(Editor’s note: Since I cut class once last week, we get an extra credit edition this week.)
Mr. Weeks, our gym teacher. Nobody knows which is higher: his age, waist size, or IQ. My money is on his belt.
We do the mile run today. Worst day of P.E. class. Except for basketball where I’ll get hit in the face with a ball two minutes after kickoff. Oh, and weightlifting. Eww, the smell. Combine week-old socks, my mom’s limburger cheese and a French whore’s perfume. Our school’s weight room.
Weeks blows his shrill whistle. Ugh! Sends everyone off like cockroaches. Butt Kiss hugs the inside lane and runs like it’s the Olympics. There’s a Butt Kiss in every school, right?
Weeks finally notices me standing in the shade.
“I’d like to join them, sir, but…” I hand over my note, which he stares at for five seconds before turning it the other direction.
His lips move as he reads. “You’re … what?”
“Shhh,” I admonish. “I’m in the Fitness Protection Program.”
He shrugs. “Well, yeah. I’ve heard a that. Okay.”
I’m an effing genius.
“Follow me,” he says. Yes! He’s gonna dump me off in the library. Hallelujah!
But he hands me a towel and spray bottle. “Clean the weight room.” He winks. “They’ll never look there for you.” Maybe Weeks isn’t as dumb as we think.