PINTA PARADE

There is flutter and there is movement and there is the scent of cheap cologne and hairspray and there is youth. The arthritic squeak and colloquial hush of rusty lockers blinking open and clinking shut in a stuttered chorus of random clangs. Teachers standing outside their respective learning kilns in sentinel –like fashion.  We are falling through high school. We are empirical slaves to the shrill of the bell. We are ferrying books. We are perusing information and scratching our number two pencils into scantron sheet giving the answer that somehow will get us the premier alphabetical emblem. 

More than anything else I can't stoop emotionally drooling over Angelina Lighthouse, sniffing the back of her head as she swivels her chair in Cool Joe Thomas' Biology class.  

Cool Joe Thomas still has not taught one page,

 As I am walking out of History class I feel an arm halt in front of me as if protecting me from banging me head into the dashboard of the front seat of an oldsmobile.

It is coach Mann.

“David, excellent job on your first quiz.  Not many people ace those things right away.”

I don’t know what to tell him. This is the first time I have ever been held after class before by a teacher. I can’t understand how I can ace History and French and straggle behind the rest of the class in biology and advanced algebra.

“I really enjoy learning about early civilization. I really enjoyed reading all about ancient Greek and Hannibal crossing the Alps.”

Coach Mann smiles. He looks like he is ready to ruffle my hair On the wall is a poster for Last of the Mohicans, a movie staring Daniel Day Lewis which has just come out..

“I just want to say that you are really good at that cross-country aren’t you.”

I don’t  know how to respond. Coach Mann is smiling.

“Well, if ever you think about playing football I’m sure you;’d make one helluva fullback.”

He looks back at me and smiles. He outstretches his arm.

“In the mean time David keep it up. Keep on reading too.”

                                                        ***

Between classes Patrick is next to me the entire time, holding his books in front of him in a pyramid

I keep telling him that we need to be like his favorite word. Pat looks at me and quizzically says the word Fuck. I say no, nonchalant.

“Remember when you were jacking everything from the mall the day we rode our bikes out there everything was nonchalant.”

Patrick nods as if he has just taken a hit off a joint and says oh yeah.

Occasionally we see Tim. For reasons that makes no sense Tim is perennially wearing his purple sunglasses inside the school even though he has repeatedly been asked if he is looking for Helen Keller to give him a handjob.                                                             

I am chewing through French sentences. I am fucking algebraic equations. I am enthralled by Coach Manninoni history class even though my fellow freshman feel compelled to talk and jest and flirt while he is talking about Hannibal. While he is talking about Charlemgane, his football team is undefeated and ranked in the state and Coach M gives a lecture about the Magna Carta that defied me not to cry, even though everyone in the classroom is always talking because he is old, because everyone knows he is the football coach, because everyone knows his job is secure.

I am in love with Mr. Reents. I am convinced he is the most cultural human being I have ever met. I an enraptured with the name in which he straddles his desk as if it has equine genitals, brandishing the vocab book hymnal fashion

Mr. Reents is ebullient. He is kind. He makes you want to read. There is always coffee brewing in his classroom. He is constantly talking in the third person always referring to someone elusive as we.  He seems to wear a different polo shirt to class every day that is starched and extremely well ironed.

For some reason he loves to use the word, “really?” in an almost quizzical fashion.

At lunch Timm will say that apparently there was something going on where Mrs. Donaghue was vying to teach Trig and High school Calculus only those classes were given to veteran staff.  She teaches mainly a lot of remedial math courses to FROSH and SOPH. Your is the most advance she teaches by far.

Tim is still wearing his purple sunglasses even though he is inside the cafeteria and it is raining outside.

“I just felt sad to be in your  class because apparently there was some sort of state grant that went along with teaching Advanced courses and, since she didn’t get it, she’s probably taking it all out on you.”

 B and C lunch over lap. Just as we are leaving I see Angie Lighthouse walk into the cafeteria.

She is walking all alone.