I am lost in the Lenten draping of Songs of Faith and Devotion. I tell her I have something important to share. I sit next to Jennifer Baker in the class. We are going over our math for the next hour. The Girl who is lonely and has no friends and get teased because she transferred here. I have been eating lunch with Jennifer Rose Baker. The girl who always has her King James Bible with her. The teacher who told me that she is excited about my trip.Īpparently there are only four students left in the original algebra class and none of them are getting higher than a C. The teacher who has five earrings in her left ear. Peabody is absent the week before I leave Europe.Īpparently she is suffering from gall stones. Mr Reents says, always referring to himself in the third person plural pronoun, always referring to himself in a way that makes me think that I will be seeing him sometime soon. "We'll see you overseas in a couple of days." I want to reel into the warmth pumpkin belly of my mentor. It was the tightest hug I have given anyone since the last time I held Renae in the January rain and said goodbye. I can smell the coffee brewed in his room on his breath. You are going to come back a world traveler. " You are going to lose your Midwestern hymen.
"David you are going to come back a changed man. And for helping me out while preparing for that speech.
"Hey, and thanks for writing that letter too. Reents for taking the time edify the class entirety on the British colloquialism. Andre Brinker tells me to make sure that I don't accidentally play with my good friend Willy in front of any blokes in case I inadvertently fire up a fag. Jasmine the Jewish girl with half-a railway bar for limbs and the highest GPA in the school makes a joke about fitting in my suitcase which leads me to quickly envision her sans jeans, legs configured in stiff Euclidean angles propping out of my suitcase the moment I arrive to my hotel room in Stratford-upon-Avon in the manner of a stripper and a birthday cake at a Shriners retirement party.
I look at Joy Pennel who is wearing white shorts that skid and yield less than two inches beneath her torso. Second hour we have a test on the civil war. In first hour study hall I ignore the older kids and focus on extrapolating algebraic equations. As does Madame Suhr, the large picture of my visage in tandem with the sylvan streaks of Big Ben on the bulletin board next to the mot de jour during Home Room. Coach Fauser remains mute looking over baseball stats. Eric Bushman asks me when I am scheduled to leave during early bird health. People have been talking about my pending trip. Only to find everything they are looking for in the correlating burnt out chakra of the other. Reptiles thrice the size of Caterpillar artillery lugging armored slimes of what passes as flesh, somehow human being developing in syncopation to the subtle tic of the cosmos, over millions of year, only to be cast sinful, only to be born damned, only to praise an ineffable being in the scattered pebbled constellations of everything that is above, only the remove the petal of procreating virility christening themselves as Jehovah’s chosen race. The world gestating into being with gradual tympanic lava-fused blasts of light. A paradise for those who yearn to become more than they already are. It feels like David Koresh’s New Jerusalem we see in a minute frame next to Tom Brokaw’s stuttering visage surrounding by tanks every night in the pixilated altar in our living room is beginning to rise A paradise of pedophiles and drifters and wayfarers. When Dave Gahan carols out that This is the dawning of our Love I misintuit it as This is the Dawning of Allah. There is an almost Middle Eastern Persian drumbeat.
The song is ridiculous when compared to Blasphemous Rumors or to Somebody. It is like badger scraping my ribcage with tetanus-riddled claws. I can’t get Depeche Mode’s first single from Songs of Faith and Devotion out from the upper deck of my skull, the searing guttural amphetamine-draped illegal u-turn wheel-squealing screeches at the outset of the song feel like they are cutting into my chest. It is the last day of school I am backstroking from class to class. In addition to the week off courteous of Spring Break I will be missing the following week of classes. The last day of classes before I leave for England next Tuesday. My last day of classes before spring break. It is the last day of classes on this planet.
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