The Lesser Blessed Read Free

start our war all over again?”
    “Is that a question?” Johnny asked, picking his teeth.
    “That’s a question,” Mister Harris shimmied. “You and I havediscussed your behaviour. We both agreed you would attempt to be a better student.”
    “I know,” Johnny said. “But couldn’t we just move things around ? Couldn’t we just talk?”
    “No!” Mister Harris yelled. He scared us and I guess he scared himself too. He sat down and thought about it. The class sat straight. It felt like everyone was screaming inside but couldn’t let it out.
    “Okay, John,” he said. “Let’s talk about students who have talent but never even try to reach their potential.”
    Johnny’s voice came from low in his throat when he said, “Okay, Mister Harris. Let’s talk about a teacher whose wife is leaving him.”
    The air in the classroom dropped. Mister Harris stood and paced. “Let’s talk about boys who have no father and a mother who’s—”
    Johnny stood up and shouted, “No! Let’s talk about a teacher who drinks too much!”
    Mister Harris yelled, “Getthehellouttahere!” and pointed to the door. Johnny walked out with his head down, and just as he neared the door, he spun around and pointed. “You’re a tough man, babyfingers,” he said, and we all started laughing. I couldn’t believe it.
    “Get out! !” Mister Harris roared.
    Johnny left, and the class was quiet for five solid minutes.
    “I believe,” Mister Harris said, stammering to resurrect the class, “that it is every parent’s nightmare to watch his child become a social misfit.”
    “I believe,” I said inside, “it is every parent’s dream to watch his child burn.”
Six Stages of Rigor Mortis
    Later that morning we had a class with Mademoiselle Sauvé. French. My desk was in the middle of the room. Johnny’s seat was empty. He usually sat right next to me. Darcy McMannus was hunched over hisdesk in the far back corner. I knew Juliet had a spare in the library. Sometimes I’d go to the bathroom and pass by there real slow.
    (Juliet! Juliet! Juliet!)
    I don’t know why we took French. Personally, I hated it. The guidance counsellor said we’d get into college and university a lot easier. For crisis management, I only went because of Mademoiselle Sauvé’s French titties. They were so perky. I swear to God I’m perverted or something, but I just can’t help noticing. I can’t help it. I have hungers, you know. Man hungers
    We were going through the six stages of rigor mortis, droning on and on about the verb être, which means “to be.” It didn’t mean a damn thing to me, but I had it down pat: “Je suis, tu es, il est, elle est, nous sommes, vous êtes, ils sont, elles sont.” I was with the rest of the damn worker bees singing this death chant mantra when we heard a great rumbling. It sounded like somebody was dragging heavy pieces of wood across the floor. The floor vibrated under our feet. Nobody could figure it out. Dean Meddows mentioned maybe they were setting up for a student assembly but Moustache Sammy said no, that couldn’t be right. The rumbling was on this floor, next door. English class! Mister Harris’s room! Somebody was moving the classroom furniture—Johnny !
    We all sat up. The girls giggled and whispered things to each other. The boys smiled and looked out the windows, but Mademoiselle Sauvé kept on with her class nonetheless.
    “Johnny Beck,” Junior Merc said, “now that’s a man with balls.”
    “Bullshit,” Darcy McMannus countered from the corner. “He’s a goddamn pain in the ass, that’s what he is.”
    We were all quiet after that, ̵7cause Darcy was the boss. I snuck a peek over at Johnny’s empty desk, and I noticed that scratched into the wood-top was “Johnny Beck was here questing for fire” and “Stay high pigs don’t fly” and “I don’t go to high school, I go to school high” and “Juliet Hope goes down.”
    As the rumbling in the next room continued, a religious