cymbal. I kicked it again.
The door banged open against the adjacent locker. Wincing, my stomach acids boiling, I grabbed the purse and unzipped it and looked inside. I was not aware of the block of sunlight on the hallway floor to my right until it was pierced by someone’s shadow.
It was Gottschalk, motionless, observing me through his thick and rippled features. I looked at the purse in my hand. It was dainty, sequined, and pink. There was no way I could turn this into something it wasn’t. Slowly I put the purse back into the locker and shut the door. I turned my eyes to the biology teacher, but all I could see was my mother’s shamed expression. My hands were shaking; it might have been food deprivation, or it might not.
“The ruling class at this school is not effective at applying discipline,” Gottschalk said finally. “They’re not effective at prevention, they’re not effective at detection, they’re not effective at sniffing out losers—in short, they’re not effective. This is why I do not involve them unless absolutely necessary.”
I found myself nodding thoughtfully. It was a pitiful attempt to win him over. I felt like a child.
“Mr. Crouch, I appreciate the difficulties of acclimation. We were all new somewhere at some time. But this, to be blunt, is quite over any line we could draw. Not that I’m surprised. I foresaw problems with you right away. It’s not all your fault, of course. As you’ll learn in class, genetics has a big part to play in each of us. Nevertheless, the onus is always upon the individual to overcome and transcend those genetics. Biology, Mr. Crouch, it all comes back to biology.”
I was still nodding. My neck muscles, made of water and coffee, wobbled.
“So here is what happens now. You walk away from here knowing that the next time you do this, it’s not suspension, it’s expulsion. You also walk away knowing you have an enemy and you’re looking at him. Oh, surprised? That an instructor can say such things? I am not of the new guard, Mr. Crouch. What you get from me, in the class or out, you earn by acting like a man. I suggest you brush up on your biology. Because every day from here on out it is going to be you versus me. Am I making myself clear? Any time I want an answer, it’s you I’m going to call on first. Any time I feel like assigning additional work, guess what? You’re the first one invited. Until I feel you have earned this back, this shameful act, you don’t have a stone to stand on, a pot to poop in.” The thick curds of his features straightened. “That’s the whole kit and caboodle, Crouch. Get to lunch.”
11.
THE METTLE IT TOOK to coerce my legs into action and lead me away from study hall was equal to any accomplishment up to that point in my life. I slanted my way to the office. Laverne was not there. It was just as well. I mumbled something about signing up for band. They told me that Mr. Granger, the band instructor, had a free period right now and that I could go see him right away. They indicated the direction and I slid across the wall until I was there.
Mr. Granger was a tall, thin man with round glasses and an abbreviated mustache. When I appeared in his doorway he blinked at me as if I had blood gushing out of my mouth. “I’m Joey Crouch,” I rasped. “I’m here for band.”
He beckoned me with a hummingbird gesture that reminded me of my mom at her most impatient. I collapsed into a chair alongside his desk. My eyes locked onto a dish of peppermint candies nearly lost amid the desktop clutter.
“Candy?” It was all I could say.
“What, you want a piece?” he asked, but before the question was out of his mouth I had three in my hand and was furiously shredding the wrappers. I sucked and crunched, closing my eyes, the sugar stinging my tongue. Mr. Granger crossed his arms and watched me.
“What do you play?” he asked after a while.
“Trumpet,” I mumbled from behind the peppermints.
“You have it with you?”
I shook my head, grinding the candies to pink salt.
“My name is Ted Granger,” he said. The introduction seemed misplaced. I nodded anyway, thinking it might buy me a few more candies. “All my troops just call me Ted.”
“Joey.”
“Joey, you’re a transfer,” he said. “You don’t