White Man's Problems Read Online Free Page A

for us to cut up. They are in vacuum-packed plastic wrappers. “Then, after frog dissection, you become young adults. You become worldlier, more experienced. Your bodies open like flowers. You begin to get complicated. You perspire more readily…”
    He comes to me and Ernie first. Out of nowhere, a plan comes to me. I stick our frog in the drawer underneath the lab table. I say, “We didn’t get ours.”
    â€œI didn’t give you one?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI could’ve sworn I gave you one.”
    â€œNo, Mr. Palmer. I’m really looking forward to it, and we didn’t get one yet.”
    â€œSorry about that,” he says and gives us a second frog.
    Ernie says, “What the hell are you doing?”
    I stare at him and say, “Don’t worry about it. This has nothing to do with you.”
    After about fifteen minutes of introductory dissection, I ask to go to the bathroom. Mr. Palmer gives me his signature hall pass, an igneous rock with a home-drilled hole for the piece of rope through which the bathroom-bound student puts his or her hand. Nutball. I put the shrink-wrapped amphibian in my shirtsleeve, having finally found a use for that button between the wrist and the elbow. It’s perfect for keeping a dead frog.
    You can only get away with about eight minutes on a bathroom pass from Mr. Palmer, so I know I have to move fast. I book over to A wing in three minutes and find my target: the water fountain in the middle of the hallway. I rip open the plastic packaging and place my little green friend right in the center of the drain. Thinking of Jim Brown in The Dirty Dozen, I make sure the coast is clear and get back to class.
    Twenty minutes later, I sit down as cool as a cucumber in study hall. Liz walks in just as the bell sounds.
    â€œWhat’s up, Biz?” That’s what I call her.
    â€œNot much. I hate my mom.” She talks to me about her family a lot.
    â€œOh no. Something happen?”
    â€œNo. She’s just a crazy French shrew.”
    â€œAt least she’s interesting.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI don’t know. I mean, don’t you think sometimes that we’re in this, like, crazy-boring, postsixties malaise of consumerism and cultural vacuity that threatens our sanity? I know it makes me crazy.”
    She stares at me for a while. Then, in a way she’s never spoken to me before, she says, “What are you going to be , Roman?”
    â€œI don’t know. But whatever it is, it wouldn’t stop me from doing anything for you.”
    Right on time, there is a long tone from the intercom speaker next to the clock, which means someone is being requested by the principal’s office. It’s like a walkie-talkie system between the front lines and central command. A voice comes on.
    â€œMrs. Warden, please send Roman Budding to see Mr. Fertel. Immediately.”
    I’m on my feet before she finishes. My look tells Mrs. Warden that handcuffs will not be necessary. Liz, who looks a little baffled by the end of our conversation, watches me.
    I usually talk to Mr. Fertel about baseball. He has a bad back, and he walks stooped over with his right hand lifted a little. He looks kind of like a chicken when I walk in. He’s sitting on the ground with his back against the wall. He’s famous for that. It makes his back feel better.
    â€œWhat the hell’s wrong with you?” he says.
    â€œI’m sorry.”
    He starts to get up, but he can’t. At first, I think, “Wow, he is in bad shape.” Then I realize he’s cracking up. Hysterical. Can’t stop laughing. His secretary, Mrs. Shinglehoffer, walks in. She’s laughing, too. She helps him up and steadies him to his chair, and then she leaves.
    He tries to get serious. “Ok, dipshit. What possessed you to do something like that? I have to punish you, you know.”
    â€œIt just happened,” I say. “I