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informed you of that?”
    She laughs as she pumps hand cream out of the pink bottle by the sink. I can smell the raspberry scent from here. “Many times.”
    Great, I have been sent to live with the odd ones out. “So, are you and your . . . Meeting . . . about the only Quakers left in the world, or what?”
    She laughs. She is too happy. Or perhaps she is on drugs. “We may not be a large group, but there are some of us all over the world. A lot in Kenya.”
    I stare at her. I guess I should be grateful that they live here and Loopy did not have to send me to Africa. Or maybe Africa would not be so bad. If I could not speak the language, then no one would expect me to talk. I could still think all my snide remarks in my head. It would be like a continuous criticism of a silent movie.
    But it is not silent in the Quaker kitchen anymore. Sam is back, carrying the Blob in a rare, clean moment.The Blob is moaning and reaching for the pot on the stove.
    “I need to do my homework,” I lie. I can easily do it during class and on the bus. But it is a good excuse to get away.
    “You know,” says Jessica, tilting her head and walking toward me, “the only thing you might want to try is pulling your hair back a little so we could all see you better. You have such beautiful skin and haunting eyes. You’re a very attractive girl, Matt.”
    I look away as she talks, like when someone is lecturing me.
    She smiles and strokes my hair as I turn to go upstairs. I pull away and take the steps two at a time. It is tingly and raspberryish where she touched my hair. At the top of the stairs, I stop before going into my room. I take a few steps down the hall and turn the bathroom light on. I peek in at the mirror briefly. Just out of curiosity, not because I care. And I am right.There is no very attractive girl in there.The girl in the mirror has a nose too big for her pinched-up face. She has dark, shifty eyes. She is a hideous tetrahedron frizz head. And she must remain unnoticed.
    I slap the light switch off.
    Quakers are blind, apparently.

CHAPTER SIX
     
    I hate World Civilization. Not the concept. My class. And the Rat. And the teacher, whose name, I discover, is Mr. Morehead. It is not a good name for a high school teacher. For many reasons. Use your imagination. I save him from his unfortunate fate by renaming him Mr. Warhead because that is what he is. Truly. He is obsessed with war, fighting, and the way I see it, beating the crap out of every non-American. He calls it Bringing Freedom and Democracy to the World. My advice to anyone who hears those words in any country other than This Great Nation of Ours is “Run away!”
    Today he is fixating on the prime minister of Great Britain, whom he thinks is a “little snot.” I do not know the man personally, so I can neither confirm nor deny that assessment. However, when Mr. Warhead says “snot” for the million and tenth time, I cannot help but look at his nose. My stomach curls into a million and ten knots.The man has large hairs growing out of his nostrils, like someone shoved a bonsai tree up there and the roots are still dangling, looking for a place to plant themselves.
    I must have a look of sick horror on my face because Mr. Warhead sees me and squeezes his mouth shut in that odd way he has. “Yes, frightening, isn’t it?” he says in his nasal voice. “But, make no mistake, our troops are the best in the world and our flag will rise above it all.”
    I am picturing an American flag rising over his nose hairs.
    It is not a patriotic sight.
    I return to my position of anonymity in the back of the classroom. There is some safety in numbers and it is a large class. Unfortunately, Mr. Warhead believes in old-fashioned rows so he can walk up and down in between them when the mood strikes. I cannot stand that, especially when he turns and walks up behind me. I am waiting for him to smack the back of my head, even though I know teachers are not allowed to do this. It is