The Downside of Being Charlie Read Online Free Page B

photography teacher is okay with students hanging out in his room. Some teachers are and some teachers aren’t. Mr. Pratt, the photography teacher who’d been here since 1964, didn’t care, but he retired at the end of last year. Mr. Pratt was cool, but only because he was old and had obviously stopped giving a damn a few years ago. You could tell he was tired of the whole high school scene. Sometimes, he just looked out at us and I’d imagine he was thinking Holy crap . . . what a bunch of idiots . Other times, it was like he wasn’t even there. I guess when you do something long enough, you don’t really have to be there anymore.

    I’m the first person in class. The new teacher is tall and thin and wears a brown corduroy jacket with those little brown patches on the elbows and slightly ripped-up jeans. He looks sort of young, sort of old, and wears black-rimmed glasses that are the newest way to portray coolness and nerdiness at the same time. They say, look at me, I’m cool, but . . . also smart . The ripped-up jeans are such an obvious ploy at establishing that he’s not one of “them”—conventional, conformist, republican, old. You know.
    â€œHey, there,” he says as I come in, “have a seat wherever.” I walk over to the seat I’ve sat in for the past three years.
    â€œSo, advanced photography . . . must really like it then, huh?” I nod. More kids come into the class, most of which I recognize because we’ve been in Photography I, II, and III together. They look at me, some acknowledging me with a confused nod, like they’re wondering where the rest of me is. I nod at a few of them, and then busy myself with studying my already memorized schedule. It was the same in my other classes, with some idiots actually feeling the need to announce loudly, “Holy shit, Grisner, you look different!” I thought it would be cool, coming back and proving myself somehow, but the constant attention to my weight only made me feel more self-conscious, and by the time photography rolled around, I was over it. As if that weren’t enough, everyone kept probing me on how I did it and then I had to skirt the whole fat camp business. Finally, the bell rings and the teacher introduces himself.
    â€œHi, everyone, I’m Mr. Killinger,” which we already
know since it’s printed on our class schedules. “Most of you know, Mr. Pratt has retired, which means I get to take his place, and I am truly excited about getting to know all of you and your work.”
    Blah, blah, blah. The standard introduction crap. Pretty soon he’ll have us playing the name game. Didn’t he realize this was our fourth year of photography and the class pretty much ran itself? I’m weary of the new guy and probably a bunch of “new and exciting” things he’ll want to put in place. I study the rest of my schedule and try to figure out the quickest routes to each class.
    â€œI’m sure that you all are quite serious about the art of photography.” I look around wondering if anyone else is buying this. Instead I notice how most of the girls are all smiles and looking at each other like, “yes!” They’ll probably be swooning over him all year.
    â€œ. . . so, I’m not going to give you guys a lot of little meaningless stuff. Instead, I have loftier plans . . .” This guy must read poetry and listen to obscure music—what do they call it? Adult alternative?
    â€œ. . . is the director of the fine arts department at Rennington College. He’s also an amazing photographer and my mentor, which means every once in a while he’ll do me a favor. Now, it took some convincing, but he’s agreed to display the best collection among my high school students alongside student and faculty art at the college’s annual winter exhibit.” He pauses and looks around. The class is listening pretty intently,