I Don’t Like Mr. Boule

I don’t like Mr. Boule. I’m in the minority here. Everybody adores the new English teacher. He took over Old Lady Lictenstein’s AP English and immediately started a zine with the AP nerds and the Business English ‘tards. He started a monthly poetry slam. Thet is always on my ass to join Boule’s graphic novel club. I mean it does sound kind of mad fire but I just don’t like Mr Boule.
I think Mr. Boule is weird. He’s one of those old guys who works out. That’s just weird. He’s shrimps but totally jacked. He’s so shredded Mr. Boule is practically as wide as he is tall. With the muscles, Mr. Boule is chill with the jocks, hanging out early to pump iron. Then when the lead weirdo got the ‘vid, Mr. Boule stepped in and saved the day by singing the Music Man. Natch.
I just don’t trust Mr. Boule. I don’t trust people who are good at lots of stuff. People who walk in and take over and shit. Nobody should get to just come in and just be liked. Nobody gets to be everything to everyone.
I was drawing a pic of Mr. Boule being mushed by a statue instead of watching The Red Badge of Courage. Suddenly Mr. Boule is breathing coffee breath over my shoulder.
“ That’s really good, bud. Am I fighting an alien?” Mr. Boule whispered cheerful and encouraging.
I rolled my eyes. I knew I was better than good, hyper realistic, expressive line work, my drawing was bet. “Naw, it’s the Bean.”
“The what now?”
“You know the Bean.”
Gears churning, Mr. Boule looked at me blankly.
“The Bean, you know Cloud Gate, that big shiny bean sculpture in Chicago,” I said wearily.
“Right, right, Shytown I was just testing you,” the teacher said clapping my back extra hard.
I kept drawing. I had been to Chicago with my dad because he liked to do big things to make up for all the everyday crap he’s terrible at. Half listening to the dead boring movie, I finished my drawing of Millennial Park. Then I remembered Mr. Boule said he lived in Chicago. “How could he not remember his hometown.
I glanced to the front of the room. Mr. Boule was animated and excited talking about something I didn’t care about. His face cracked side to side. Mr. Boule’s mouth was all smiley but his eyes were murder. His eyes were murder and they were looking straight at me. Mr. Boyle is a fake, as hollow as a shell. He has a secret. It must be a big one to hide yourself in this one house town. And he would hurt to me to keep his secret.
The bell rang. We locked eyes as I gathered my stuff. I saw myself tearing Mr. Boule down from his wall.
“See you tomorrow.” We said to each other.