The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second by Drew Ferguson Page B

have thought that you already learned that.”
    The rebellion was squashed and, like it or not, we were gonna dissect the damn bugs. Yeah, I know, they aren’t bugs. Big whoop.
    Kyle came up to Steve and me as we were cutting our worm open. He was holding his against the bulge in his crotch.
    â€œJealous of it, Charlie? It’s bigger than yours.”
    â€œHow would you know, Kyle?” Marshall asked, laughing. “Been checking him out?” Kyle’s eyes narrowed.
    â€œYou’re a dead man, Marshall,” Kyle said. He flicked the worm at Steve. The worm smacked Steve’s cheek. “A dead man,” Kyle repeated, turning right into Mr. B, who was right behind him.
    â€œIf you wanted to spend time cleaning my lab after school, Mr. Weir,” Mr. B said, handing Kyle a pink detention slip, “you could have asked.”
    â€œBut I’ll miss football practice!” Kyle protested.
    â€œTwo fifty-five, be here. I’ll have a mop waiting.”
    Mr. B walked toward the blackboard and Kyle said, louder than he’d meant, “Goddamn Jew.”
    The class got so quiet I could hear the lab’s fluorescent lights humming. Mr. B stepped toward Kyle, looking like he wanted to squeeze Kyle’s head like a zit. Kyle scurried backward, slamming into a chair and scraping its metal legs across the linoleum. He was shaking so badly I expected to see piss gushing down his pant leg. Mr. B reached forward and Kyle winced.
    Mr. B took in the classroom with his eyes. “Seats. Now.” We couldn’t move fast enough. Kids were practically crawling over each other. Kyle stood there, his lower lip quivering. Mr. B pushed up his shirtsleeves, and said, “Mr. Weir, follow me.”
    They left, Kyle blathering about how sorry he was, how his parents were gonna kill him, how he didn’t mean it. Mr. B wasn’t a Jew; well, he was—just not a goddamned one. “He’s sooo dead,” someone said as Mrs. Dover, an earth science teacher, walked into the classroom and told us to shut up and read chapter three in our texts. Nobody saw Kyle or Mr. B for the rest of the day.
    As soon as I got home tonight, I called Bink to find out what happened. Principal Michael called in Weir’s parents and Kyle supposedly bawled through the whole meeting. Principal Michael pushed for an expulsion, not caring if that meant Kyle couldn’t get into a decent college. He didn’t want filth like Kyle at his school. According to Bink, Mr. Weir said he understood, but there were better ways of punishing Kyle: Kyle takes a three-day suspension, he’s off the football team, he has to write a 30-page paper on the Holocaust to be graded by Mr. B and Principal Michael, and for the rest of the semester, he’s gotta wear a yarmulke and Star of David pinned to his chest. If he takes them off or causes any problems, he’s expelled.
    Bink’s pissed about it, though. Not ’cuz Kyle’s off the team— C’mon, Charlie, it’s not like it’d make any difference, we’ll still lose —but because it’s Bink’s yarmulke Kyle’ll be wearing.
    I can’t stop thinking about the choir practice room. Wouldn’t it be awesome if Rob and I went all the way?
    Thursday, September 6
    Everybody at school’s heard about Kyle. All day, people’ve been asking Bink how to say “asshole,” “dickweed,” and “go fuck yourself” in Hebrew and Yiddish. At first, it pissed Bink off, ’cuz when Andy Moore wanted to know the Hebrew for “tampon,” Bink sent him scurrying off, shouting, “What do I look like, a rabbi?” But by lunch, Bink was really getting into it, even though he admitted he was just making stuff up.
    â€œI can’t believe it. I just told someone that l’chaim is ‘blow me’ in Yiddish.”
    Â 
    After practice today, Rob and I drove to Mister A’s on Dole