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then,’ he said, ‘because this is your first morning I’m going to give you something real easy to do. I want you all to pretend that you’re on Death Row, right? At midnight they’re going to take you out of your cell and give you a lethal injection.’
    â€˜ But I’m innocent! ’ howled Teddy.
    â€˜Maybe you are,’ Jim retorted, ‘but the governor has turned down your last appeal and you’re going to die anyhow.’
    â€˜Yeah, Fanta-pants,’ said Arthur. ‘You shouldn’t of left that bright-red hair in the toilet. The CSI knew right off it was you.’
    â€˜How would you like to die right now?’ Teddy challenged him. ‘I can give you a lethal injection, bro! I can shove a hockey stick right up your fat black ass!’
    â€˜Teddy! Arthur!’ said Jim. ‘What the hell did I just tell you about using bad language?’
    â€˜Hey, I apologize, OK?’ said Teddy, raising both hands in surrender. ‘I am beyond contrite. What I meant to say was “economy-sized Afro-American sit-upon.” That’s a euphemism, right?’
    â€˜That’s enough,’ Jim told him. ‘Like I told you, I don’t care if I teach you guys or not. You want to spend your time scrapping with each other, go ahead. I can find plenty to do without you. I have a great book here, and I can’t wait to finish reading it.’
    â€˜Sorry, sir,’ said Arthur. ‘We was only messing.’
    A girl in the front row cautiously raised her hand. She had a pinched triangular face with buck teeth and protuberant green eyes, so that she looked to Jim as if her great-great-grandmother might have had a fling with a stick insect. ‘Please, sir,’ she asked, almost in a whisper, ‘why do we have to pretend that we’re all on Death Row? What are we supposed to have done?’
    Jim smiled at her. As far as he remembered her name was Janice Something, but he had nicknamed her Sticky. ‘It doesn’t matter what you’ve done, Janice. The only thing that matters is that you’re scheduled to die tonight, but you’re allowed one last meal, of whatever you like. Steak, ribs, lasagna, three-bean salad, anything. That’s today’s project. That’s what I want you to do – write down a menu for your very last meal.’
    â€˜Isn’t that kind of sick?’ said a heavy-jawed, muscular boy with sculptured sideburns and designer stubble, and a single pirate-sized earring in his left earlobe. He wore a black T-shirt with Marco’s Gym printed on it, and his bulging pectorals were noticeably bigger than Janice’s breasts. His name was Grant Bronowski, and he had already told Jim that he was a tight end on the West Grove football team, with fifty-five catches to his credit last season – just in case Jim got the laughable idea that remedial English was more important to him than touchdowns.
    Jim said, ‘I’m only asking you to make-believe, Grant, that’s all, and make-believe is a very good exercise for the brain muscles. More than that, when I see all of your various menus, they will give me a very clear idea of what kind of personalities you are. You know what they say? You are what you eat. Or, in this case, what you feel like eating as your very last supper.’
    He went to the stationery cupboard in the corner of the classroom, unlocked it, and took out a pad of yellow lined legal paper and a boxful of blue ballpens. He walked up and down the class, tearing off a sheet of paper for each student, and handing them each a pen. He had long ago given up any expectation that Special Class Two would think of bringing their own writing materials.
    Teddy, however, had taken out a black plastic case with both pens and pencils in it, as well as a pencil-sharpener and an eraser. He also produced a spring-bound study book, with a marbled cover.
    â€˜Glad to see you came prepared,’ Jim