Supply closet

It was noon in the supply room. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, dappling the tables and desks clustered in the small space. Amid the disorder, Smiths was working on another peanut-butter-and-tofu sandwich, Terry and Cindy were debating the relative merits of dactyls and anapests, and I was reading Foucault.

After he finished his sandwich, Smiths gave a few impatient sighs. I glanced up at him, then went quickly back to my book. A few seconds later I felt something hit my shoulder. I looked down: a paper football.

'Hey, Smiths,' said I, 'what did you do that for?'

'You were asking for it, Alfie.'

'What do you mean? I was just sitting here.'

Smiths grinned. 'You were reading Foucault with a calm expression while subconsciously humming "Circle of Life." I had to do something.'

'Quit it,' said I. 'I have to finish this passage by next period. Go eat another sandwich.'

Smiths rose to his feet. 'Stop hiding behind your book,' pursued he, 'and admit it: You regret rebuffing Sharon.'

A brewing storm

The only constants I could set against this chaotic shift were two: my family--that is, my mother and father and cat--and the constant presence of Chilly Debby. Even though the latter was in Houston, her voice dwelt constantly in my mind: Alfie, you can't do this; Alfie, you'll be alone and unhappy all your life; Alfie, it is only with great effort that I care about you at all.

One night that fall, my mother knocked on the door of my darkened room. I had been writing a story for a creative writing class. I always liked to write in the dark.

'Yes, what is it, mother?' I said as she flicked on the light. 'I was writing. . .didn't you see the warning sign on the door?'

'"Dangerously creative work being done inside,"' she read. '"Do not disturb The Genius at any cost. Sincerely, A. J. Norton." Oh, that's cute, Alfie.'

'No, it's not cute,' said I, 'it's disquieting. To disturb a first-tier innovator is not something to be taken lightly.' With this, I rose to my feet and flipped the lights off once again.

Mother let out a sigh. 'I just wanted to tell you you left your kazoo on the steps,' said she. 'Also, the National Weather Service has issued a severe thunderstorm warning until eleven o' clock. . .and Samantha called.'

At this, an immense bolt of lightning split the sky; the rumble of its thunder rolled out over the miles; the flicker of heat lightning turned the surrounding oaks to the claws of a wild beast.

Upperclassman

My junior year started with a cataclysmic air. I could feel it in the halls of the school that autumn; I could hear it in the voices; could see it lurking in the faces to which they belonged. Everything seemed darker: the formerly fluorescent hallways brooded with barlight dimness. . .Royce McGannigan and his cohorts had taken to wearing grey. . .the noontime air hung with smoke, as if a long-dormant volcano had clouded the schoolyard in ash.