Free In Zanesville by Jo Ann Beard

out of one another in some kind of Boy Scout formation, one familiar
     kid in the middle of them, bigger than the rest and hatless. Derek Kozak, revving his engine. Before we can process that,
     we’re seeing our own majorettes, in their leotards and fishnets—from this angle they look young again—then Wilton with a whistle
     in his mouth, followed by the band, loud and brassy, and so tightly bunched that the two holes we left are gone.
    The band members are indistinguishable under their hats and behind their instruments. Next the cheerleaders swim by in their
     neat cable-knit sweaters and short skirts, the football players following trancelike in their wake. Suddenly I feel desolate
     in my queer wool tunic and limp, electrified hair; I might as well be one of the zombies out there broadcasting Tootsie Rolls
     into the crowd. Two leather-vested women ride by on palomino horses with a banner stretched between them. Right as the horses
     clop past, one of them slows down, arches its tail, and churns out a road apple.
    “Trick or treat,” Felicia says.
    A half hour later, back at John Deere, people are getting their cases out of the gym and turning in their plumes. Wilton wanders
     through the ranks, exhausted and euphoric, blue coat open to the elements.
    “Good work, girls,” he murmurs as he passes Felicia and me taking apart our instruments.
    For just a moment, we think we’ve gotten away with it, until I glance over and see Varrick, the first flute, staring at me.
     Her nose is running from the cold, her blond hair wisping out of its long, sullen braid.
    “Hey,” I say weakly.
    “Hay is for jackasses,” she replies.
    *     *     *
    Detention is held in one of the science rooms, where there are lab tables instead of desks. Felicia and I walk in together
     but pretend not to know each other so the monitor will put us at the same table. She barely looks up from what she’s knitting,
     something green and tube shaped.
    “Do your homework,” she says to her needles. “If I hear talking, everyone in here will have another detention added.”
    “God!” somebody exclaims, a hoodlum in a red sweatshirt and a jean jacket. He has a sneering baby face, with jet-black shiny
     hair that he tosses sideways, like a nervous horse.
    “That’s talking,” she says. “So, one more for everyone in here.”
    Another kid raises his hand as we take our seats. Knitting, she doesn’t see it until he clears his throat raspingly, several
     times.
    “What do you want, Mr. Prentiss?”
    “Um, I was wondering if I could not have more detentions added, because I didn’t say anything and if I get any more my dad
     is going to take away my dog, and all I did to get in here was nothing… I missed health class, but it was because I had a
     doctor’s appointment and I went to it, but my mom never called the office and I thought she was going to, and so I left without
     permission but I thought I
had
permission. It was to get my arm rewrapped.” He indicates his wrist, which is haphazardly wrapped in a dirty Ace bandage.
    “Why would he take away your dog?” the monitor asks, looking over the top of her glasses at Mr. Prentiss, who isn’t quite
     cute.
    “Because,” he begins slowly, thinking it through, “my
dog
…was given to me by my friend’s brother… this guy who found him down running along the river when he was fishing, and for some
     reason no matter what my friend’s brother did, this
dog
…”
    “All right,” she says shortly. “I don’t want to hear about a dog and I don’t want to hear talking, period. Starting right
     now,
anything
I hear will lead to another detention for everyone.”
    The original kid raises his hand. She looks at him.
    “God!” he exclaims.
    “One detention for everyone, thanks to Mr. Nelson,” she says decisively. Mr. Prentiss waves his hand again, clearing his throat,
     but she ignores him, stabbing away at her project.
    Felicia has her head bowed over her math book,