Visit another junior high sometime and you’ll begin to realize what a little oasis our campus really is.”
“All this from the sweat and blood of basket boys,” Robbie grumbled.
Mrs. Simmons sighed. “Robbie, someday when your children go to school here, you’ll understand.
For now, please just vote for whoever you think will earn a high bid. And class,” she added, “we’re down to nine minutes.”
The room fell quiet. And as I read down the list of over one hundred and fifty eighth-grade boys,
I realized that to me, there had only ever been one boy. To me, there had only been Bryce.
I didn’t let myself get sentimental. I had liked him for all the wrong reasons, and I certainly wasn’t going to vote for him now.
But I didn’t know who else to vote for. I looked at Mrs. Simmons, who was eagle-eyeing the class between glances at the clock.
What if I didn’t choose anybody? What if I just turned it in blank? She’d give me detention, that’s what.
So with two minutes left to go, I put dots next to the boys I knew who weren’t jerks or clowns, but were just nice.
When I was through, there were all of ten names with dots, and of those I circled five:
Ryan Noll, Vince Olson, Adrian Iglesias, Ian Lai, and Jon Trulock.
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