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hard for me to shake old habits. And what is to stop him, really?
    I do not want to see his red face or hirsute nostrils, so I concentrate on my desk. It is the usual fake plastic-wood kind, with a triangular gouge exposing the darker layer underneath. People have filled in the mark with varying shades of blue and black, like an oozing bruise. I do the same when I am not writing down Mr. Warhead’s rants.
    He spends twenty minutes telling us why the United States does not need to give in to “liberal” United Nations resolutions or even the Geneva Convention. After which he announces, “Pop quiz!”
    The class groans. Binders snap, papers rustle, and pens clack as everyone gets ready for the quiz. I wonder what it will be today. On Monday, it was “Middle Eastern Theater” geography. I was one of the few not to fail the quiz, although Mr. Warhead drew a big red question mark over my heading: “The Mid-East . . . U.S.”
    “Dude!” It is the Rat. “Don’t you want me to give my report?”
    It is so obviously a stall tactic.
    But Mr. Warhead turns around from the board and his face is all soft and mushy. “I’m sorry, Richard. Go ahead, but please try to be quick.”
    The Rat takes a deep breath, slowly, and cracks his knuckles. “Well, like, we’re fighting terrorists, right? The United States, I mean, with hardly anyone else helping us. Because the rest of them are all chicken-shits. So we’re out there doing it for everyone. And what do we get? People ragging on us. I mean, it’s like they’ve all taken some drug and they’ve lost their brains.”
    Mr. Warhead is nodding but holds up his hand. “And, specifically, what have reactions been in our own town?”
    “Oh, yeah, well, we got these—what do you call those businesses that don’t even know how to make money?”
    Mr. Warhead smirks. “Nonprofits?”
    “Yeah, these nonprofits that decide we should stop fighting the terrorists.” He grins slowly. “So, their offices get bombed with pigs’ blood. Kind of a wake-up call. The police”—and his grin turns into a leer—“aren’t too upset, you know? Because, hey, the people who did the deed are, like, patriots.”
    “Patriots?” someone mutters.
    The Rat whips around, not to me, fortunately. “Yeah, patriots! Ever heard of the Boston Tea Party? When our rights and freedoms are being taken away, we have to fight back.”
    Against a nonprofit?
    The Rat turns back around. “Then the mosque gets hit because, well,” and he shrugs.
    Oh, I see, because they are Muslim and, by definition, are all terrorists? God! I may not believe in religion but I do believe in leaving people alone if they are not bothering anyone. I cannot believe the crap coming out of the Rat’s mouth.
    “All the public opinion polls prove,” the Rat says, “that Americans pretty much support the president and support the war because, like”—he looks around the room—“we’re Americans, right? The rest of them are chicken-shits!”
    I want to shout “Fact or opinion!” like Miss Barnes, my World Civ teacher at my old school. She did that all the time whenever we gave a report or even answered a question. It was so annoying. Now I wish she were here.
    His Vermin applaud loudly.A red-faced Mr.Warhead nods, seriously, his lips tightly shut, like he is believing all of it.
    “I mean, what’s with them?” the Rat continues. “Do they want the terrorists to take over? Don’t they care about freedom and democracy? I’m going to fight for this country and our way of life, whatever it takes.” He pounds his desk for effect. He is almost grinning he is so amused by his performance.
    He has pounded Mr. Warhead into a frenzy. The man’s face is now a purplish shade of red and his lips are squished together so tightly I think his head might burst. His mouth barely opens as he squeezes out, “Nice job, Richard.”
    He turns and writes on the board, hard, like he is trying to hammer through it. The marker squeaks and