gurney. With the sheet partially covering her face. And her hand, limp and cold, dangling out from under the sheet. Reaching for me.
I look around me—everyone is writing furiously. I am feeling hot and cold at the same time. And nauseous. I stare at the blank piece of paper on my desk. And the photo on the board. And every time I look up and see the slain woman my eyes fill up so much I cannot see the lines on my paper, so it is impossible to write anything even if I could think of something to say.
“Time’s up!” Mr. Warhead announces, and he walks around the class collecting the papers.
The bell is ringing and I clutch my paper and slowly get up, too slowly because Mr. Warhead is standing in front of me. He grabs the paper out of my hand before I can escape.
“Just a minute, young lady!” he sputters. There is spit shooting out of his mouth. He clenches his teeth and wrinkles his nose as if my paper stinks. “Let me tell you something.” He looks up from my paper and grinds his gun-barrel eyes into me.“I’m tired of your flippant remarks and bad attitude. I spoke with your guidance counselor.You know, you’re not the first AP student I’ve taught. Just because you’re a little smarter than the average kid, don’t think you’re exempt from work.You’ll be getting an F.This will definitely have an effect on your grade this quarter.You’d better watch yourself or you’ll end up failing.”
I do not answer and stagger out into the hall but my heart is pounding. I have to pass this class.And he is the only World Civ teacher. There is no getting around him. He can destroy my chance to escape to Canada. To graduate early. Maybe even to graduate at all.
I start down the hall to biology and see the pointed-toe boot too late. My palms hit the linoleum with a slap and I am sprawled on the floor. I can smell the smoke of the Rat above me and hear his snickering. I scramble up as fast as I can and run past a blur of pushing, laughing, and shouting.
When I round the corner, I slow down enough to catch my breath. As I walk, I realize that I am sore, but I am not dead. I can survive the Rat. I am still shaking, however. I think it is partly rage. How dare he get away with treating people like this?
And I am enraged by Mr. Warhead, too. How dare he threaten me like that? Sure, I know how to pass his class. I can become the kind of perfect “Patriot” he wants to see . . . like the Rat. Ha! That will never happen, Mr. Warhead. Do not count your chicken-shits before they hatch. I will die before I become a Rat.
What am I saying? Why do I care? What difference does it make, anyway? I should just give Mr. Warhead what he wants, and then, hopefully, I can get what I want.
I pass the Armed Services posters by my guidance counselor’s office and think of the Dead Marine photo and stop and shudder. I look through the front windows of the school and see the snowstorm that has started. The snow is falling thick, heavy, with occasional swirls that twist in a dizzying, sickening pattern. It snowed just like this the day they told me my mother was gone forever. I remember that now.The snow poured out of the sky, whiting out everything. And I am not sure who cried more, the sky or me.
Back at Casa Quaker, Jessica is stirring a pot of soup on the stove. She is the only person I know who makes soup from scratch. It comes in cans now, Jessica. I believe Napoleon started that trend for his troops a few years back.
She looks at me, her eyes squinting. “Are you okay?”
I do not know how to answer this question. Is there anything at all about me that is “okay”? I do not bother to answer.
The Blob is saying his “awsh” noise and standing against the cabinet under the sink. I look at him because it is unusual for him to be upright on his own. He mistakes my look for interest and
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