Crush Read Free

or cheerleading. Emma was too cool forthat kind of thing, had too much depth. She even said hi to him sometimes. It was always in passing, always too brief, but Jonathan was grateful. It brought some light to the dark. She made school bearable.
    â€œAre you getting this down, Mr. Barnes?” Weaver asked, shocking him out of his thoughts. “It will be on the test.”
    Jonathan lowered his head and pretended to read over his notes. It wasn’t like Jonathan didn’t know the answer to Weaver’s question. He knew it, but he wasn’t going to go through another year as a “brain.” That would be like tattooing the word “victim” on his forehead. As it was, he figured he might as well set up appointments for the jocks so none of the “Roid Patrol” missed their chance to throw him against the lockers. Besides, class participation was a minor part of the grading system, and Jonathan always did well on tests. He kept the A s to a minimum, for the same reason he didn’t volunteer answers in class, but his grade-point average was good enough to get him into a college far away from Westland High School.
    On his notepad, he wrote: Iago was passed over for promotion; Iago was jealous of Othellobecause he wanted Desdemona for himself . These were the answers Anni Moss gave, and they seemed to satisfy Mr. Weaver. To these Jonathan added Iago believed his wife cheated on him by sleeping with Othello (that whole thing about “’twixt my sheets—Has done my office.”) And Iago grooves on evil—“If thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport .”
    Jonathan appreciated that last line. He’d underlined it in his text, memorized it. It was kind of cold-blooded, but it totally made sense to him: Some people just got off on throwing a hurt. It didn’t matter who they were hurting. They just grooved on the humiliation they handed out. The Roid Patrol didn’t know him (not really), but that didn’t stop them from throwing him up against the lockers every chance they got. It was a sport, a thrill, a quick fix of happy-giggle-fun for a bunch of brain-dead muscle zombies. Same with Mr. Weaver.
    Evil tastes like candy , he wrote.
    He smiled at this. He cast another quick glance at Emma, then returned his attention to his teacher, who stood at the front of the class holding a tattered old copy of Othello in his hand. With theother hand, Weaver yanked down the hem of his blue sweater-vest. The teacher was talking about the result of Iago’s deceit, the end of the play.
    In his mind, Jonathan pictured Weaver in a long white robe, his sweaty head like a pale pumpkin on top of a draped table. The teacher was stomping back and forth, pointing his finger at Anni Moss, the way he’d used it to pick out Jonathan to answer his question. He imagined Weaver screaming at Anni and lunging forward, grabbing her around the neck and strangling her like Othello did to his wife, Desdemona. Anni’s body fell to the linoleum floor, her blond hair fanning out from her lifeless face. Then Weaver pulled out a dagger and said, “I kiss’d thee ere I kill’d thee: no way but this/Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.” Then he plunged the knife into his chest. But instead of opening him up and drawing blood, the blade popped the plump teacher like a balloon, causing him to soar around the room making farting noises as he deflated.
    Jonathan chuckled at the daydream, looked around to make sure no one was noticing, particularly Emma O’Neil. He’d freak if he saw her looking at him like he was a psych-ward reject.Fortunately, Emma was focused on her notes. But to his surprise and embarrassment, someone else was noticing.
    She sat three rows ahead of him and to the left, by the window. Her name was Kirsty Sabine, and she was new at Westland High. She was a bland-looking girl with straight dirty-blond hair that fell to her shoulders