2007-05-09
find the cheese
It's raining in the classroom. I take my seat and dodge the drops that splatter from the ceiling.
"It's freon," says Thayer. "I can smell it."
I try to imagine what freon smells like. I suck in a gulp but only get a whiff of the moldy carpet. My English teacher, Ms. Perez, is going on about Virginia Woolf and stream-of-consciousness. I rest my head on my desk and she hustles over to me.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asks. She isn't really asking. This is code-speak for: wake up.
A clanging noise makes me jump. A cell phone? A fire alarm? Ms. Perez keeps reading from her chewed-looking paperback. Droplets have darkened her blouse like freckles. She's so into her book, she doesn't notice the knock at the door.
A construction worker in paint-stained overalls cracks open the door. He stares at the tidal wave on the carpet, the cauliflower stains on the ceiling. The clanging noise is not an alarm.
"It's just a test," he tells us.
A test for what?
As if on cue, the noise shuts off and he leaves, slamming the door behind him.
I stare at a poster above the whiteboard: "Movement in a new direction helps you find the cheese."
Ms. Perez always staples stuff like that on the wall and it never makes any sense. Sometimes I almost feel sorry for her.
After class, I take smeary pictures of the parking lot with my cell phone.
Trent walks by and says, "What are you doing?" about ten million times. No matter what I say, he keeps asking. So finally I turn around and tell him:
"I'm finding the cheese."
f-i-n at 9:25 a.m.