Chapter 8

I am the only one who maintains some pretense of dignity and political correctness, and believe me it’s a very fragile and contrived control. Like Mrs. G. said, “fake it,” and boy did I fake it. The fact that I can hear muffled, but hysterical, screams of laughter from behind the closed bathroom door down the hall doesn’t help. The Spanish being screamed in the kitchen doesn’t help either. I don’t speak Spanish but I know Mrs. G. is cussing too. Then Cornelius the Hero Boy steps toward me. He lowers his head so his eyes are even with mine. I feel like I should be quaking, that I should be wearing glasses and a plaid bowtie, something dorky and insecure. “This is your fault; you and that other queer in the kitchen. You’re probably his boyfriend. Is he boning you, is that it? Are you jealous you can’t have me? You’re jealous of the real men? You’ll never…” I can see his fists clenching, making the pea soup on his watch dribble onto his expensive-looking shoes