Bad Haircut by Tom Perrotta Page A

team at a second-rate school and turned it into a football powerhouse. He was handsome and charismatic, a Vietnam vet with chiseled features and shaggy, wheat-colored hair (a lot of girls thought he looked like Robert Redford). The class responded to his presence. We stood up straighter and pledged allegiance with more fervor than usual.
    Only Wendy seemed unaware of our visitor. She was sitting Indian-style in her chair, holding a paperback close to her nose and twirling a strand of hair around her finger. I saw Coach Whalen's head snap in her direction, watched the blood travel up his thick neck into his face, like mercury rising in a thermometer. When the class sat down,he strode past Mrs. Glowacki's desk and tapped Wendy on the shoulder.
    “What's the matter?” he asked, a little too politely. “Are you tired?”
    Wendy gave him a blank look, then shook her head. Whalen's hands curled into fists, then slowly relaxed. He looked like he wanted to spit.
    “Get up,” he said, “and march your butt down to Mr. Wyznewski before I lose my temper.”
    Later that day, word spread that Mr. Wyznewski had given her two weeks’ detention for sitting through the Pledge of Allegiance. Rocky was fascinated by the news.
    “Do you know her?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “We grew up together.”
    “What's she like?”
    “Not bad. Pretty nice tits.”
    He gave me a look, so I started over.
    “I mean she's smart,” I said. “But kind of spooky.”
    Wendy and I were in first grade when her brother died of leukemia. He was only nine years old. A minister took her out of school, and the next day we made condolence cards with crayons and construction paper. Mine had a picture of a little boy floating above a house.
    “I'm sorry about Mike,” it said.
    Wendy lived around the corner from me. Herdog, Angel, was a goofy-looking mutt, all black except for three white paws. He trotted around our neighborhood at a brisk clip, as though he were late for an appointment, but would always stop and permit his ears to be scratched by anyone who knew his name. I didn't have a dog, so I stopped him every chance I got; we were friends. But one day when I was in sixth grade, after years of mutual affection, Angel bit me for no reason. He sank his fangs into the meat of my hand, then hustled off with his tail wrapped tightly between his legs.
    The pain wasn't terrible; it must have been the betrayal that made me so furious. I ran home and showed my mother the torn flesh, expecting her to share my outrage. But she didn't say anything as she cleaned the wound.
    “Aren't you going to call?” I demanded.
    “I don't know, Buddy. I hate to bother Jeanette.”
    “Angel's dangerous, Ma. What if he bites some little kid?”
    My mother called, but she was a bit too friendly for my taste. After about five minutes of small talk she finally got around to mentioning that I'd had a run-in with Angel.
    “Run-in?” I said, loud enough for Mrs. Edwards to hear. “He almost took my hand off.”
    My mother glared at me, but kept talking inher sugary voice. I could tell she was mad at me when she hung up.
    “Hey,” I said. “Angel bit me. I didn't bite him.”
    “Buddy, Mrs. Edwards has more important things to worry about than Angel.”
    “Yeah? Like what?”
    “Like her husband's dying,” my mother said softly. “That's what.”
    A couple of weeks later, when my hand was healed, Wendy burst into tears in the middle of social studies. Mr. Wallace asked her what was wrong.
    “My dog got put to sleep,” she said. “I miss him.”
    “I'm sorry,” said Mr. Wallace. “Was he old and tired?”
    Wendy sniffled and shook her head. I felt sick to my stomach.
    “No,” she said. “He bit people.”
    Not long after Angel, her father died. Wendy was only out of school for a week, but she looked different when she came back. She kept her eyes wide open all the time, like she'd forgotten how to blink.
    Despite the detention, Wendy refused to stand on Thursday. She