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his pants and showing off his own unique galaxy of constellations that his hypodermic plunges were sure to have left.
    Not that he would have been embarrassed. On the contrary, anabolic steroids were like a rite of passage for Hanrahan’s dedicated gridiron warriors, their usage encouraged by parents concerned more with visions of glory than with livers that functioned. Size and strength were the prize, but even the side effects of an expanded brow and a deep boil-like back acne was a symbol of status among the football elite, and the girls that adored them.
    Two things were a given in every single lecture he gave: (1) he would mention his five years in the NFL, (2) he would hurt someone’s feelings in a way that teachers who had never played in the NFL wouldn’t dare.
    He was like a big cat in that way, searching his class for weaknesses using whatever tools were at his disposal before pouncing, the more damage the better, as long as it got a laugh out of his players, who made up about half the class.
    But in an odd way, I had Mr. Hanrahan to thank for meeting Terri. My very first day in school, as Hanrahan called off the roll.
    â€œAnderson, Jung, where is Jung Anderson?” he called. A tiny Oriental girl raised a meek hand and said, “Here.”
    â€œAnderson?” Hanrahan said again, this time in loud sarcastic disbelief. “Anderson? How did a Chink like you get a name like Anderson?” A couple of uncomfortable chuckles from the class, but uproarious laughter from the steroid studs. Then a pause before Hanrahan smiled and went for the kill. “What, did your mother bang a GI in ’Nam?” I bit my lip in anger as the football team turned the classroom into their own little end-zone celebration and Hanrahan shot both arms into the air and yelled “Touchdown!” I looked at Jung Anderson as she put her head on her desk, but the coach wasn’t through yet. “Pow, pow, boys, I got her there!” he said, and then in the lamest and most stereotypical of Asian accents said, “Me so horny, GI, me love you long time.” I looked at Clem Baskin, Conestoga’s all-conference fullback, and thought his head might explode. His face, always red from the chemicals he shot into his buttocks, was now purple and getting darker by the second as he roared his approval to Hanrahan’s delight and Jung Anderson’s dismay.
    I knew I was next, my last name starting with B. “Brown, Antietam,” the football god said, and I looked at his eyes as he contemplated the best way to strike. “Antietam,” he said again, clearly pondering the odd name. “I know that name from somewhere.” I let forth a small laugh that I knew right away was a mistake, but the idea that a teacher of history couldn’t place the word “Antietam” was ludicrous to me. I saw a quick blank expression in his eyes, as I guessed he was not used to being laughed at, then he recovered and said, “What’s so funny Ann Tietam, ha ha, how’s that, Annnnnn Tietam, how ‘bout I just call you Annie for short.” Then “How’s that sound, boys?” The boys were clearly in favor, and from that moment on I was just plain Annie.
    Hanrahan smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and was about to stab into another fragile adolescent psyche when Clem Baskin stood up. “That’s him, coach,” he said, “the kid from wood shop, the one I told you about.” And with that helpful hint, Hanrahan glared at me once more, clearly intending to have himself another heaping helping of Annie Brown.
    I was indeed the kid from wood shop, second-period wood shop to be exact. The kid who couldn’t wear safety glasses because they kept sliding down the right side of his face, there being, of course, no ear there to support them. The incident might have gone unnoticed had Baskin not heard me explaining my unique auditory circumstances to the shop teacher,