Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 769(@200wpm)___ 615(@250wpm)___ 513(@300wpm)
Would I be intervening if it weren’t “fag” that the polo shirts were calling the kid? I’m not sure. But I was that skinny kid and I’m sure as hell not going to watch him get the shit beat out of him the way I did, even if these guys don’t look quite as hardcore as the ones who used to throw me up against crumbling brick walls and threaten me with busted bottles if I ever looked at them in the hallways.
The kid isn’t reacting to the polo shirts at all. Not sure if he’s scared of a fight or just knows they won’t actually throw a punch, but I walk over anyway. When I get a little closer, I can see that he’s smiling. It’s a mischievous, self-possessed smile. It’s a smile that’s going to get this kid a lot of ass in a few years, or in a lot of trouble, depending on who he’s smiling at. Right now, I’m banking on the latter, because the polo shirts do not seem amused.
When I’m ten feet away, the one in the salmon-colored polo shirt—seriously, kid, salmon?—throws a punch. Whatever skater said to him was too low for me to hear, but now they’re both on him, pushing him down on the bench.
“Hey!” I yell. “Get the fuck off him.” I pull salmon polo shirt off, bobbing to the side so the punch he throws goes wide. Both polo shirts step away and stare at me oddly, but I can’t tell if they’re scared of getting in trouble or are about to start in on me too.
I’m still dressed for teaching, in gray pants, a gray and black striped shirt, and the vintage black wingtips Ginger gave me as a going-away present, but my sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, showing some of my tattoos, I’m carrying a box of wine, and, as it’s the end of the day, my black hair is probably a mess. I must look like some kind of drunken hipster poet or something.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I yell, pointing toward the street, before they can decide.
“Screw you, asshole,” and “Fuck off,” the polo shirts say, but it’s halfhearted and they’re already leaving, shooting the kid poisonous looks from under the stiff brims of their baseball caps.
I smirk and set my wine and my messenger bag down on the bench. It felt really fucking good to yell at those assholes, especially since I’ve wanted to do it to students all week.
“You okay?” I ask the kid. I lean down to look at his face. There’s a red mark on one high cheekbone that will definitely be a bruise tomorrow, but he mostly just looks a little dazed. He has big brown eyes and his olive skin is spattered with freckles. He has a small, straight nose that will probably make him handsome in a few years, but now just looks cute. In fact, the only thing that keeps him from being pretty is that in contrast to his expressive eyes, his brows are straight, dark slashes that turn his otherwise sweet face serious.
“Omygod, you’re the guy!”
“Uh, sorry?”
“You’re the professor! The gay one from New York!”
“Holy shit. I am from fucking Philadelphia, for the love of god. And how does everyone know I’m gay? Not like I care. Just, seriously, you all gossip like a sewing circle.”
“Philly, right on,” he says. “I dig Kurt Vile and don’t laugh but I totally love Christina Perri. And, like, cheesesteaks. Right?”
“Right, as in, you’re listing things from Philadelphia? Yes.”
“Cool, cool.”
“So, are you okay?” I gesture to his cheek.
“Pshh. Those closet cases are just jealous because they know I’ll never make out with them. I’m fine.” But his lower lip is trembling a little. I sit down next to him and try not to look like a pedophile as I rest one elbow on my box of wine. I remember after I’d get in a fight all I really wanted was for someone to sit with me.
“So, Kurt Vile, huh?” I say, keeping my voice casual and tilting my head back to look up at the darkening sky. “What do you like about him?”
“Well, he’s kinda hot,” the kid says, testing the waters with me.
“He’s not as hot in person,” I tell him. “He’s kind of vapid.”
“No way; you’ve met him?” The kid’s eyes go wide and his genuine enthusiasm takes five years from his age.
“Yeah. I used to work at the bar in a club. He played there all the time. Nice guy, just kind of a space cadet.”
“Whoa,” the kid says. I hope I didn’t just sound like a music snob.
“I like Christina Perri too,” I offer. “Her voice is awesome and her songs are kind of addictive, even though they’re a little bubblegum. She uses interesting progressions. My best friend, Ginger, tattooed her once, said she’s really cool.”