Free Milk Chicken Bomb by Andrew Wedderburn

in.
    Isophocles, says Pete Leakie. Mr. Weissman’s shoulders slump a bit.
    Mullen chews and chews. Keeps his eyes on Dwayne Klatz, who keeps nodding, a little smile on his face. Klatz has a big black mole on the side of his cheek, right in the middle. Looks like it might crawl away at any moment, down his long, narrow head. Mullen chews and chews. Opens his mouth – the paper’s all soft, the blue and pink ink runny and soggy. Dwayne Klatz points to the front row, but Mullen shakes his head. Takes another sheet of foolscap. Crumples it, slow again. More kids watch now, a few slow to catch on, a few leaning right in. Mullen opens his mouth even wider, puts the second ball in with the soppy pulp already inside. Chewsslow-like. Works his mouth around all the crumpled edges. Breathes heavy through his nose.
    Mr. Weissman draws the angles between the sides of his triangles. Mullen chews and chews, crumples up more foolscap. Dwayne Klatz stands up and waves his arms, then sits back down quick when some of the Dead Kids near the front turn in their seats. Mr. Weissman turns around. Mullen sinks down in his seat, cheeks full, pulp around his lips.
    Which is the longest side of a triangle? One of the front-row girls puts up her hand. The hypotenuse! Mr. Weissman nods and turns back around. A kid starts to laugh and Dwayne Klatz drags his index finger across his throat, like in the movies. Mullen chews and chews. Crumples up another sheet of foolscap. Has to spread his lips apart with his fingers to fit it in. He can’t really chew anymore, can’t close his mouth.
    How many? mouths Dwayne Klatz.
    Mullen looks off to the side, thinking. Then he holds up four fingers.
    Mr. Weissman, says Randy Schloz, his hand up.
    Now, what do you think happens when we add up all the angles inside a triangle? What do you think the sum will be?
    Mr. Weissman?
    Yes, Randy?
    Mr. Weissman, Mullen is eating paper.
    Mullen, don’t eat paper, says Mr. Weissman. He doesn’t turn around. Draws a triangle on the board, careful to make the lines straight. Draws little arcs inside the corners. Draws a question mark in the middle.
    Mullen gets out of his desk, walks over to Randy Schloz’s desk. Randy sticks his hand as far up as it will go. Mullen reaches down and pulls open the desk bin. Neat piles inside, a stack for workbooks, another for paper. Some pulpy spit drips out of his open mouth into the desk.
    Mr. Weissman, says Randy.
    Now, this is a right-angle triangle. So we already know how many degrees in the corner, right?
    Mullen opens his mouth as wide as he can. The paper lump is too big to come out. He sticks a finger into the side of a cheek. His eyes bulge out and you can see his stomach heave. He bends forward. Dwayne Klatz gets out of his desk, comes over and wraps his arms around Mullen’s stomach. Randy Schloz tries to slam his desk bin shut and Dwayne Klatz squeezes Mullen around the middle. He gags and retches out a four-foolscap mess of soggy paper goo all over the inside of the bin. Kids yell and gag and Randy Scholz starts shouting, Mr. Weissman! Mr. Weissman! Mullen threw up in my desk! Dwayne Klatz lets go of Mullen and they both stand there while Mr. Weissman sets down his chalk, walks up the aisle between the desks. Looks over top of his glasses into Randy’s desk.
    He threw up in my desk, see? He did it on purpose.
    Good thing Dwayne was here to save me, says Mullen. I could have choked. Thanks a lot, Dwayne.
    Anytime, Mullen, says Dwayne Klatz.
    Mr. Weissman takes Mullen’s hand and leads him out the door, down the hall. Dwayne Klatz and I glare at Randy Schloz.
    He didn’t have to throw up in my desk, says Randy.

Deke and I go to the credit union on a Friday after school. We walk down the street so that Deke doesn’t have to drive the El Camino. Whatever its other merits, says Deke, combing his hair with a black comb, the El Camino carries with it a certain stigma. I’m not saying