PARASOMNIA
High school was far different from middle school. The lessons had become more complicated and there was no trace of those permissive teachers. Instead serious teachers -most of them were strict men- had this burden to teach freshmen. But Miss Olson was none of them. She was a good-hearted woman at her thirty, and the bra she wore was stood out under her white dress. She was busy writing words in her firm, no-nonsense script.
The classroom was hushed and sleepy. Allen was sitting in the second row with his hands folded neatly on the desk. He had heard rumours from older students about Miss Olson over the lunch table that almost half of the school's staffs had asked her out and she had rejected them one by one.
"Well," she clapped her hands together. Her lips wearing a smile which could melt any man's heart.
Allen pushed the thought away.
"Who can guess who the poet is?" she asked and eyed the class in search of a raising hand.
The hot September sun glistened on her glasses and made it impossible for Allen to catch Miss Olson's eyes for a moment.
"William Shakespeare," a tremulous voice said from the back row. "He lived in the sixteenth century, and was a playwright and actor, too."
Allen craned his neck and caught a glimpse of Emily White's pimple-free, overweening face. She looked at him and gave him a haughty smile.
Miss Olson pointed out at Emily. "We've got a genius girl here, thanks, Emily".
A snort of laughter escaped from Bob who was sitting next to Allen. Miss Olson dropped a threatening look at him and the laughter began to dry up.
Allen stared down at graffiti scratched on his desk. Someone had written a nice! piece for the physic teacher in sprawled letters.
That old McCain is a fucking psychopath
His eyes widened. He spent rest of the class struggling to scratch out the name from the desk.
The yard was a hell of students. Girls were giggling at a little boy whose fly was unzipped and the boy would pass in front of them, blushing up to his ears. In one corner, a fat guy had been gripping another guy's arms so stringently behind him that balls of his shoulders stood out through his shirt.
Allen felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Bob. He sat beside Allen and brushed the hair off his forehead. He also had noticed the bullying guy.
"Everything's going well?" Bob said.
"Thinking of tonight," he said, his face tightened in a momentary wince, then relaxes.
"You seem nervous. I told you before and I tell you again that there's nothing to worry abou."
" I hope so, but---"
"I've works to do now; I must exchange some cards with Steve. He says he's the complete collection of the Red Sox team...well... see you tonight."
Allen watched him as he brushed by Mr Hanning and started down the hall to the boys' lavatory. The he rested his head against the stone bench and looked up at the sky above that was turning to lavender.
The night was overcast but not rainy, mild for late September. Overhead, a quarter moon was struggling to make its way through the cloud cover. The clock struck 10 o'clock downstairs. Allen had lied in his bed, his arms tucked under his head, waiting for the signal from Bob.
