"And he is," called out Megan from my right. She giggled and turned red.
"Thank you, Megan," Sullivan said, without turning around. He wrote metaphor in Hamlet on the board. "I prefer demi-god, however, until I finish my PhD. So. Ten pages. Metaphor in
Hamlet. That's the assignment. Outline due in two weeks."
There were eight groans.
"Don't be infants," Sullivan said. "It will be pitifully easy. Gradeschoolers could write papers on metaphor. Preschoolers could write papers on metaphor."
I underlined the word metaphor on my hand. Metaphor in
Hamlet was possibly the most boring topic ever invented. Note to self: slash wrists.
"James, you look, if possible, less thrilled than your classmates.
Is that merely an excess of sleep on your features, or is it really palpable disgust?" Sullivan asked me.
"It's not my idea of a wild and crazy time, no," I replied. "But it's not as if an English assignment is going to be."
Sullivan crossed his arms. "I tell you what, James. And this goes for all of you. If you can think of a wilder and crazier time that you can do for this assignment--that has something to do with
Hamlet and/or metaphor--I'm happy to look at outlines for it.
The point is for you to learn something in this class. And if you really hate a topic, all you're going to do is go online and buy a paper anyway."
"You can do that?" Paul breathed.
Sullivan gave him a look. "On that note, get out of here. Start thinking about those outlines and keep up on the reading. We'll be discussing it next class."
The rest of the students packed up and left with impunity, but as I figured, Sullivan called me aside as I was getting ready to go. He waited until all of the other students had exited, and then he closed the door behind them and sat on the edge of his desk. His expression was earnest, sympathetic. The morning light that came in the window behind him backlit his dusty brown hair to white-gold, making him look like a tired angel in a stained-glass window, one of those who's not so much playing their divine trumpet as listlessly dragging it out of a sense of duty.
"Do your worst," I said.
"I could give you a demerit for being late." Sullivan said, and as soon as he said it I knew that he wasn't going to. "But I think I'll just slap your wrist this time. If it happens again..."
"--I'll hang," I finished.
He nodded.
It would've been a good place to say "thanks," but the word seemed unfamiliar in my mouth. I couldn't remember the last time I'd said it. I had never thought of myself as an ingrate before.
Sullivan's eyes dropped to my hands; I saw them flicking up and down, trying to make sense of the words on my skin. They were all in English, but it was a language only I spoke.
"I know you're not just the average kid," Sullivan said. He frowned, as if that wasn't really what he had meant to say. "I know there's more to you than you let on." He looked at the iron band on my wrist.
I tried out various sentences in my head: I have unusual depth or The number of rooms in the house that is my personality is many or It's about time someone noticed. But none of them seemed right, so I said nothing.
Sullivan shrugged. "There's more to us teachers than we let on too. If you need someone to talk to, don't be afraid to talk to one of us."
I looked him straight in the eye. I was reminded once again, vividly, of the image of him falling to his knees, throwing up blood and flowers. "Talk about what?"
He laughed, short and humorless. "About my favorite casserole recipes. About whatever's freaking your roommate out. About why you look like hell right now. One of those."
I kept looking at him, kept seeing that image of him, dying, in his own pupil, and waited for him to look away. He didn't. "I do want a good recipe for lasagna. That is a casserole, isn't it?"
His mouth made a rueful shape that was a cunning impersonation of a smile. "Go to your next class, James. You know where to find me if you need me."
I looked at the broad iron ring on his finger and back up to his face. "What were you when you weren't an English teacher, Mr.
Sullivan?"
He just nodded, slow, sucking in his lower lip pensively before releasing it. "Good question, James. Good question." But he didn't answer, and I didn't ask again.
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The music u listen 2 tells everyone what kind of persn u r.
My rmmate ingrid is a mozart persn. Shes homesick but she cant talk 2 me abt it be im a trad irish grl & we don't speak the same language.
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The hill where I normally practiced was strategically placed: far enough from the dorms and classrooms to keep everyone in school from knowing what reel I was playing, and close enough that if it started to rain or rabid badgers decided to attack, I could hoof it back to the school before I got soaked or eaten.
It was a gorgeous fall afternoon, the sort companies like to print on glossy paper, and my vantage point on the hill seemed to exacerbate its beauty like one of those convex mirror cameras they have at malls to watch for shoplifters. The afternoon was all scudding clouds and woodsmoke-scented wind and a brilliant blue sky so huge it closed the hill in its own cerulean bubble.
I felt like I could be anywhere in the world. Anywhere in the universe. This hill was its own planet.
Playing the pipes is a multidisciplinary activity: equal parts music, physical education, puzzle-solving, and memory training.
The pipes are a study in numbers, too. Three drones, one bass, and two tenors. One chanter, eight holes, one reed in the chanter, two flaps on the reed that vibrated against each other to create a pitch. One bag, one mouthpiece to fill it, endless blow-job-joke possibilities. I took my pipes out of the case and squeezed the reed to correct the pitch before I pushed the chanter into the bag and threw them on my shoulder.