He sat in the back of
class for the class
photo. He wore a suit
and tie and white shirt.
His mother made him dress
up for church and other
special occasions like
class photos, except
his desk was in the back
because he flunked deport-
ment, mostly because he
was nervous about failing
and being lonely in a new
school and it now would be
frozen in time and he would
always be thought of as the
dunce and class clown. “I’m
sorry, Mrs. Allen, for dis-
rupting the décorum of the
class.” He didn’t say that
in those words. After all,
it was only fifth grade and
it wasn’t until at least
eighth grade that he and his
buddies had developed their
own argot, which they used
with each other on the play-
ground and wouldn’t have
used when speaking to a
teacher anyway, and by then
his desk would have moved
to the front row to go
with the alphabetical
order. It was in eighth
grade that he realized
how much he owed Mrs.
Allen, besides the time
she came to his defense
when he accidentally
farted when he sneezed
and all the kids laughed
nervously, the girls
ducking their heads
and the boys all
pointing fingers at
him.