TERRY GOT up early and went into the kitchen. Benjamin Webber was sitting at the kitchen table, shoulder line like a headboard over the ladder back chair. He drank black coffee from a white mug, flying green and red duck curved at the face. His eyes were fixed at the window over the sink, the last shrug of blue hour, open catalogue in front of him.

All these damn redbirds, he said.

He shook his head back and forth. Terry stood over and looked at the catalogue. It was filled with different types of seed and bird feeder; post, box, cake.

I don’t know about redbirds, Terry said.

I got someone over tonight. A woman friend of mine.

This was not unusual. His father entertained women periodically, but none of them ever stayed around long. He raised the mug and tipped to drink.

I got school today, Terry said. I’m going to school.

Go on then, his father said.

He knocked the mug a nod at the door.

In the driveway his car faced the sun. He watched it grow. Light warmed the vinyl.

In Geometry Mr. Noise drew powder blue squares on the chalkboard and pointed at them, spoke with his back turned.

Rhombus, he said. The plural is rhombi. That would be more than one rhombus. Like cacti. Or cumuli.

Francis sat two seats ahead. The roof of the classroom was particle-board, sectioned into squares at slim metal beams. One part at the back got wet and fell through, broke pieces on the floor, and then more of it fell down to the pile. Francis turned around, and threw Terry a crumpled piece of notebook paper. He looked down; a picture of two pigs drawn in pencil. Francis signed his name in cursive at the bottom. One pig was dressed in a tuxedo and the other a fancy dress. The pigs had curly tails. Terry laughed, high and sharp, and then Francis laughed. Mr. Noise turned around and put his eyes on their row; for a few moments he studied them.

Go and get to the corner, Mr. Noise said.

He pointed with both hands, like he led a plane to a landing strip.

They stood quiet a few minutes at separate corners, kept their faces on bends in the wall. Francis spoke low from one side of his mouth. Terry couldn’t figure how to talk so the teacher wouldn’t hear.

Mr. Noise is a funny man, he said. All those fucking shapes. It’s bizarre.

Terry listened to papers folded, or turned over, the clang of chalk at the blackboard. Mr. Noise moved from talking about squares to triangles; some of the ceiling fell and landed on Francis’s head.

Son of a bitch, he said.

Mr. Noise told them both to turn around.

Stop it, he said.

Something fell out of the ceiling and hit me, Francis said.

I saw it hit him, Terry said.

It won’t hurt you, Mr. Noise said. It didn’t hurt, did it?

Not really

Be quiet, then.

Come on, Francis said.

Terry saw a girl that sat in front turn around with some of the others. He didn’t know her name, but he thought she must be rich or something; she was fixed up, blond hair brushed light and straight, like a steel combed mane on a show horse. She wore a dark gray sweater and black pants, yellow ribbon tied prim tight at her neck. She turned back to Mr. Noise and moved a hand behind her head, stuck her middle finger up and held it that way and then she brought the hand back around in front.

Francis looked at her hard. Terry saw a polished gold pin at her chest the size of a driver’s license. He squinted, made the words perfect attendance cut to the face. The girl was still looking at Francis. She stuck a tongue against one cheek and pushed it out, and then she mouthed shithead at him. Francis spoke loud, almost a yell.

I’m tired of this, he said. That’s enough goddammit.

Mr. Noise turned around quickly, forehead lines pinched angry red.

Leave now, he said.

He pointed at the door to the classroom.

Principal Lemon, he said. Right now.

Come on, man, Francis said. Let’s go out back and roll a number, sort this out? What do you say?

Mr. Noise huffed, gritted his narrow mouth, crossed his arms at his chest and then let them down, one armpit chalked a sky blue half moon on his white dress shirt.

I’m just kidding, man, alright? Francis said.

He held up both hands, fingers spread five points.

No harm done, Francis said. I’ll leave.

Francis moved, got halfway to the door, but then he stopped and looked at the girl again. She mouthed something else. Francis shook his left hand at her.

You shut the fuck up, Francis said.

Mr. Noise’s cheeks went bright, a drunk, whiskey flush; he clenched the chalk stub to a fist with his left hand, fingers ashed baby blue when he rolled it back and forth.

Leave, right now, he said. I mean it.

It’s not fair, Francis said.

He put his hands on his hips, pointed to the girl.

She gives me the finger and I’m going to see the fucking principal? Tell me how that works? Do your job man.