KEN POBO
Valence
There is hope. It’s October 1968. Tommy James and the Shondells have a great new 45 on WLS, “Do Something To Me.” It’s 2:30 and I’m singing it in my mind but looking at our science teacher, Mr. Binner, telling us about valences. Behind me, Pat Tamerella pokes me with a pen. She hates me. I don’t know why. I want to take the pen and stab her in the eye. I’m a Christian. I let her poke me. Turn the other cheek.
Mr. Binner is more interesting on days when he says, “I think we’ll skip the homework from our HDL (For Home, Desk and Laboratory) workbook today so I can tell you about my trip to Hawaii instead.” I’ve been to Wisconsin, and someday I hope to get to Hawaii. Maybe if I sing my favorite song enough times it will become an airplane landing me safely in Maui. He tells us of hardened lava, of volcanoes that killed thousands. And a funny story about his wife Carol, my fifth grade teacher, learning how to hula. Mrs. Binner was my all-time favorite teacher. She loved teaching us art, didn’t yell if you messed up some long division problem. She’d let you come up to her desk for help over and over.
Not so Mr. Binner. No wonder he likes volcanoes—he explodes easily, and sometimes I don’t know what seismic event will get him to blow his top.
We work in pairs during our science lab. My partner, Ken Drakall, gets made merciless fun of because of his large head. Even my history teacher, Mr. Bell, calls him “Watermelon Head.” Ken seems oblivious. When I misadd something for our lab assignment, Ken calls me a “dumb cluckeroo.” I don’t know what that means, but resist the temptation to call him Head. I think insults, don’t say them. I say little in school, scared that words will get me in trouble. It’s worse to be in trouble with the other kids. They never let up, spread gossip.
One thing really gets Binner mad, takes him far from Hawaii and right into our faces in Willowbrook High School in Villa Park, Illinois—our bead balance. His rage is temporary but intense. He says he has explained again and again which tray on the balance to put the beads on. We are learning about isotopes, how they behave, and somehow this bead business explains it, so the beads must be on the left, absolutely! I can’t see why this matters, why he gets so steamed. So what if I put my beads on the right side? Maybe a new scientific discovery could happen! But with no affection for equations and low C’s in Algebra, I’m unlikely to make scientific discoveries. My dad’s a chemist, but I avoid most science stuff. I’m discovering too much about myself already.
Like why I can’t get Mark out of my head. I think about his body all the time, wait for Homeroom to see him. He’s in gym with me too. I get to see him take a shower. He’s already kind of hairy, a curly black bush.I’m still wispy. I don’t look forward to gym except for the peeks I savor. Sometimes he talks to me, jingles his ID bracelet. The rest of gym is a nightmare. A ball comes. I drop it—or run far enough from it so I can’t get it. I’m always losing my balance.
Mr. Binner is more interesting on days when he says, “I think we’ll skip the homework from our HDL (For Home, Desk and Laboratory) workbook today so I can tell you about my trip to Hawaii instead.” I’ve been to Wisconsin, and someday I hope to get to Hawaii. Maybe if I sing my favorite song enough times it will become an airplane landing me safely in Maui. He tells us of hardened lava, of volcanoes that killed thousands. And a funny story about his wife Carol, my fifth grade teacher, learning how to hula. Mrs. Binner was my all-time favorite teacher. She loved teaching us art, didn’t yell if you messed up some long division problem. She’d let you come up to her desk for help over and over.
Not so Mr. Binner. No wonder he likes volcanoes—he explodes easily, and sometimes I don’t know what seismic event will get him to blow his top.
We work in pairs during our science lab. My partner, Ken Drakall, gets made merciless fun of because of his large head. Even my history teacher, Mr. Bell, calls him “Watermelon Head.” Ken seems oblivious. When I misadd something for our lab assignment, Ken calls me a “dumb cluckeroo.” I don’t know what that means, but resist the temptation to call him Head. I think insults, don’t say them. I say little in school, scared that words will get me in trouble. It’s worse to be in trouble with the other kids. They never let up, spread gossip.
One thing really gets Binner mad, takes him far from Hawaii and right into our faces in Willowbrook High School in Villa Park, Illinois—our bead balance. His rage is temporary but intense. He says he has explained again and again which tray on the balance to put the beads on. We are learning about isotopes, how they behave, and somehow this bead business explains it, so the beads must be on the left, absolutely! I can’t see why this matters, why he gets so steamed. So what if I put my beads on the right side? Maybe a new scientific discovery could happen! But with no affection for equations and low C’s in Algebra, I’m unlikely to make scientific discoveries. My dad’s a chemist, but I avoid most science stuff. I’m discovering too much about myself already.
Like why I can’t get Mark out of my head. I think about his body all the time, wait for Homeroom to see him. He’s in gym with me too. I get to see him take a shower. He’s already kind of hairy, a curly black bush.I’m still wispy. I don’t look forward to gym except for the peeks I savor. Sometimes he talks to me, jingles his ID bracelet. The rest of gym is a nightmare. A ball comes. I drop it—or run far enough from it so I can’t get it. I’m always losing my balance.