‘I’m going to ask Kim out,’ Cal said. ‘Don’t ask Kim out,’ Park said.

‘Why not?’ They were sitting in the library, and they were supposed to be looking for poems. Cal had already picked out something short about a girl named Julia and the ‘liquefaction of her clothes.’ (‘Crass,’ Park said. ‘It can’t be crass,’ Cal argued. ‘It’s three-hundred years old.’)

‘Because she’s Kim,’ Park said. ‘You can’t ask her out. Look at her.’ Kim was sitting at the next table over with two other preppy girls. ‘Look at her,’ Cal said, ‘she’s a Betty.’

‘Jesus,’ Park said. ‘You sound so stupid.’ ‘What? That’s a thing. A Betty is a thing.’

‘But you got it from Thrasher or something, right?’

‘That’s how people learn new words, Park’ – Cal tapped a book of poetry – ‘reading.’

‘You’re trying too hard.’

‘She’s a Betty,’ Cal said, nodding at Kim and getting a Slim Jim out of his backpack.

Park looked at Kim again. She had bobbed blond hair and hard, curled bangs, and she was the only kid in school with a Swatch. Kim was one of those people who never wrinkled … She wouldn’t make eye contact with Cal. She’d be afraid he’d leave a stain.

‘This is my year,’ Cal said. ‘I’m getting a girlfriend.’ ‘But probably not Kim.’

‘Why not Kim? You think I need to aim lower?’

Park looked up at him. Cal wasn’t a bad-looking guy. He had kind of a tall Barney Rubble thing going on … He already had pieces of Slim Jim caught in his front teeth.

‘Aim elsewhere,’ Park said.

‘Screw that,’ Cal said, ‘I’m starting at the top. And I’m getting you a girl, too.’

‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ Park said. ‘Double-dating,’ Cal said.

‘No.’

‘In the Impala.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up.’ Park’s dad had decided to be a fascist about Park’s driver’s license; he’d announced last night that Park had to learn to drive a stick first. Park opened another book of poetry. It was all about war. He closed it.

‘Now there’s a girl who might want a piece of you,’ Cal said. ‘Looks like somebody’s got jungle fever.’

‘That isn’t even the right kind of racist,’ Park said, looking up. Cal was nodding toward the far corner of the library. The new girl was sitting there, staring right at them.

‘She’s kind of big,’ Cal said, ‘but the Impala is a spacious automobile.’ ‘She’s not looking at me. She’s just staring, she does that. Watch.’ Park

waved at the girl, but she didn’t blink.

He’d only made eye contact with her once since her first day on the bus. It was last week, in history, and she’d practically gouged out his eyes with hers.

If you don’t want people to look at you, Park had thought at the time, don’t wear fishing lures in your hair. Her jewelry box must look like a junk drawer. Not that everything she wore was stupid …

She had a pair of Vans he liked, with strawberries on them. And she had a green sharkskin blazer that Park would wear himself if he thought he could get away with it.

Did she think she was getting away with it?

Park braced himself every morning before she got on the bus, but you couldn’t brace yourself enough for the sight of her.

‘Do you know her?’ Cal asked.

‘No,’ Park said quickly. ‘She’s on my bus. She’s weird.’ ‘Jungle fever is a thing,’ Cal said.

‘For black people. If you like black people. And it’s not a compliment, I don’t think.’

‘Your people come from the jungle,’ Cal said, pointing at Park. ‘Apocalypse Now, anyone?’

‘You should ask Kim out,’ Park said. ‘That’s a really good idea.’

Eleanor

Eleanor wasn’t going to fight over an e.e. cummings book like it was the last Cabbage Patch Kid. She found an empty table in the African American literature section.

That was another fucked-up thing about this school – effed-up, she corrected herself.

Most of the kids here were black, but most of the kids in her honors classes were white. They got bussed in from west Omaha. And the white kids from the Flats, dishonor students, got bussed in from the other direction.

Eleanor wished she had more honors classes. She wished there was honors gym …

Like they’d ever let her into honors gym. Eleanor would get put in remedial gym first. With all the other fat girls who couldn’t do sit-ups.

Anyway. Honor students – black, white or Asia Minor – tended to be nicer. Maybe they were just as mean on the inside, but they were scared of getting in trouble. Or maybe they were just as mean on the inside, but they’d been trained to be polite – to give up their seats for old people and girls.

Eleanor had honors English, history and geography, but she spent the rest of her day in Crazytown. Seriously, Blackboard Jungle. She should probably try harder in her smart classes so that she wouldn’t get kicked out of them.

She started copying a poem called ‘Caged Bird’ into her notebook … Sweet. It rhymed.