Principal Edwards had summoned us for interrogation simultaneously, and everyone was shocked to see me return to my seat so soon. I imagined the others regarded me with an air of caution, wondering what I would do to retaliate against those who had nominated me to the principal’s ears. I dreamed of radical terrorism, toilets spouting like fountains, poison ivy on the swing set, ink in the lunch milk, the entire playground on fire. Transferring schools seemed bad enough, but transferring from Rapid City to San Diego in the middle of my freshman year was socially disastrous. Not picked for basketball or football or baseball, Tim was the only other kid no one wanted anything to do with. “Those guys are a bunch of fags, anyway,” Tim said. “Humping each other over a little ball. Fuck ’em.” Tim and I spent most of the time hanging out after school at Tim’s hideout, a tin construction shack left by the crew who had paved the highway behind my new home. We called it the clubhouse.
