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principal

    Dear Floyd,
    I’ve been fielding a couple of calls regarding the editorial page of last week’s paper and I’ve got to say, while I believe in freedom of the press and all, I can see where a parent’s nose might get out of joint. That is to say, we don’t want to paint a picture of Ole Bull as a haven for drug users!
    I admire the tireless work you’ve done as advisor to the paper for the past ten years, but there are lines we don’t want to cross, Floyd, and this may be one of them.
    If you have any questions as to what constitutes a letter that inspires good debate versus a letter that inspires unnecessary agitation and grief, let me know and I’ll be glad to help you edit!

    Along with my Roving Reporter duties, I had gravitated to the op-ed page and had forged a partnership with Greg Hoppe, writing commentary together. Mr. Lutz didn’t seem to think it a breach of journalistic ethics if we occasionally wrote an anonymous rebuttal to a particularly stupid letter, particularly ones written by a certain Katherine Bleursten, who as student council president had lobbied for student uniforms and addressing teachers as “sir” and “ma’am.”
    “Sorry about that,” I said, after reading the memo Mr. Brietmayer had sent to Mr. Lutz. “We didn’t want to get you into trouble.”
    Mr. Lutz took the paper from my hand and crumpled it up.
    “Don’t worry about it,” he said, tossing it into the round file. “Brietmayer sends me about a dozen of these a year. It’s when he doesn’t respond to an issue that I think we’ve failed in our duty.”
    “What’s our duty again, boss?” asked Hoppe, squinting at the copy he’d just written on the typewriter.
    “To cause a little brain activity.”
    Mr. Lutz poured the last of his coffee into his cup—by the end of zero hour he’d always emptied his big plaid Thermos, but other than tapping his pencil a little faster, he gave no signs that he was overcaffeinated. “So keep writing those hard-hitting letters, boys. Keep answering back to those people whose imaginations aren’t big enough to question authority.”
    Hoppe and I looked at each other. It was great having a teacher who told us, in so many words, that it was okay to give the finger.

    “Does Shannon ever wear that fur costume when you’re getting it on?”
    I sighed, pretending not to hear.
    “I said, does Shannon ever—”
    Shaking my head, I leveled my most withering glance at Darva. “You’re interrupting my muse.”
    “Joe, if your muse is responsible for that, I’m doing you a favor by interrupting it.”
    We were in art class, working on our soap sculptures, and Darva was right—mine looked more like a dropped ice cream cone than a reclining nude, which had been my intention.
    “Not all of us have your talent, Ms. Nevelson.”
    Darva laughed and smooched the air with her lips. “I love that you know who Louise Nevelson is. I love that you said ‘Ms.’”
    “Whatever floats your boat.” Examining my sculpture, I wondered if I should whittle away what I’d intended to be arms, and claim defeat:
Yeah, I
meant
it to be an ice cream cone.
    “Joseph, you look frustrated,” said Mr. Eggert, our art teacher. In his suit and tie, he looked like an accounting teacher, but I didn’t know of many accounting teachers who’d play Sly and the Family Stone along with Emerson, Lake & Palmer and the Mothers of Invention during class time.
    “Music is not only a stand-alone art,” he told us the first time he put
Plastic Ono Band
on the stereo. “It’s a helper art too. It unleashes those receptors in your brain that spark creativity.”
    “I already had a name for it,” I said, holding out my palm, showing him my sad little blob of soap. “
Limpid Nude.
But now I think I’ve got to call it
Limpid Rocky Road.
”
    Cocking his head, Mr. Eggert pressed together his narrow lips, which were bordered in the bluish stubble of his five o’clock shadow. After a moment of appraisal,