The next thing I know I’m being blasted out of bed by Cat Scratch Fever! Freakin’ Ted Nugent, man.  What are they doing playing that on WABC radio anyway?! Especially at this time in the morning?! I had just intended to lie there in bed for a little bit to rest my eyes. Figure I’ll be way too pumped up to sleep. Instead, I wind up drifting into this freakin’ coma, before Nugent rudely and loudly smashes me into wide-eyed consciousness.  

So now, I’m out of it. Groggy. Headache. Pissed.  Everything annoys me! But there’s no way I’m missing school today - not this day.  Just an hour ago, I was racing down the street against the sunrise, battling to get in before my father gets up. Full of excitement and pride and secrets.  Now, I’m trudging up the same street (3rd Avenue), the morning sun glowing in my face. It’s piercing my eyelids, which are stuck together by what feels like a ton of sand. The ruckus of the cars whizzing by, honking at the rush hour, sends painful shrieks up my spine. It’s all too much. Sensory overload. I just want to get back to my nice dream world.

I’m beginning to wonder if all this shit that happened this weekend…did it really go down? The Savoy? Probably witnessing a murder while in a drug induced state? To say nothing of smoking ganja and drinking, for really the first time in my life?  Breaking into the school?  Creating a mural? Come to think of it - that’s a crime, man. That, and stealing Silverstein’s paints to put up a mural he doesn’t even want. I mean, realistically, the cops could even be at the school this very moment! Jeez.

I step warily into the school hallway - scoping the whole area. No cops, no FBI agents lurking around the doorways, brandishing handcuffs. So far. I breathe easy for a minute. I walk softly towards the art room, slowing way down to take a peek at what might be going on.  Good. Nobody in there yet.  Just Silverstein sitting at his desk, seemingly staring at the mural.  Wonder what he’s thinking? Sitting through that first period waiting for art class is torture.  Agony. It’s like waiting for that guillotine to come streaking down on my head. It’s inevitable. My thoughts then wander back to the French Revolution. I contemplate what those Frenchies might have been thinking about right before the blade descends…in half a second, your head would be rolling down the platform. Nasty. What would it be like to think in French, anyway? Would they be the same kind of thoughts English-speaking people had? Or would they be thinking about flamboulie, or pate, or whatever?

The bell for next period mercifully rings. Time to face my destiny. Again. As I shuffle half-hesitantly, half-anxiously, down the hall towards the art room, I hear this major commotion.  

What the hell is going on?