@Robertopancake: A Story About a Boy

Chapter Three

The last day before a long break from school is a glorious day. That is, unless you find yourself in English class after an evening spent trolling for amazing 80s music to add to your musical library, which caused you to neglect an assignment that you now need to present in less than five minutes.

"So for today's presenters, I have Brittany Smith, Aiden, Jake, Tyler, Brittany Eckhardt, and then Rob. You guys are on deck to read your haikus aloud to the class, and then that will conclude our poetry unit just in time for winter break."

Miss Hylie stands next to my desk as she talks to the class. Because of her proximity, she can't see the panic that crosses my face. Shit. Double-shit. This week has been a weird one, and I've been trying hit my latest Twitter goal: 10,000 Tweets. Beyond that, I've been pillaging my mom's cd collection and buying all of the important songs we don't have (on Pat's credit card, of course), so obviously writing a haiku didn't rank on my busy calendar. More importantly, how did we not own any Def Leppard? And did my mother really survive the eighties with her Siouxsie and the Banshees cherry still intact? Did she not feel the soul-crushing void left by listening to Madonna, but not The Sugarcubes? Never fear-I've remedied these musical travesties, but alas, there is no haiku to present to the class today. Triple-shit.

With five victims presenting before me, I should have enough time to craft something passable. A haiku should take about eight seconds to read, so five people ahead of me means I have...about forty seconds. I can probably give myself another thirty seconds for strategic procrastination as each person shuffles through their notebook looking for their poem, maybe another twenty seconds to allow for them walking slowly up to the front of the room, and probably six seconds for all of the throat clearing that'll go on before they read.

I doodle furiously on a scrap of paper. I'm able to totally block out Brittany Smith's irritating whine as she reads her thought-provoking poem about cheerleading. The mental process of creating a masterpiece in ninety-six seconds begins.

Deenie is seated three rows away from me. I turn to give her a look that obviously says: "I am fucked three ways from Sunday right now." She frowns.

WRITE SOMETHING NOW, ROB SHELDON! I'm not above scare tactics, but oddly enough, my body isn't afraid of my own brain yelling at me. Nothing comes.

I can run my mouth a mile a minute with people I know well, like Deenie, but the thought of getting up in front of the class and reading my own poetry out loud sends me into spasms of horror. It's even worse when the clock is ticking-loudly-and I don't actually have a poem to read. The thought of improvisational poetry makes me feel vaguely suicidal.

I start to sweat, only it's cold like when you're hunched over a toilet, dry-heaving the remains of a fish dinner that your grandparents took you to at the Sons of Norway lodge in their small Minnesota town. I search the room frantically for exits. Or for something sharp on which to impale myself for maximum dramatic impact. Maybe if I sharpened my pencil to a dagger-like point I could puncture my skin badly enough to get sent to the school nurse. My breath is coming in shallow spurts and I'm seeing bright spots on the walls.

Jake stands up to read, coughing with exaggeration into his fist. He pulls a piece of paper from the pocket of his hoodie. It's crumpled and the ink is smeared like it's been through both the washer and dryer.

"For Hannah," he starts, reading the title of his poem with the gravity of someone delivering a eulogy.

Miss Hylie tilts her head to one side. I bet she gets bored with two-dimensional teenage love poems year after year.

Finally, a word pops into my head. Then another. I start writing. As big, round Brittany Eckhardt stands up before the class in a tight dress and flip-flops, tugging at the front of her dress to loosen it around her midsection, I'm writing like a maniac, sweat falling on my paper like fat drops of rain after a long, bitter drought.