(from The Drool Room)

Eighth grade Social Studies and I sat smoking a cigarette, my left arm outside the window between drags. Denny, sitting next to me, watched and got jealous. Pulled out his own, tapped one out, asked for a light.

At that point in adolescence, one bad idea deserves another, so I handed him my smoke so he could light his without the sulfur smell give-away of a match. Billy and Mark, fellow residents of the back of the room, shook their heads. Two rows ahead Susie Calabrese turned and mouthed, “You assholes. Gonna get busted,” singing it without sound.

This wasn’t the worst class. Hardly. But it was just after lunch, the afternoon sun was pouring through huge dusty windows making the room too warm, and Mr. Johnston was, if cool and unobservant, pretty boring, and you had to do something.

Denny exhaled, a plume of smoke curling upwards. The principal walked in, the heavy lacquered door banging behind him. My cigarette slipped from my fingers, dropping past Mr. Clark’s shop class below. Denny tossed his into the book tray under my desk. The principal was saying something. Complaining. The old papers in the tray, tossed notes, messed-up assignments, caught fire.

It was quick. Denny reached with his arm, sweeping the papers out, burning himself, yelling, “Shit!” The principal stopped, stared. I stamped out the flames.

We got three-day suspensions. Perfect early spring days. We smoked Newport’s and drank beers sitting on a dock; our Chuck Taylors dangling above the water. 

Ira Socol ©