John Brandon - Citrus County

“I’m comparing prayer to punk music. They both enhance your soul. They’re both things to believe in.”

The sour smell had not blown away from Mrs. Conner. Mr. Hibma could tell she wanted to say a million things to Pete. Mr. Hibma’s gut impulse, despite himself, was to stick up for Pete, but Mr. Hibma had a fence to mend and he didn’t mind sitting this one out. He’d left behind that ridiculousness about killing Mrs. Conner, had left behind that stupid letter he’d written. It was history. He was glad Dale hadn’t responded.

Mrs. Conner sighed and something gave way in her eyes.

“Let’s hear it,” she said. “Let’s hear the music.”

Pete zipped out of the room. The other teachers looked at one another, listening to the slaps of Pete’s converse sneakers fade to nothing. The slaps returned, grew louder, and here was Pete again, boom box in hand, searching for an outlet.

To Pete’s credit, he did not identify his muse or expose symbolism in his lyrics. He pressed play and backed away from the boom box. At first there was only hissing on the tape. In a stifled voice, someone counted off, and then noise filled Mr. Hibma’s classroom. The noise was not fettered by a melody. Each member of the band was playing as loudly as possible, forcing the maximum yield out of his instrument. Occasionally, confoundingly, the sound intensified. Someone was singing, but only because someone had to. When the noise ceased, it was just as startling as when it had begun.

“Okay, okay,” said Mrs. Conner. “All right.” She waved her hands, imploring Pete to stop the tape before the next song began.

He lunged forward and smacked the panel of buttons.

“I guess it doesn’t matter what you’re singing because no one can understand it,” Mrs. Conner said. “Draw up a petition and I’ll sign.”

Pete was confused. He was supposed to be held down by Authority. Authority was not supposed to be reasonable. Pete seemed to miss the irony: Mrs. Conner, to spare herself from hearing any more, was willing to petition that the students be subjected to Pete’s music; because the music was unbearable, it had gained support. Maybe Pete had just lived the first punk moment of his life. Mr. Hibma knew he shouldn’t hate Pete. Pete and the Spanish expert had done him no harm. Mr. Hibma despised them, he understood, because he was no better than they were. Despite arriving at Citrus Middle from vastly different paths, he and Pete and the Spanish expert were all here now, all willing to stay.

Shelby received a note instructing her to skip PE and report to room 171E to meet with Mrs. Milner, the gifted teacher. She found the room and pulled the door open, and Mrs. Milner was sitting on a padded chair in front of a large table. The room was huge and carpeted. Against the back wall, in shadow, a bunch of half-built or half-destroyed mechanical devices crowded one another.

“You’re late.” Mrs. Milner threw her head so she could look at Shelby.

Shelby advanced a step or two before she realized there was no chair for her. This was a sort of test, Shelby figured. Shelby was supposed to employ her problem-solving skills. She was supposed to explore the junk in the back of the room and fashion a chair herself, or turn the table upside-down so she and Mrs. Milner could sit in it like a canoe.

“I’ll stand,” Shelby said. This was the most trouble Shelby could manage to get in: being invited to join gifted. “I don’t have much time.”

“Something life-altering going on in PE?”

“Why don’t you pitch me?” said Shelby. “I’ll stand here and you give me the pitch.”

“I’ll start with the price. The price is your beloved PE.” Mrs. Milner pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. “This room is a free zone. Explore, don’t explore. Interact, don’t interact. That kind of freedom sells itself. This is a place where chariots are built, where naps are taken.”

Shelby now saw that the junk against the back wall was meant to become a Roman parade float.

“Gifts can be scary,” Mrs. Milner proposed. “A lot of people are afraid of their gifts. Don’t you think that’s true?”

“I’ll reserve all comments for when the pitch ends,” Shelby said. “Is it over?”

There was a glint in Mrs. Milner’s eye. By being difficult, Shelby was making herself more attractive. “Higher mathematics are here,” said Mrs. Milner. “Reading Tolstoy in Russian. We have a guest lecturer once a month.”

“What’s that crunching noise?”

“Our ice machine. The Best Western donated it.”

“Why do you need an ice machine?”

“I would’ve asked the same question — in fact, I did. But now I don’t know how we ever got along without it.” Mrs. Milner pushed up her sleeves again, this time tucking them into themselves. “We have a blender, too.”

Shelby was tired of standing. She had an urge to accept Mrs. Milner’s invitation, ask her to leave the room, and go to sleep on the tabletop.

“I know there was some ugliness between you and Lena, and she wants me to tell you she holds no hard feelings. And there’s no preaching permitted in this room. It’s a free zone, and to me that includes free of religion.”

Lena was the girl Shelby had pelted with grits. “I didn’t know she was in gifted,” Shelby said.

“She’s very bright and very sincere.”

“I’m going to respectfully decline,” Shelby said.

“Tell me the reason.”

“I don’t want to be sequestered with kids who think they’re exceptional. I prefer kids who are a tiny bit smart and don’t know it.”

Mrs. Milner cleared her throat. She was not impressed. “Gifted gives you options.”

The idea of options sounded odd to Shelby. Options in life. She had no idea what she’d opt for. She had never needed dreams, hopes even. Maybe now she did. Whatever her dreams might be, they’d have nothing to do with being in gifted.

“The real reason is this,” Shelby said. “Someone I trust told me not to join.”

“Who?”

“I won’t say.”

“That person is ill-informed. I take ten students in my class and most of them enrolled in the second or third grade. The only reason a spot is opening is Daphne Biner is moving. If you get in now, you’ll be grandfathered in for high school. You’re going to need gifted.”

“Why am I going to need gifted?”

Mrs. Milner looked astonished. “Friends,” she said. “These will be your friends. Do you think those regular kids out there have any idea how to be friends with someone like you?”

“I’ve never seen a lot of point to friendship,” Shelby told her. “Starts as an interview, ends as a job.”

Mrs. Milner turned sad, a woman crumbling under the weight of her unheeded wisdom. She rested her hand on Shelby’s forearm and Shelby gently peeled it off and whispered the word “No.” Shelby stood above Mrs. Milner like a holy person over a disciple, the icemaker humming like a distant choir.

Shelby and Toby followed the main trail to the public library. They walked quickly, outpacing the mosquitoes. They heard the robotic xylophone music of an ice cream truck. The music grew distant, then close, then trailed away altogether.

In the library, Toby went into the computer lab with Shelby and they shared a chair. She saw him reading along as she relayed bits of light gossip from school. Aunt Dale liked middle school gossip. Shelby wrote that she wondered if Icelanders used ketchup, if they went skiing a lot, what the drinking age was. After sitting stumped for a moment, staring at a poster of Mel Gibson reading a book, she pecked in:

I’m dating a boy named Toby. I think about him all day. He’s got a little boy belly but his arms are as hard as a steering wheel. He smells like wet logs and doesn’t have one freckle. He’s not like anyone else. I’m waiting for him to work up the nerve to put some earnest moves on me. I would like one adult in the world I can speak openly to and who will speak openly to me, and I choose you.