She squeezed my body with all of hers until the buses gave off one-minute-warning honks for stragglers. Then we ran at the circle, June yelling a song that went:
I am sorry I was mean to you,
Gurion Maccabee!
I kicked and I tripped you
And said go away!
I am sorry I was mean to you,
Gurion Maccabee!
I am so sorry!
I was mean!
Kids piled up at the buswindows and stuck their heads out and looked at us. The ones who were shmendricks made faces, smooched air. Still running, I looked into the eyes of three of them, none of whom I recognized. Each of the three fell back from his window and ducked below the frame.
At the door of June’s bus, she said, “I’m forgiven.”
I said, Yes.
“I wasn’t asking,” she said, then gave me a fast but painful tittytwist. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m forgiven.”
I didn’t say anything.
June said, “Good.” She pulled her hoods on and climbed the steps. I watched her make her way down the aisle til she got to the wheel-well seat and sat.
When I spun, I almost broke my nose on Bam Slokum’s elbow, but he moved it just in time.
“June Watermark,” he said to me, “is crazy.”
Take it back, I said.
Bam said, “There’s no such thing, kid. And no one’s listening but you and I and I’m not even fucking with you, just giving you a friendly warning because she’s crazy and crazy girls — they’re dangerous, especially when they’re beautiful. So lighten up.”
I said, You’re not my friend.
“I’m no one’s friend,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean I don’t have friends, nor does it mean I can’t act friendly, and it doesn’t change the fact that you need a friendly warning.” He said it in the same yawny whisper he’d used on the bus the day before. He said, “You’re ten years old and I’ve got at least ninety pounds on you and the way you’re talking to me — it’s like a Pomeranian or a Shih Tzu or some long-haired fucken Chihuahua in a blonde girl’s purse baring his teeth at a Chow. You know what a Chow is? He’s the most loyal guard-dog in the world, but only to one master. Pretty, too. A mane like a lion’s. Comes from China. We got a Chow at my mom’s house. He’s hers. You want to pet him when you see him, his melting black eyes, the mane — he looks almost fake, like a stuffed animal, something to cuddle, but what he wants most is to tear the face off your head. And no warning, either. Chow’s boundaries — not clearly defined. Maybe he lets you pet his mane, maybe his nose even, but then all of a sudden you touch him on the haunch, the knee, someplace you wouldn’t expect was so personal — Chow bites all your fingers off, goes at your vitals when you hit the ground if he’s in the mood, and if you’re reckless enough to backtalk me, you’re reckless enough to think you understand girls like June Watermark, and you don’t understand her because she’s crazy and crazy people — they’re misunderstood. It’s why they’re called crazy. And you probably think you’re in love with her — it’s what Boystar told me you said in the Office, and that’s a fine thing to say to a girl, even a crazy girl, but if you think you mean it, it’s a different story. Because what’s love without understanding, Gurion? A fucken lie it is.”
June isn’t crazy, I said.
“Just warning you,” said Bam.
Busdrivers honked and I turned a little, saw Nakamook looking at me through his buswindow. I thought: You have failed your friend, listening willfully to this kingly basketballer’s monologue.
“Bus can’t leave without you,” Bam said. “Not as long as you’re standing here.”
I said, I know.
He said, “Ah, right. Nakamook. I see him. He sees me seeing him. He saw you seeing him. Everyone’s seeing everyone see everyone and it’s twisting you up in the face because you think you’ve gotta do something to slight me to show him you’re loyal. It’s always loyalty with that kid, right? Loyalty this and loyalty that. Thing is though, Gurion, your buddy Nakamook knows me, studies me, is on the edge of his seat in terms of when he’s gonna try to end me, and it’s because he thinks I’m his enemy, and maybe I am, but why should you be worried about what he’s thinking right now? Why is it your loyalty getting tested and not his? He hates me so much? He thinks I’m so dangerous, so untrustworthy and dangerous — why isn’t he rushing out here to protect you from me, understand? There’s two possible answers. One, is that he is testing your loyalty — and that ain’t a very loyal thing to do to a friend, ain’t a very friendly thing to do to someone to whom you claim loyalty; and the other possibility is he’s scared. But if he’s so scared then what does he expect of you here? Bravery? These questions are rhetorical. What I’m getting at is that’s no dumb guy, Nakamook. He’s sharp, right? Knows himself. Knows it’s either he’s testing you or he’s scared, knows the implications of each, so how can he fault you for having a conversation with me? He can’t. Not if he’s your friend. And so how can you fault yourself? You can’t help it that you like me. People like me. Even people I’ve hurt. Not while I’ve hurt them, but after, see. And I’m not hurting you right now. So what are you supposed to do?”
Someone honked a car-horn then. It felt like a rimshot. I revolved. The car was a Jeep. A Cherokee in Aptakisic’s parking lot. Another rimshot. Behind the wheeclass="underline" a high-school blonde guy, snowboarder sunglasses. He reached a bulgey arm out the window and smacked the fender. “Bam!” he shouted.
“That’s Claymore,” said Slokum.
Geoff Claymore? I said.
“Bam Slokum!” shouted Claymore from his Jeep.
“You want to meet him? We’ll give you a ride. Tell you some stories about your pyro friend over there.” He pointed at Nakamook. Nakamook looked puzzled and off-guard. His eyes looked glassy, but it might have been the bus window. “Look!” Bam shouted to Claymore. “It’s Benji Nakamook.”
“I thought that smell I smelled was pussy, not gasoline!” Claymore shouted back.
“Turned out it was both!” Slokum yelled. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said as he walked away from me. “Don’t look at me all stunned. I’m exactly what’s called for, kid, at all times, and wide open as your mouth may be, you’re not calling for anything. You’re just standing there, a little boy. Have fun on the bus.”
11 TEACHERS
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Intramural Bus — Bedtime
MIDTERM ESSAY (TAKE-HOME)
7TH GRADE SOCIAL STUDIES (CAGE)
MR. BEAGLE
ANSWER THE FOLLOWING QUESTION IN 1–2 PAGES. BE SURE TO HAVE A CLEAR THESIS STATEMENT, CLEAR TOPIC SENTENCES THAT SUPPORT THE THESIS STATEMENT, AND SUPPORTING EVIDENCE FROM THE TEXTBOOK TO SUPPORT YOUR TOPIC SENTENCES.
THIS ESSAY IS DUE ON OCTOBER 31.
QUESTION
HOW DID THE EVENTS OF 9/11 CHANGE
WHAT IT MEANS TO BE AMERICAN?
9-1-1 Is a Joke
or
How We Did It at the
Solomon Schechter School of Chicago
Gurion Maccabee
10/31/06
Ancient/Prehistoric
Slapslap is older than giving the swearfinger. It is probably the oldest game human beings still play. The slappee holds his hands out, knuckles-up, above the held-out, knuckles-down hands of the slapper; the slapper tries to slap the tops of the hands of the slappee, and the slappee tries not to get slapped. Some slapslappers play a flirty, unscored form of which the object is only to play the game, but most play to win. You win when you score a previously agreed-on number of points — usually 13 or 21.