6:02 AM. My alarm clock plays the theme from Quantum Leap as does my cell phone. I often think of it as my personal theme song. Though I have to call myself to hear it because everyone hates me. I tried to tell my mom that I’m too old to share a bunk bed with my nine year old brother, Ernie. I’m a junior in high school for chrissakes. It doesn’t matter. Everyone knows I’m in Purgatory. I’m a nerd, but I’m not smart. I’m not athletic. I’m not charming. I’m not even a nice guy. I just AM. My mother works from home, processing rebate checks for consumers of third-party software. We have an entire room full of Calender Maker Pro and Mavis Beacon Teaches the Cyrillic Alphabet.
My dad has been on “furlough” since 1986. The last time I saw him, I was watching Airwolf with my cousin Jerry.
First period. I sit behind Sally Crawford in Calculus. I know I don’t have A.D.D. because I’m good at having thorough internal monologues like this one while Miss Ford explains the importance of the shaded area beneath a parabola. At first, I suspect that Sally uses Pert Plus. But now, I’m sure it’s Strawberry Suave. Her hair smells like Glad bags.
Second period. World History. Mr. Hallmark loves to give multiple choice tests. I noticed his collection of disco compilations the other day; so, I guessed A., B., B., A. all the way down the Scantron. I scored an 85.
Third period. Woodshop. Mr. Sterling hates me because I make the same project over and over. Ever since Grady Anderson had an accident with the table saw, I make the one thing that requires little hardware, a sign that reads “Bless this mess” in the Indiana Jones font. He lost most of the fingers on his right hand. Ironically, he was suspended a few weeks later when he got caught fingering Sally Crawford in the B-hall bathroom.
Lunch. I usually take my own. Tuna on wheat and a box of Snackwells. Everyone sits in their own little groups except for the stoners – scattered about the building, listening to their Walkmans. My mom bought me a boombox for my birthday last year. I brought it to school and tried to form my own clique, but nobody wanted to hear Toad the Wet Sprocket.
Fourth period. Biology. Jill Douglas threw up on Gary Redland because I finished my tuna sandwich while the class watched The Miracle of Life. The janitor covered her puke with Ajax and sawdust. I wonder if that’s the same sawdust from my project in woodshop. If so, Mr. Sterling should give me a better grade for being indirectly useful.
Fifth period. Home Economics AKA The Nursery. This class is mostly pregnant teens and white males pretending to be Hispanic kids pretending to be angry and black. I was actually friends with Eric, this fat kid who always made calzones. But, he stopped talking to me when I borrowed his apron to clean up a slick spot where Sally Crawford’s water broke.
Sixth period. English II with Kwatu Lothag. Kwatu is from a country that no longer exists, and he speaks with an accent that none of us can discern. And, his numbers look like letters. So, when he grades my papers, I can’t tell whether I got a 65 or an ampersand followed by a lower-case j. Oh, he doesn’t wear deodorant, and he owns 35 unopened copies of the Atari game “Berserk”.
Final bell. Most high school kids drive themselves home, but the school district is obligated to provide transportation to all students. So, I ride the bus with a group from a nearby “special needs” academy. Despite common misconceptions, they’re actually critical and forthright. I learned this when the one they call “Pockets” approached me and said (while slurring and sniffing his index finger), “Taake off dat No Fear shurt. This ain’t nine-teeeen nine-tee fooooh.”
Back home. I’ll get up tomorrow and do it again. Same routine, same people.
