“Why go to class when I can learn about life,” Kirk inhaled sharply on the joint, “from all these fine folks?”
Jeremy wondered if there really was anything to learn in the smoking pit.
Against the wall, Paul the “6th year hero” made out with Trina, the easiest girl at Westing. They squirmed carelessly – the sound of crunching gravel mixing with clicking tongues. Sex ed.
Some Japanese students in leather jackets made brazen swipes of their fifties greaser hair and battled for ego performing a strange bastard cousin of break-dancing. International studies.
Amidst the bushes beyond the school grounds, a mustachioed man lay on a towel and stared into his binoculars. Everyone called him “Pedo”, but nobody reported him. That’d be lame. Probably Trina’s biggest fan. Or Paul’s. Anthropology.
“Now for special ed,” Kirk said, passing the spliff.
“Kirk,” Jeremy inhaled deeply, “special ed means retarded.”
“See? There’s something I never would have learned in class.”
They laughed, waved at Pedo and went inside.