The View from Mount Joy Read Free Page A

day of kindergarten, I’d come home to find my mom and dad sitting on the porch with a platter of chocolate-covered donuts and a pitcher of milk, and since then it had been a tradition in our family to welcome the beginning of the school year with donuts.
    “Glazed for me!” shouted my mother in a high, excited voice that made me feel grown-up and a little sad too.
             
    In homeroom I found a prime seat in the back, and as Miss Cullen read the roll, I scoped out the action. You can find the same types in any school: there was Todd, the fat kid masking his insecurity by being loud and, in his estimation, funny; Blake Erlandsson, jock king à la Steve Alquist; Sharon Winters, who by her heavy use of black eyeliner and white lipstick fell into the girl-most-likely-to-say-yes category; and Leonard Doerr, wearer of glasses, high-water pants, and a brush cut that clearly announced his status as class nerd. My tendency to feel sorry for the guy vanished when, responding to Miss Cullen’s recitation of his name, he called, “
Hier, danke!
” and then, as if we couldn’t figure it out, explained, “
Das ist Deutsch, mein Freunden!
And if you’d like to participate in the fun and fellowship of the German club, just talk to me because I’m
Herr Präsident!
”
    “Herr Simpleton’s more like it,” said someone under her breath.
    Miss Cullen didn’t scold the name-caller; in fact, she pinched her lips together to stop her smile.
    “Thank you for that announcement, Leonard,” she said, raising her eyebrows as she adjusted her glasses. “And if any of you have any questions about available clubs and after-school activities, don’t forget to check out the bulletin board.” She nodded toward it and then looked down at the roll. “Dykstra, Gwen?”
             
    I think it was the size of Ole Bull High more than anything that made it seem a less friendly place than Granite Creek High; its senior class (so enamored of itself that every morning our slogan, “Of O-lee Bull, we are so true, we’re the Class of ’72!” was sung by a designated student over the PA system) was bigger than my old school’s entire student body. How could you welcome a new kid when there were so many kids you didn’t even know from last year?
    Still, obeying evolutionary law, I was adapting to my new environment. By Wednesday, I knew where each of my classrooms were and wasn’t wandering around like a dork trying to match the number on my schedule to the one painted next to the classroom door; by Thursday, Greg Hoppe, who sat next to me in English, had joined Darva and me at our lunch table. I knew I’d found a kindred spirit when our English teacher paired us up for an assignment.
    “One of you gets to choose a character from your favorite novel,” said Mrs. Regan, so excited her voice quivered almost as much as the wattle hanging from her chin. “And the other chooses a scene from your favorite novel in which this character will enter!”
    “I choose Portnoy from
Portnoy’s Complaint,
” said my new partner.
    Having read the book myself, I smiled and tried to think of a suitable heroine to insert into the pages with Portnoy.
    “And I choose
Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
.”
    Greg rubbed his hands together. “This is going to be
good.
”
    He was the editor of the
Ole Bulletin
and invited me to join the newspaper. On Friday, I attended the first staff meeting.
    On Tuesday of the following week, Mr. Teschler asked me to stay after class. This wouldn’t be big news if the request had been related to history, the class he perfunctorily taught; what excited me was that Mr. Teschler wanted to talk to me about his real passion, which was coaching the hockey team.
    “I saw you play up in Alexandria,” he said, his thumb strolling through the thicket that was his sideburn.
    “You did?” My heart skipped like a girl’s.
    “Sure. Last year at the sectionals. You played for Granite Creek, right?”
    I nodded.
    “Great