Тонкое искусство пофигизма

           Likemostthirteen-year-oldsfreshlyaccusedofpossessingnarcoticsandbringingthemtoschool,Iwanttorunawayandhide.

           “Idon’tknowwhatyou’retalkingabout,”Iprotest,thewordssoundingfarmeekerthanI’dlike.IfeelasifIshouldbesoundingconfidentinmyselfrightnow.Ormaybenot.MaybeIshouldbescared.Doliarssoundmorescaredorconfident?Becausehowevertheysound,Iwanttosoundtheopposite.Instead,mylackofconfidencecompounds,unconfidenceaboutmysoundingunconfidentmakingmemoreunconfident.ThatfuckingFeedbackLoopfromHell.

           “We’llseeaboutthat,”hesays,turninghisattentiontomybackpack,whichseeminglyhasonehundredpockets.Eachisloadedwithitsownsillyteendesiderata—coloredpens,oldnotespassedinclass,early-ninetiesCDswithcrackedcases,dried-upmarkers,anoldsketchpadwithhalfitspagesmissing,dustandlintandcrapaccumulatedduringamaddeninglycircuitousmiddleschoolexistence.

           Mysweatmustbepumpingatthespeedoflight,becausetimeextendsitselfanddilatessuchthatwhatismeresecondsonthat9:00A.M.second-periodbiologyclocknowfeelslikePaleolithiceons,andI’mgrowingupanddyingeveryminute.JustmeandMr.Priceandmybottomlessbackpack.

           SomewherearoundtheMesolithicAge,Mr.Pricefinishessearchingthebackpack.Havingfoundnothing,heseemsflustered.Heturnsthepackupsidedownandletsallofmycrapcrashontohisofficefloor.He’snowsweatingasprofuselyasIam,exceptinplaceofmyterror,thereishisanger.