Spanking Shakespeare by Jake Wizner Page B

concentrate on an important test and having to listen to someone snorting up snot every few seconds. Still, I am completely blindsided by Paige Blanchard’s strike from all the way across the classroom.
    “Would you just blow your nose!” she screeches. “That’s so unbelievably annoying.”
    Everybody in the class looks up, a few people laugh, and somebody says, “Thank you, Paige.”
    Mr. Mullen seems amused by the whole scene. “Go get some tissues, Shakespeare,” he says.
    I can feel the eyes on me as I hurry from the room, trying desperately to make it out before any snot leaks down my face.
    Safe in a bathroom stall, I wipe my nose with toilet paper and feel the full weight of my humiliation come crashing down. Not only is Paige Blanchard one of the most desirable girls in the school, she is also best friends with Jody Simons, the top girl on my fantasy list. Once Jody hears about this, any tiny possibility that she might be interested in me will be irrevocably destroyed.
    I can’t stay in the stall forever, but the thought of going back to class is almost more than I can bear. In the first place, everybody will look up when I come back in the room. Then there is the problem of what to do about my nonstop runny nose. I have barely started my essay, and there are now only thirty minutes left in the period. I stuff as much toilet paper as I can in my pocket, take a gigantic snort, and hurry back to class.
    Once at my desk, I devise a system that I think will keep my snot at bay. What I do is put my non-writing arm across my desk and slouch so my nose and mouth are pressed against the sleeve of my shirt. In this position, my eyes are right up close to my test paper, my writing hand is free, and I have formed a barrier against the onslaught of snot cascading from my nose. It is a bit difficult to breathe, no question about that, and I am aware that snot is pooling up against my sleeve, but I manage to make it through the rest of the period without causing any more of a racket.
    “Time’s up,” Mr. Mullen says. “Turn in your tests on your way out.”
    There is a lot of commotion as students push away from their desks, gather their things, and begin to move around the room. I lift my face gingerly from my arm and realize that my sleeve is drenched with snot, and my whole lower face feels sticky and wet. Most appalling is that as I raise my face, I trail a string of snot that stretches up with me from my sleeve, so I have to bury my face quickly again in my shirt before anyone notices.
    I grab the wad of toilet paper in my pocket and try to raise my face and wipe it simultaneously. The snot is mounting a final, vicious attack, coming at me from all sides and overwhelming my defenses. The situation is desperate. I have to beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom or all will be lost. The key is not to make eye contact with anybody, to keep my head down, to drop my test book on Mr. Mullen’s desk with one hand, to cover my mouth and my nose with the other, and to make a beeline for the bathroom.
    All this I accomplish, though I can only imagine how pathetic and ridiculous I look to the groups of students crowding the hallway. What’s even worse is that Mr. Parke’s class begins in three minutes.
    I stand in the bathroom stall for the second time in the past hour. My nose is running, and I feel awful. Why the hell did I come to school today? I want to be home in bed. I want to get as far away from what just happened as possible. There’s certainly no way I can sit through another class.
    I make my way to the office, call my mother, and get permission to sign out. It is thirteen degrees outside, even colder with the wind. As I push away from the school building, I see someone who looks like Charlotte coming toward me, walking slowly up the street with her head down.
    “You’re late,” I say as she reaches me.
    She looks up, startled. Her eyes are wet, but I can’t tell if this is from the wind or if she has been