Vernon God Little

'Thank you, Beauregard, for that incisive encapsulation of the issue at hand. As for you, Ms Brewster, I think you'll find that our illustrious constitution stops short of empowering you to breach a person's fundamental human rights.'

'We're not breaching any rights,' says Charlotte. 'We, The People, have decided to have a little fun, with whoever, and we have that right. Then whoever has a right to fun us back. Or ignore us. Otherwise, if they can't take the heat…'

'Get out of the fire!' Wrong, Lorna. Duh.

'Yeah, sir,' says Lechuga. 'It's constitutional.'

Nuckles paces the width of the room. 'Nowhere in the papers of State, Doctor Lechuga, will you see written "If you can't take the heat.'" He spreads the words out thick and creamy. It's a tactical error with Charlotte Brewster fired up the way she is. She won't tolerate losing, not at all. Her lips turn anus-like. Her eyes get beady.

'Seems to me, sir, you're spending a lot of time defending Jesus Navarro. A whole lot of time. Maybe we don't have the whole picture…?'

Nuckles freezes. 'Meaning what?'

'I guess you don't surf the net much, huh, sir?' Lechuga casts a sly eye around the room. 'I guess you ain't seen them – boy sites.'

Nuckles moves towards Max, trembling with rage. Jesus abandons his desk with a crash, and runs from the room. Class goddess Lori Donner runs after him. Nuckles spins. 'Lori! Jesus!' He chases them into the hall.

See Jesus' dad, ole Rosario? He'd never end up in this position. Know why? Because he was raised back across the border, where they have a sensible tradition of totally freaking out when the first thing gets to them. Jesus caught the white-assed disease of bottling it all up. I have to find him.

The class casually slips into character for the scene, the one where they're innocent bystanders at a chance event. Heads shake maturely. The Gurie twins swallow a giggle. Then Max Lechuga gets out of his chair, and goes to the bank of computer terminals by the window. One by one, he activates the screen-savers. Pictures jump to the screen of Jesus naked, bent over a hospital-type gurney.

I step up to Nuckles in the hall outside class. He ain't seen the computer screens yet. 'Sir, want me to find Jesus?'

'No. Take those notes to the lab and see if you can find me a candle.'

I grab the sheaf of notes from his desk, and head outside. Already I can see Jesus' locker hanging open in the corridor; his sports bag is gone. Nuckles returns to the class. I guess he sees the pictures, because he snarls: 'You cannibals dare talk to me about the constitution?'

'The constitution', says Charlotte, 'is a tool of interpretation, for the governing majority of any given time.'

'And?'

'We are that majority. This is our time.'

'Bambi-Boy, Bambi-Boy!' sings Max Lechuga.

*

Dew tiptoes down Lori Dormer's cheeks, falling without a sound onto the path outside the lab. 'He took his bike. I don't know where he went.'

'I do,' I say.

I guess she feels safe, Jesus turning out the way he is. She's just real sympathetic. I'm still not sure how to handle the new Jesus. It's like he watched too much TV, got lulled into thinking anything goes. Like the world was California all of a sudden.

'Lori, I have to find him. Cover for me?'

'What do I tell Nuckles?'

'Say I fell or something. Say I'll be back for math.'

She takes one of my fingertips and kneads it. 'Vern – tell Jesus we can change things if we stick together – tell him…' She starts to cry.

'I'm gone,' I say. The ground detaches from my New Jacks, I leap clean over the school building, in my movie I do. I'm fifty yards away from Lori before I realize that the candle, and Nuckles's notes, are still in my hand – I don't want to ruin my Caped-Crusader-like exit, though. I just jam them into my back pocket, and keep running.

Sunny dogs and melted tar come to my nose as I fly to Keeter's on my bike. I also catch a blast of girls' hot-weather underwear, the loose cotton ones, white ones with bitty holes to circulate air. I'm not saying I catch a real whiff, don't get me wrong. But the components of this lathery morning bring them to mind. As Nuckles would say, the underwears are evoked. I ride this haze of tangs, dodging familiar bushes along Keeter's track. A sheet of iron creaks in a gust, somehow marking this as an important day, a pivot. But I'm embarrassed. The excitement of it puts me in a category with the ass-wipes at school, toking on the drug of somebody else's drama. Your neighbor's tragedy is big business now, I guess because money can't buy it.