AUGUST OF ‘87
In the beginning winter of 1987, the smell of saltwater Taffy and almost infinite days of enjoyment was over. and though you never did see that new pg movie playing around the time of the school’s beginning, it wasn’t hard to imagine it during class.
THAT WILL BE ALL
the principal seemed to be almost dead at this point, dark rings forming underneath his eyes. you should have sworn by money that he had a western accent, because the soft dialect he had didn’t hide it all too well. the smell of a air freshener made you feel allergenic, and the low-budget lights made seem as if the walls were closing in more than they already were. the children sitting all around you had already begun setting their books underneath the dirty, gum soaked desks. when the principal stepped aside out of the room, a frail figure in a presumably hand-knitted green sweater aroused from his seat in the chair behind the large, box sized office desk that had bullet marks and notes engraved into it.
DID I MUMBLE, BOY?
You, along with many others, recoiled at his sudden voice. it sounded congested with mucus and depression, and the blood previously wiped off his face began to run again. it was truly frivolous to believe a school known for its low budget and miraculous math program could come out as a playground for children [which they didn’t even have] or some sort of merry-go-round of joy.
I APOLOGISE, SIR
you took your seat at last, the legs holding you up seemed to be filled with pins in needles as the cold seat underneath you touched your bosom with great trumpth. a soft patter of flesh touched the left side of the rusty desk and a familiar face looked into yours.
I NEED YOUR HELP.
WHAT DO YOU NEED?
