Patrick and I keep on rowing. It is as if we are Lewis and Clark charting unknown territory. There are standard clicks. There are bathrooms erupting with smoke. There is the scent of extremely-watered down coffee. After fourth hour is study hall, conducted in the auditorium by the band director Mr. Graves where he mandates are we are allowed to communicate only he is not allowed to hear us if we endeavor to do so. Mr. Graves is wearing thick sunglasses and sports somewhat of a fro. At first he looks like an extra in a late-seventies low budget Pam Grier flick. I sit by myself in the ample auditorium. I have been handed every book .I flip through the equations and alphabetical emblem in my enriched algebra books. I flip through the diminutive vocab book and the Debate book. I think about how intriguing Mr Reents’ lecture was. Purportedly we are supposed to read and take notes in cool Joe Thomas class on the first 50 pages.
Coach Mann says that he plans on issuing text books sometime next week and that the first couple of days of class will be monopolized getting to know our fellow classmates since we are, in his verbatim, traversing across the bridge known as time.
The Boy w/out a Face is drowning through the ubiquitous clang of lockers and bodies ferrying backpacks and trapper keepers, chins brushing against each other in acknowledgement. I have a hard time getting my locker open. The combination is a patch and every time he endeavors to pinch my fingers at the navel orb it refrains from opening. He yanks. Finally it succumbs. For reasons I can’t put into words it is almost essential that I doff my thick glasses when I wade in the sociological kiddie pool between classes.
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