Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           “Mark,canyoutakemetoyourlocker,please?”

           “Sure,”Isay,andslugmyselfdownthehall,baggyjeansandmoppyhairandoversizedPanteraT-shirtandall.

           Wegettomylocker.“Openit,please,”Mr.Pricesays;soIdo.Hestepsinfrontofmeandgathersmycoat,mygymbag,mybackpack—allofthelocker’scontents,minusafewnotebooksandpencils.Hestartswalkingaway.“Comewithme,please,”hesays,withoutlookingback.Istarttogetanuneasyfeeling.

           Ifollowhimtohisoffice,whereheasksmetositdown.Heclosesthedoorandlocksit.Hegoesovertothewindowandadjuststheblindstoblocktheviewfromoutside.Mypalmsbegintosweat.Thisisnotanormalprincipalvisit.

           Mr.Pricesitsdownandquietlyrummagesthroughmythings,checkingpockets,unzippingzippers,shakingoutmygymclothesandplacingthemonthefloor.

           Withoutlookingupatme,Mr.Priceasks,“DoyouknowwhatI’mlookingfor,Mark?”

           “No,”Isay.

           “Drugs.”

           Thewordshocksmeintonervousattention.

           “D-d-drugs?”Istammer.“Whatkind?”

           Helooksatmesternly.“Idon’tknow;whatkinddoyouhave?”Heopensoneofmybindersandchecksthesmallpocketsmeantforpens.

           Mysweatblossomslikeafungalgrowth.Itspreadsfrommypalmstomyarmsandnowmyneck.Mytemplespulsateasbloodfloodsmybrainandface.