BASIL FRICK sat a desk up in the history class, had a red mustache going on two years, and perfect pitch. Once, the history class went on field trip to the armory; when they left the short yellow bus and filed toward the doors the teacher noted the display of eight rusted cannons on wheels from the states’ war running the perimeter of the big front yard, Basil drove up on his red motorcycle, stopped where all of them could see. The engine sputtered on the dirt bike; he coughed it, twice, and stared the class down. He pointed at them, then sped off. Afterward, in the yellow bus on the way back to the school, John Michael Johnson said he was sure Basil had a gun, and had just decided, right then, changed his mind, really, not to shoot all of them.

Basil wore a green jacket, army standard, sergeant bars at one arm. An ironed patch at the other sleeve read WAR PIGS, and the chest pocket he crossed the name and wrote BASIL above in black marker. He wrote FUCK PEACE in the same black and small letters at his shoulder. A white scar on the back of his head stood his red hair out to a lick, a map line. He scratched the bare skin and pushed some hair over. His wristwatch was black, a calculator face. He wore work boots, like Terry, dark brown and scuffed bare at the heels and toes. Terry watched the back of his head for a long time with the teacher’s voice in his ears a factory hum. He wanted to ask Basil what he ran from, wanted to ask him what he saw past the woods, and if, at the armory, he’d meant to do all of them.

The history teacher, back turned, wrote in white chalk on the blackboard. Basil put his hands on the desk and pushed up on them. He stood, finger pinched a plastic bag at the top seam so it looked as a flag when wind limp. He flapped it around. The bag was filled a quarter way. He wagged it at the kids in their desks, shook the dope around inside, and then he leaned his head back and laid it over his face like a washrag, kept still and balanced, put his hands out at the sides, faked a wobble. Some of the kids laughed with hands to their mouths. Some turned away from him, to the east window, some down to desktops. The teacher turned. Basil dropped his head and let the bag slide off; he caught it with his left hand and put it to a big side pocket, graceful as a pulled gun, a card cheat. He sat down, crossed his fingers and put his hands on the wood.