I walk into A.P. English halfway through the period and Mrs. Giavotella stares at me for just about seven minutes before she says, “How nice of you to join us, Mr. Peacock. See me after class.”

My A.P. English teacher looks like a cannonball. She’s short and round and has these stubby limbs that make me wonder if she can touch the top of her head. She never wears a dress or a skirt but is always in overstuffed pants that are about to explode and a huge blouse that hangs down almost to her knees, covering her belly. A beaded line of sweat perpetually sits just above her upper lip.

I nod and take my seat.

The troglodyte football player who doesn’t even belong in A.P. but just so happens to sit directly behind me—that guy knocks my Bogart hat off my head and everyone sees my new fucked-up haircut before I can get my skull covered again.

“What the—?” this girl Kat Davis whispers, making me realize my hair looks worse than I had imagined.

Mrs. Giavotella gives me a look like she’s really worried for me all of a sudden, and I look back at her like please return to the lesson so everyone will stop looking at me because if you don’t I will pull the P-38 from my backpack and start firing away.

“Mr. Adams,” Mrs. Giavotella says to the kid behind me. “If you were Dorian Gray—if there was a picture of you that changed according to your behavior, how would that picture look right about now?”

“I didn’t knock Leonard’s hat off, if that’s what you’re implying. He knocked it off himself. I saw him do it. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Mrs. Giavotella looks at him for a second, and I can tell she believes him. Then she looks at me, like she’s wondering if I really did knock my own hat off, so I say, “Why would I knock my own hat off? What purpose would that serve?”

“Why would you interrupt my lesson by arriving late?” she says, and then gives me this lame look that’s supposed to intimidate and control me—and it probably would on any other day. But I have the P-38 in my backpack, and therefore am uncontrollable.

Mrs. Giavotella says, “So. Back to Mr. Dorian Gray.”

I don’t really listen to the class discussion, which is all about a painting that gets uglier and uglier as its subject ages and becomes more and more corrupt, but magically never ages himself at all. It sounds like an interesting book, and I probably would have read it if I weren’t so obsessed with reading Hamlet over and over again. If I weren’t going to shoot Asher Beal and kill myself this afternoon, I’d probably read The Picture of Dorian Gray next. I’ve liked everything we’ve read in Mrs. Giavotella’s class this year, even though she’s always going on and on about the bullshit A.P. exam and dangling the college-credit carrot way more than she should. It’s almost obscene.

Mostly, as I’m sitting here in A.P. English, I think about the way my classmates are always raising their hands and sucking up to Mrs. Giavotella just so she will give them As, which they will send to Harvard or Princeton or Stanford or where-fucking-ever, to go along with their lies about how much community service they supposedly did and essays about how much they care about poor minority children they’ll never meet in real life or how they are going to save the world armed with nothing but a big heart and an Ivy League education.

“Save the world in your college application essays,” Mrs. Giavotella likes to say.

If my classmates put as much effort into making our community better as they give to the college-application process, this place would be a utopia.

Appearances, appearances.

The great façade.

How to Live Blindly in a Blind World 101.

So much bullshit gets flung around in here, the stench gets so strong that you can hardly breathe. The best thing about killing myself will be that I’ll never have to go to a fake university and wear one of those standard college sweatshirts that’s supposed to prove I’m smart or something. I’m pretty proud of the fact that I will die without officially taking the SATs. Even though Linda and everyone here at my high school has begged me to take that stupid test just because I did so well on the practice one a few years ago.

Illogical.

Epic fail.

Somehow the class ends and I remember I’m supposed to speak with Mrs. Giavotella, so I just stay put when everyone scrambles out the door.

She walks over all slow and dramatic, sits on the desk in front of me so that her feet are resting on the seat, her knees clamped together tight so that I don’t get a direct view of her overly taxed zipper, which I appreciate very much, and says, “So, do you want to talk about what happened to your hair?”

“No, thank you.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, then. Why exactly were you late for my class?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not good enough.”

“I’m thinking of dropping down to the honors track. You won’t have to worry about me then.”

“Not a chance.”

I’m not really sure what she wants from me, so I look out the window at the few leaves clinging to the small Japanese maple outside.

She says, “I graded your Hamlet exam. How do you think you did?”

I shrug.

“Your essay was very interesting.”

I keep looking at the few clinging leaves that seem to shiver whenever the wind blows.

“Of course, you completely ignored the prompt.”

“You asked the wrong question,” I say.

“I beg your pardon?”

“No offense, but I think you asked the wrong essay question.”

She forces an incredulous laugh and says, “So you gave me the right question.”

“Yes.”

“Which was?”

“You read my essay, right?”

“Do you really think Shakespeare is trying to justify suicide—that the entire play is an argument for self-slaughter?”

“Yes.”

“But Hamlet doesn’t commit suicide.”

“You did read my essay, right?”

Mrs. Giavotella smoothes out her pant legs, rubbing her palms down her thighs, and then says, “I noticed you didn’t bring your copy of the text to the open-book test. And yet you quoted extensively. Do you really have so many quotes memorized? Is that possible?”

I shrug, because why does that even matter? It’s like my English teacher gets off on having supposedly smart people in her class, and yet she doesn’t even realize what’s important about the books and plays we read. She doesn’t understand what’s important about me either.

“Your essay was brilliant, Leonard. Perhaps the finest I’ve come across in all of my nineteen years of teaching. I read it several times. You have a real way with words. And your arguments—you could be a fantastic lawyer if you wanted to be.”

I keep staring at those few clinging leaves, waiting for her to flip the praise into scorn like she always does.

Who the fuck would want to be a lawyer? Being forced to argue for money—supporting sides you don’t even believe in.

After a dramatic pause, she says, “But you didn’t answer any of the simple multiple-choice questions. Why?”

“You only ask those to make sure everyone read the play,” I say. “My essay clearly proves that I read the play, right? I demonstrated proficiency, did I not?”

“They were worth thirty points. You didn’t demonstrate the ability to follow simple directions. That counts in my class, and in life too. No matter how smart you may be, you’re going to have to follow instructions once you leave this high school.”

I laugh because we’re talking about her grades and points as if they’re real or something. And knowing that I’m about to kill Asher Beal and then myself makes this conversation all the more absurd and irrelevant.

“I don’t really care about the grade. You can fail me. It doesn’t matter.”

“That’s very noble of you, but you have to think about your future, Leonard.”

“Do you think Hamlet would have followed directions if he had taken this exam? Do you?”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“Then why do you make us study characters like Hamlet—heroes—if we’re not supposed to act like them? If we’re supposed to worry about points and college-acceptance letters and all the rest. Do what everyone else is doing.”

“Hamlet went to college,” she says weakly, because she knows I’m right. She knows she’s fighting on the wrong side.

I smile and keep looking at the tree. She has no clue. Never in her wildest dreams would she imagine I have a Nazi gun on me. Her imagination is so limited. She has a multiple-choice-question-making imagination. It makes me laugh, how stupid our A.P. English teacher is.

She says, “I’ve tried to contact your—”

I use my acting voice to say, “Make you a wholesome answer. My wit’s diseased. But, sir, such answer as I can make, you shall command—or, rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more but to the matter. My mother, you say—”

Mrs. Giavotella just sort of stares at me like she’s afraid, so I say, “You’re supposed to jump in as Rosencrantz,” and in my acting voice I say, “‘Then thus she says: your behavior hath struck her into amazement and admiration.’ You see—I was quoting from Hamlet. You did realize that, right? You can’t be that much of a shitty teacher. Come on!”

Her face goes blank and her mouth becomes an O, like I slapped her hard.

Eventually, she stands and walks to her desk.

I watch her write a pass.

She hands it to me and in this new stern faraway detached voice she says, “I’m here to help, Leonard. I’m glad that you found Hamlet so stimulating. I won’t pretend to know what’s going on with you, but I have to report your bizarre behavior to Guidance. I just want you to know that. And I’m not really sure what you’re after, but I try very hard to be a good teacher. I spend a lot of time and energy on my tests and lesson plans. I care about all of my students, thank you very much.” In a whisper, she says, “If you want to throw that in my face then—then you can go to hell.” Much louder she says, “When you’re willing to talk straight with me, I’m willing to listen. But if you ever come to my class again even one second late, you won’t be permitted entrance. You understand me?”

I look into Mrs. Giavotella’s eyes and her lids are quivering, which is when I realize that she’s going to cry just as soon as I leave the room. And this is going to be her last memory of me. I’m not really sure why, but I feel terrible all of a sudden. Like I want to pull out the P-38 and off myself in the bathroom stall. If I didn’t have to deliver the other three presents and shoot Asher Beal in the face, I probably would just get it over with and be done with everything.

I have the pass in my hand and now Mrs. Giavotella’s looking at the almost completely bare Japanese maple outside her classroom window.

What makes sad people want to look at that tree?

Her back fat is hanging over her bra strap and it makes me wonder if she was picked on a lot in high school for being so short, overweight, and squishy. She probably was, which makes me feel even worse.

“You’re a good teacher,” I say. “I knocked my own hat off too. I’m an asshole, okay? A HUGE asshole. I don’t deserve to have such a fine teacher as yourself. Okay? Don’t worry about the stupid things I said. I’m sorry I interrupted your class today. My head’s not right. I’ll answer multiple-choice questions in the future if it will make you happy. I know you work hard on your lesson plans and—”

Without facing me she says, “Just go, Leonard. Please.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’d like you to leave now,” she says in a shaky voice.

So I do.