Springsteen’s “Rosalita” was pumping away when a faggy voice proclaimed, “As I live and breathe!” Even before we could register whose set of vocal cords it was, our nimble fingers were firing cigarettes around the room in a gale of sparks and ash. Funderburk was standing in the doorway, his arms folded and his face radiating satisfaction.

One by one my codefendants pleaded for mercy. Surprisingly, even Wheeler begged for another chance. Creature’s plea was the most ridiculous. “Please, Fundy,” he said, “my mother’s gonna have a royal bird if I get bounced.”

“It’s Mr. Funderburk and why should you really care? You haven’t attempted to gain one ounce of knowledge during the three years that you’ve been at C.A.”

“Oh, that’s bull! When I come to Cornwall I didn’t know nothing. I couldn’t talk good, I couldn’t read good, but you guys made me read a lot of books and stuff and it really improved my … um … you know, my ummm … .” Creature waved his index fingers in a circle. “My uh … you know, uh … the amount of words you know.”

After pathetic groveling by everyone, Fundy began to rant and rave in a nonsensical cackle. For the first time in his life he had a truly captive audience and he was inspired. The gist of his sermon was that we were all hopelessly doomed and that he resented us “enormously” because we were not law-abiding tools.

When Fundy’s tirade was twenty minutes along, I got fed up. I realized that I didn’t give a shit if I got booted. I had nothing to stay at Cornwall for anyway. The old man already told me that he had to work and couldn’t make the graduation, Jane had dumped me, the diploma was toilet paper, so I figured the sooner the better. I didn’t need a lecture from this guy.

“Excuse me,” I said. Fundy didn’t hear me and continued yelling.

“Excuse me,” I repeated louder, but again he paid no mind.

“Hey baldy!” I yelled, immediately corralling his attention.

Fundy regarded me with amusement.

“Listen,” I said, “why don’t you stop bugging us. I’m sure you got better things to do than crash parties.”

Fundy’s head snapped back. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Bigshot?”

I lifted a magazine off the card table, uncovering the half-played hash pipe resting in the ashtray. I put it to my lips. Then I picked up the lighter. All eyes shifted to the pipe in disbelief.

“Oh, you little punk! Now you’ve done it,” Fundy sang staccatolike. “Now you’ve reeeaaallly done it.”

I lit the bowl.

“Dunpheeee!” he cried. “Have you lost your mind?”

It took several lights to get the moist hash to burn properly, but eventually I managed a good draw.