Free Sorta Like a Rock Star by Matthew Quick Page B

Pinkston torments me on a daily basis, which makes me sad and angry sometimes. But I love Mr. Franks, because he always lets me into his room and makes me feel like I am wanted and that I have many friends, and that my friends are also wanted in the school. I do not like eating in the lunchroom, because Alexander Pinkston torments me. I like eating my lunch with Mr. Franks. Mr. Franks is my favorite teacher. Please do not fire him. Please. Thank you. Yes.”
    Donna steps forward and says, “And I am a tax-paying community member. Mr. Pinkston’s son likes to trick my son into making sexual overtures to female classmates. My son will repeat almost anything he is told, especially when encouraged by the captain of the football team, so this is quite an easy task to accomplish. On Monday, Mr. Pinkston’s son told my son to tell sophomore Ryan Gold that her quote boobies were lovely unquote . So Ricky did, which resulted in Ryan Gold’s bursting into tears in the middle of the lunchroom.”
    Mr. Pinkston stands and says, “How dare you burst into our meeting and accuse my son with unfounded—”
    “Sit down, Mr. Pinkston!” Donna says.
    Mr. Pinkston scans the crowd for support, finds none, and then sits.
    “We visited with Ryan Gold and her parents yesterday,” Donna says. “Ryan Gold is a member of the National Honor Society. She goes to church every week. She is the nicest, most well-spoken girl you have ever met. And she is willing to testify in a court of law. Now I have talked with Principal Fiorilli several times and have even sent him letters regarding the harassment Mr. Pinkston’s son has inflicted on my son and other students. These letters are documented, of course. I have responses. So if you fire Franks, or if this man’s son—with malicious intent—comes within thirty feet of my son or Ryan Gold or any of these good kids here tonight, I will launch a lawsuit on this school that will drain your budget so fast, you’ll have to fire every damn teacher in the district to get it passed. Am I clear?” Donna’s eyes scan the crowd. She lets them take in her hotness. “And if any of these children have any sort of uncomfortable experience during the next few school days, this digital document gets copied and sent to every newspaper and television station in the area. Have a good meeting, boys and ladies. Keep Franks. Avoid legal trouble. It’s a win-win.”
    When Donna strides out of the room, we follow, and when we are outside, Donna distributes the celebratory high fives, and my boys are all smiles.
    “What do you think, Amber?” Chad says.
    “Did we deliver the speeches okay?” Ty says.
    “Do you think it will work?” Jared says.
    For some crazy reason, instead of answering, I smile and give each one of my boys a big old hug, which makes Ricky say, “Hi! Hi! Hi!”
    And Donna says, “Let’s go to Friendly’s!”
    So we all pile into her Mercedes.
    When we arrive at Friendly’s we get a big booth and Donna orders one of every sundae on the menu and six spoons, and we eat ice cream as a team, sword fighting with long ice cream spoons, laughing our butts off, getting chocolate sauce and whipped cream and caramel all over our teenage chins as we shuffle around the sundaes and sample all of the delicious concoctions—replaying the night, talking about how cool we all were, and how Franks is sure to keep his job now, and how Franks Freak Force Federation rocks hard-core, espe-cially in our new camo shirts, which we all agree to wear to school tomorrow like the sports teams do before big games. But when people ask us what the shirts are about, we won’t tell them, because it’s our secret. True? True.
    So I try not to get any sundae on my new shirt and catch myself looking at Donna a lot. She’s not really saying anything, and she doesn’t eat very much ice cream, but she’s smiling in this very satisfied way, and every so often she runs her nails through Ricky’s hair, which makes me jealous