Kids whistled and shouted, “Oooh, baby!” as I headed up the walkway, and then Jumbo Jenny passed me, taking the front steps three at a time.
“Wow, Bryce,” she said over her shoulder. “You look… delicious.Oh, man!
I practically ran to the classroom where all the basket boys were supposed to meet,
and the minute I walked in, I felt better. I was surrounded by other dweebs, who seemed genuinely happy to see me.
“Hey, Loski”; “Yo, dude”; “Doesn’t this suck eggs?”; “Why didn’t you take the bus, man?” Misery loves company.
Then Mrs. McClure, the president of the Boosters, the lady who lassoed us all, hoofs it through the door.
“Oh, my!” she says. “You all look so handsome!” Not one word about our baskets. Not one little sneak peek inside.
No, for all she cared, those puppies were empty. Meat market? You better believe it!
“Don’t be so nervous, boys,” Mrs. McClure was saying. “You’re going to have a wonderful day!”
She pulls out a list of names and starts ordering us into line.
We get numbers; our baskets get numbers; we fill out three-by-five cards to her insane specifications;
and by the time she’s got us all organized and is sure we know what to do and what not to do, we’ve missed all of first and most of second period.
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