“Like a bad penny,” comments Prof. And it does look like a penny, a bright shiny new penny, even though it’s an older model car, with curving lines. When the school bus stops to let us off, we walk in front of the Corvette. I have the impression of a really big guy squeezed into a space that’s not big enough for him. Grimshaw walks in front of the car without looking at him. Something about the way she lifts her chin and ignores him makes me feel that she knows exactly who he is and why he’s here. But I follow along behind her with her suitcase and we nod at each other briefly, this big guy in his low car. Out the window Prof wishes us a great summer and tells us it’ll be September before we know it. I walk backward and wave at him, but Grimshaw just smiles to herself, like she knows the answer to questions the rest of us are too dumb to ask.

two

“WE’LL NEVER KNOW IF COMMUNISM is a good idea until we try it,” the principal of Colchis High intones. Two days into my summer vacation, and I’m back at the high school listening to her read from my final exam essay. “The totalitarian state of the USSR was just a form of capitalism,” she continues. “And government functionaries acted as owners.” After that, she reads silently for a minute and then skips to my analysis of the failure of twentieth century communism, which is, objectively speaking, brilliant. “If you went to bake a chocolate cake,” she reads. “And then you used no chocolate, no sugar, no butter, no flour, and no eggs, but cooked it and forced everyone to eat it anyway, and the sicker they got, the better they were supposed to say they felt, and you still insisted it was chocolate cake, you should not be surprised if your enemies outlaw chocolate cake and decree that from now on, anyone who tries to make or eat or know anything about chocolate cake will be summarily bombed.” At that point, the principal sighs, shakes her head, and scans the next two pages. On the last page, next to a giant red F, I can see that Mr. C. made a little drawing of a pile of steaming manure with a pitchfork stuck in it.

She turns the booklet over and sees the note I wrote. “‘Dear Mr. C.,’” she reads out loud. “‘You’ll notice I only wrote on one essay question instead of three. However, the total number of word-inches far exceeds the requirement, and it should be obvious that when it comes to Western Civilization, I do know what I’m talking about, especially by the standards of Foundations. Have a good summer. Sincerely, Serena Velasco.’”