King Dork

magician-clown. I was five. And I was pretty sure that if I ever did go to a high school party I wouldn’t be any more comfortable than I was then. But it was immaterial because there was more chance of gumdrops falling from the sky and all God’s crystal unicorns overthrowing the government and dancing on the White House lawn than there was of anyone at Hillmont High letting me or Sam Hellerman into any of their precious parties. It just wasn’t gonna happen.

But Sam Hellerman had some old friends who’d gone from McKinley Intermediate to CHS rather than Hillmont.

Maybe they hadn’t grasped how risky it would be to be seen hanging around with him. Or maybe, for some bizarre reason, they didn’t care all that much. They do things differently in Clearview. It’s like a whole other culture.

At any rate, Sam Hellerman was planning to attend this party, which was being held in a couple of weeks at the house of some CHS kid whose parents were going to be out of town. I could come along, too, if I wanted. In fact, he was kind of insistent. He really wanted me to go. I had a “let’s play it by ear” attitude, but he was having none of that: he wanted a solid commitment.

“So,” he said, “you’re definitely coming, right?”

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It’s strange to think what a different type of sophomore year I would have ended up having if I had refused, as I almost did, or if, in the event, I had tried to wiggle out of it in some way, which would have been very much in character for me. But for some reason, I said okay. He made me promise to honor that okay, too. I gave him a look but agreed.

Maybe he was nervous and needed moral support. No one would know me, so I felt pretty safe saying yes. Plus I’d only experienced this situation in movie and commercial form. I wanted to see what life was like on the other side. Of Broadway Plaza Terrace Camino, that is.

30 Days to a More Powerful Vocabulary didn’t take anywhere near thirty whole days in Mr. Schtuppe’s English class.

So once we reached “weltschmerz,” we immediately started over again with “abortive.”

Eventually, though, time was up, and the vocabulary section was over. I think we stopped the second go- through at around “dipsomania.”

Now it was time to start the reading.

I was bummed, but not terribly surprised, to see Mr.

Schtuppe writing The Catcher in the . . . on the board. There really is no other book they ever want you to read. I had my own copy. It’s standard school equipment.

Everyone is required to carry a copy at all times. Hall monitors stop you on your way to class and won’t let you pass unless you show them your valid Catcher in the Rye. The Salinger Boys kick your ass and you get expelled if you’re caught wandering in the halls without one. Okay, that’s an exaggeration.

We don’t actually have hall monitors at our school. But otherwise, that’s pretty much mostly almost exactly how it is.

Anyway, I opened my backpack and pulled out my Catcher.

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Now, the AP English teachers would have smiled an

“aha, one of us” smile and said a silent prayer of thanks to the nonconformist gods. Or they might even have taken me aside to tell me the fond story of how they used to carry around a copy of that book with them everywhere when they were young and how it helped them through troubled times and how their door is always open if I ever need to talk.

But Mr. Schtuppe didn’t have that level of interest. He was waiting to die. Why should he care about instilling a sense of tame rebelliousness in the above-average students? I got two extra credit points for having my own book. But then I got three minus credit points for writing “Beat Noir-ay rules ok” on my desk.

Once again Mr. Schtuppe had his own approach to teaching the joys of literature. The first assignment was to copy out chapter one, highlight the words with three or more syllables, define them, and use them in sentences.

I just sat there staring at page one, wondering if it was even possible to mispronounce “autobiography.”

TH E S P ORTI NG LI F E

PE is probably the most unpleasant fifty minutes of a person’s day-to-day life at HHS. For one thing, they force you to wear this brutal outfit consisting of these gay little blue and white George Michael shorts and a reversible T- shirt that says

“Boogie Knights.” There are many danger zones, but two of the most dangerous are: at the beginning when you take off your street clothes to put on the gay little blue and white shorts and the reversible Boogie Knights T- shirt, and at the end when you take off the g. l. b. & w. shorts and the r. B. K. T. and attempt to put your regular clothes back on.

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There are a few seconds there when you are essentially naked, standing among a bunch of big, mean normal guys who hate you just for existing and who are constantly asking each other “who you callin’ faggot, homo?” (It’s a call-and-response game, the response being: “I ain’t no homo. Who you callin’ homo, faggot?” This is a self- sustaining loop that can literally go on for hours if uninterrupted.) As a rule, they are so absorbed in this game and assorted homoerotic horse-play amongst themselves that they barely notice you. But if your timing is such that you end up being naked at the same moment that they are partially or fully clothed, and one of them happens to notice you, you can be in big trouble. All the usual high school tortures can come into play here, but being naked while they are happening makes them all much worse. Plus there’s something about the PE situation that makes a certain type of socially well-situated psychopath unable to resist issuing threats about how his plans for beating you up include the ambition to stick various things up your butt. Which can be pretty disturbing. Yay, team. What a great bunch of guys.