Dragonfly Wings

my food is thine

It was a relatively simple question put forth to all of us on a Tuesday afternoon in Mr. Blumenthal's English class. Jordan, who until then had been feeding me left over bits from his Mother's respectable cooking of bacon spinach tart, made apprehensive noises with various strokes of his color pencil on paper. But he was half French and that justified his need to have an artistic temperament. Anyhow, I could tell you that there wasn't a soul here who was even remotely interested in the slow-paced monotone voice of Mr. Blumenthal, who, in excruciating detail, talked about dead people and unimportant matters.

He observed all of us, standing in a position that indicated he was waiting for an answer which none of us had.

"Anyone?"

Some poor child in the front row thought they'd be smart.

"Sir, Shakespeare was a great English writer."

Mr. Blumenthal did not look amused.

"I need answers with depth." He turned to the black board and wrote "INSIGHT" at an incredible speed to prove his point.

Jordan continued his supply of cold bacon tart to my mouth- we were the only back-benchers. I brushed the crumbs off my lap and stood up.

"Shakespeare's identity itself is sometimes disputed. But most people today consider him the greatest of all dramatists."

"Tal Furmanski preparing her Israeli guns for attack," I heard Jordan whisper.

Mr. Blumenthal turned to me and gave me an inscrutable look, which probably was a good sign.

"Do continue."

"And the audience anticipates warfare between two formidable opponents!"

"His plays demonstrate a profound understanding of the nature of humanity. His skill with language and his ability to construct a story through dramatic and poetic means is unequaled."

"Tal continues gunfire, as Bloom readies himself for counterattack," went Jordan's running commentary. If Mr. Blumenthal heard his (adorable) comments, he ignored them.

"Indeed, Ms. Furmanski," Mr. Blumenthal said.

"Hold your fire, Tal," Jordan said in my ear, clutching my hand. I sat down and he continued to feed me bits of his food.

Mr. Blumenthal addressed the students once again, his head held high and all, "this time I will make sure that you lot don't fail your classes."

"I think he's happy, now that he's starting to lie again," Jordan said.

"Just what I was thinking," I murmured. "My bullshit worked."

Mr. Blumenthal walked out of our over-congested class with a huff- which described what would happen in the near future. We'd be loaded with work soon. The sound of multiple conversations had started and Jordan had finished his latest masterpiece of a blue fox.

Mr. Blumenthal walked back inside again, carrying a cardboard box half the width of his frame. He put in on his desk with a thud.

"Today, I will be giving you your assignments. Here lies the material; I can't wait to see what topics you students will be getting," he said looking at the dusty, torn and worn out box with pride. That last line caused an uprise of anxiety with some of the students.

"But before you receive your topics, I must request each of you to pick a partner."

Jordan lazily stuffed another bit of bacon tart into the corner of my mouth.

"Hm?"

"Mm."

Unfortunately, it wasn't such a straightforward process for the rest of the class. It took a whole 6 minutes to resume social reform and students to feel satisfied with the partner that they had landed themselves with.

"Now, I will walk around the class and randomly hand out your topics."

So then Mr. Blumenthal, in an orderly manner of course, went first to the front benches and handed the pairs a slip of paper from the box. The supply of bacon tart had been discontinued by the time he came to give us our topic. Jordan had his hand stretched out towards Mr. Blumenthal, who had come into the shadowy premise of the Back and ever so carefully kept a slip of paper on his hand, before going to the Front.

I read from what I could make out of his scratchy handwriting, "an extensive study on: Dragonflies."

"Eh?" Jordan muttered.

Our heads turned to our very disappointed neighbors of Amalie Schultz and Tasqeen Shah who had crestfallen expressions plastered on their faces. "An extensive study on: Centipedes", could be read from their slip.

Jordan sniggered.

"Has everyone got their topics?" Mr. Blumenthal asked the class, even though he very well knew what the answer was from everyone's underwhelmed expressions and low mutters.

"Well then," he continued, looking at his watch. "I think our time is up."

Hussain Pasha suddenly stood up. The class fell silent.

"Sir, could you possibly reconsider the validity of these topics?"

"Hussain, would you rather something a bit more challenging? Hmm, let's see... maybe middle school Math?"

"Ouch," Jordan whispered.

Hussain's jaw dropped, and he sat down with one fourth the confidence that he got up with. Mr. Blumenthal walked out of class and then every student suddenly developed an uncontrollable urge leave this failure-family and rush home.

"Come on, let's go."

"In a minute. I still have to wipe off these pencil drawings from the desks."

Jordan and I had had a deal. He would draw anything that I asked him too, mainly abstract and animals, and I would be the one scrubbing it off in order to obey the rules of vandalism of school property.

"If only Old Man Chemistry had given me the love that I clearly deserved for figuring out his shitty equations, I would be enjoying summer. How you pass Chemistry is beyond me."

"How I pass Chemistry and flunk Physics is beyond me too."

Jordan and I were the last two out of the class. Him switching off the lights and I switching off the fan and closing the door had become our daily ritual before going home. I looked at my watch, it read 12 o'clock.

"Shit, I better get home for Tabor's bar mitzvah. Call me later, bye!"

"Later, Tal."

-

a/n : dedicated to clararicks1 bc she's a queen.

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