Part 4
This is the fourth installment of a 1960's short story/memoir. Parts 1-3 are in my previous three days' posts:
JoAnne Wilson made the unfortunate selection of a desk on the front row, directly in front of Mr. Krause. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that would melt asbestos. JoAnne blushed. She averted her eyes. She fidgeted. After what seemed forever, she quietly closed her notebook, stacked her books, picked up her purse, and left. Everyone knew JoAnne's next stop would be the school office, where she would drop physics.
If Mr. Krause turned to me next, I would surrender. At seventeen I did not have the backbone to take on a teacher, particularly Mr. Krause. Instead, he turned his head to the side of the room opposite me and blew a blizzard of visual icicles toward Kitty Blackwell. While I was frantically trying to decide what to do, a hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star decision came to me. If Kitty went, I would follow her out the door. If she toughed it out, I would stay too.
JoAnne Wilson made the unfortunate selection of a desk on the front row, directly in front of Mr. Krause. His eyes locked on hers with an intensity that would melt asbestos. JoAnne blushed. She averted her eyes. She fidgeted. After what seemed forever, she quietly closed her notebook, stacked her books, picked up her purse, and left. Everyone knew JoAnne's next stop would be the school office, where she would drop physics.
If Mr. Krause turned to me next, I would surrender. At seventeen I did not have the backbone to take on a teacher, particularly Mr. Krause. Instead, he turned his head to the side of the room opposite me and blew a blizzard of visual icicles toward Kitty Blackwell. While I was frantically trying to decide what to do, a hitch-your-wagon-to-a-star decision came to me. If Kitty went, I would follow her out the door. If she toughed it out, I would stay too.
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