I still have them Tucked into a back
bookcase somewhere. They showed people as they really were. They showed them as
Bastards. All of them.
I remember at the end of my senior year. It was quite a
faculty arranged fiasco getting the
damned dirty thing, and so I decided I was going to make the best of having it. I made everyone scratch in it, even as much as two or three times. Even people whom I was confident I'd
never even seen before; they sure as hell thought I sat behind them in
Mrs. Koplin's
trig class. They thought I coppied the answers from them on the "End of year
sudden painful death"
exam.
I can be such a
dick sometimes. By the end of the day, I was just randoming wrenching away
leather-bound volumes from unsuspecting hands and scribbling
random flotsam or
half finsihed questions with
odd grammar. I'm sure some
poor schmuck is still sitting at home, gentry rocking and reading through his old yeatbook, wondering who wrote "
Your Cat Will Never Be Pink Again" on
page 47, right under the
candid snapshot a
Julie Dormeider wearing the
checked Gingham dress standing next to
Mr. Bailey, "
the Jerry Garcia of Sophmore biology".