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at which point Baskin, like a beacon in the sawdust, yelled out, “Oh gross, this kid’s got no ear.”
    So there I was, the new kid in a new town, on the first day of class with a 270-pound behemoth in my face, thirsting for blood. “So . . . Annie,” he said, so close to my face that I could almost taste the Anavar he’d eaten for breakfast, “Mr. Baskin here tells me that you’re missing an ear.” There was a gasp from the general student population, and an anticipatory hum from the team as they took note of the verbal noose that Hanrahan had slipped around my neck, awaiting the hanging that my answer would bring.
    For just a split second, I grabbed hold of my quarters, then let them loose with a jingle and went on the defensive instead. “Well, Mr. Hanrahan . . .” Dead silence for a moment and then I brought up my shield. “It may be gone, but I don’t miss it.”
    It took only a second for that laugh to ring out. But that laugh was a wonderful sound, like a solitary trumpet blast amid a symphony of silence. I turned, we all turned, to see its source, and to my wonder, that source was Terri Johnson. Then, as if Terri’s reaction had given the okay, a few more kids joined in. But not the squad, which kept a respectful silence in honor of their momentarily fallen leader.
    But Hanrahan got up, dusted himself off, and immediately took the low road. “Okay, okay, that’s enough out of you, Big Tits,” and then an “I got her there, boys.” Which elicited a few weak laughs, solely out of courtesy, from the team.
    Then his attention was back on me, for, after all, Terri was a cheerleader, and therefore an extension of the team, and even though her social dealings with Hanrahan’s ’roid warriors were minimal, there was no use picking on her when there were so many easier, weaker targets to choose from.
    â€œCongratulations, Annie, you just made my shit list,” Hanrahan said. “And you did it in record time.”
    Maybe I had, but as the local sports legend turned and picked out his next victim, I turned back to look at the girl with the auburn hair and smiled. And she smiled back.
    So I had put up with the Annie stuff, and though I may not have liked it, I tried not to give it much thought, even as the name grew in popularity among the general student ranks, and my name, which had been given to honor a fallen soldier, became a big joke. But other than the name, Hanrahan gave me some space, and concentrated his main efforts on prey that didn’t talk back.
    But this strange new romance between the school’s homecoming queen and the earless guy had clearly renewed Hanrahan’s interest in Annie Brown. So he began firing back, showing the tenacity that had made him a Pro Bowl nose tackle, before a knee operation sent him into early retirement with a full disability package to cushion the fall.
    On this particular day, he was giving Bill Bradford a particularly hard time. Bradford was a soccer player, a fact that placed him just slightly below the common earthworm in Hanrahan’s eyes. As the goalkeeper on a team that was in dead-last place, Bradford was easy pickings for a man whose football team was 6‒0 and was steam-rolling its way toward a third consecutive sectional title. We were now studying the Civil War, and amazingly Hanrahan still hadn’t figured out the Antietam significance.
    â€œBradford? Bradford? . . . Is that name Swiss?” Hanrahan asked in a transparent act of interest.
    â€œNo, Mr. Hanrahan, I think it’s English,” Bradford said.
    â€œAre you sure, Bradford?”
    â€œPretty sure, sir.”
    â€œWell you looked like you were Swiss in yesterday’s game, Bradford . . . like you were Swiss cheese, that is!”
    The team went into their celebration and Hanrahan ruled the joke to be a touchdown, and even I had to admit to myself that it wasn’t half bad. But Hanrahan