Call the Shots by Don Calame Read Free Book Online Page B

black-and-white tiles. By the time we’re through, we’ve formed something resembling a sloppy oval.
    My body is here in this cold classroom, but my brain is only half-present. The other half is still back at the lockers, replaying the Evelyn thing over and over. Trying to reconcile the girl who nearly chewed off my neck on Saturday night with the girl who I just met in the hallway. Something doesn’t compute.
    Mr. Nestman moves to the front of the room by the tiny stage and presses his hands together like he’s about to pray. “Welcome to Drama,” he says with a little bow of the head. He’s got this wispy white-blond hair that looks like a dandelion gone to seed. “I hope you’ve left all your inhibitions and insecurities out in the hall, because they will not serve you well in my class.”
    He’s wearing these saggy-kneed jeans and a rumpled, tucked-in blue flannel shirt. It’s not a great look for him, to be perfectly honest. It really accentuates his dangly limbs and short torso.
    “We start this morning with a name game.” He gives us a fleeting closed-mouth grin. “Each person will state their name along with something they wish to bring to our very own desert island. But there are a few catches. And they are as follows: Your item must be useful, must be portable, and must start with the same letter as your name. Oh, and you also must remember all of the names and items previously mentioned. Any questions? No. Good. I’ll begin. I am Mr. Nestman.” He strokes his lumpy pockmarked chin with his right hand, his eyes searching the ceiling. “And I will be bringing to our desert island . . . some nail clippers.”
    Mr. Nestman gestures to the well-padded eggplant-breasted brunette on his left.
    “Okay.” The girl adjusts herself and sits up tall, her legs crossed. “Hi. I’m Victoria.” A little wave to the class. “And I’ll be bringing Vaseline —”
    A couple of meathead-type dudes shout, “Yeah!”
    “All right, bring it down a notch,” Mr. Nestman says. “Vaseline along with what, Victoria?”
    Victoria’s cheeks have gone rosy. “Along with,” she continues, “Mr. Nestman’s nail clippers.” She turns her head to Mister-Handsome-Guy beside her.
    “Me?” The kid smirks. “I’m Ryan and I’ll be bringing a rectal thermometer.”
    The entire class breaks up with laughter.
    “I’ll allow it,” Mr. Nestman says reluctantly. “But only because it is, technically, useful. But keep it clean from here on out, kiddies.” He motions for Ryan to continue.
    “And also”— Ryan clenches his eyes shut —“Vanessa’s Vaseline.”
    “Victoria,” a girl across the oval calls out.
    “Yeah. Sorry.” Ryan shakes his head. “Her Vaseline. And Mr. Nestman’s nail polish.”
    More laughter.
    “Clippers,” someone else corrects.
    “Yes.” Ryan points double finger guns in the direction of the voice. “What
you
said.”
    I quickly count the people in between me and Mr. Nestman and realize that I am going to have to remember twelve names and twelve desert-island items. Not something I am very confident I can do. My scalp tightens, and I am chewing my tongue like crazy before I know it.
    I have to put the Evelyn business aside and concentrate here. I don’t want to look like a big old dorkus on the very first day. Especially in a class where I don’t even know most of the students. Mainly, though, I don’t want to go pissing off any of my potential movie stars by screwing up their names.
    I decide to try an old trick Mrs. Ostesheaver taught me in second grade when I couldn’t remember who anybody was in our class: matching the names and their items with something very specific about each individual.
    Mr. Nestman has a nest on his head and looks like he manicures his nails. Mr.
Nest
Man and his nail clippers.
    Victoria is voluptuous and uses vast amounts of Vaseline on her voluminous volcanoes.
    Ryan sounds like the name of a soap-opera star, which is also what he looks like. He