Margins - Part 2

Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, people, places, and events are products of the author's imagination, or they are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to a real event, place, or person, alive or dead, is a coincidence. [Note 2]

      Sometimes students weren't able to attend classes. Physical illness. Mental illness. Morning sickness. I visited these students after the p.m. class had ended. For example, sixteen-year-old Lucretia, pregnant, with all-day morning sickness. She felt she couldn't come to classes until her stomach had "settled down."
      With my arm out the open window of my purple Malibu, I enjoyed the wonder of brisk autumn air in my face, ears, nose, and hair. I also enjoyed James Bond theme songs on a CD as the purring engine took me 16 kilometers out of town. I arrived at a steep, potted, gravel driveway that only 4x4's with chains could manage once Central-BC snow and ice had moved in.
      Up the incredible incline the car lumbered and whined. At the top, I found a house that resembled assorted tin-capped lean-to's somehow cemented together to form a geometric extravaganza.
      I met Lucretia's father exiting the chicken coop, holding two decapitated hens by their feet, one in each hand, their blood dripping onto the dusty earth.
      "Mr. Giver," I said, affirming that I remembered him from the Individualized Education Plan (IEP) meeting he, his wife, and I had attended, at which we had discussed what to do about Lucretia's strange stories that she had been telling in the 8:30 class.
      I'll explain: It was 9:00. I had just returned the students' poems, edited with enough red ink to help them improve their grammar, but not with so much "red" that they felt like giving up. I would discuss the aesthetic appeal of words/imagery in a later class.
      Rohesia, a boy with hippopotamus bones and enormous shoulders, said, "So what would you say to a student who told you he'd break your nose if you flunked him?"
      This boy had the demeanour of an excellent gang leader. In regular high school he was well-known for his leadership in bullying and intimidation. I had read his thick file.
      I smiled. I try hard to like all my students. "The thing about people, Rohesia, is that they can be confusing. Sometimes you're surprised by who you're dealing with."
      He frowned, and then he laughed. "Oh, yeah, well I'm just kidding, aye?"
      Aldous laughed too. "I could arrange for the two of you to have a go at the boxing club. Anybody want to place some bets? Rohesia versus Mr. Landers. Ha!"
      I laughed too. I think I was also laughing at Rohesia's absurdly comical belligerence. But Lucretia, reading the red ink on her poem, was not laughing. She looked overcome by some hidden turmoil.
      "You didn't understand my poem!" she exclaimed. "Nobody understands the seriousness of what's going on. Don't you know why the school district has satellite dishes on the main office downtown?"
      She possessed an unnerving intensity in her eyes.
      "Aliens are sending messages through those dishes. They're using the school district to send messages to children, to brainwash them, to change their entire value systems, to make them adopt alien philosophies. They're going to place these people in political office, and they're going to pass laws that allow aliens on earth to build factories that will be secret transporter sites for armies to land and take over our planet."
      She sounded completely sure of herself. She clearly had my and the other students' attention, and she possessed a weird momentum that, I think, somehow made her credible. For the moment.
      "They're already here," you know. She nodded at me, reinforcing her truths. "They drive gray Grand Ams and they have two bald spots on the back of their heads."
      Once the insanity of this scene had sufficiently sunk in, I knew some students would mercilessly ridicule her. Especially scowling Radomira.
      "That's a good one, Lucretia," I said. "You have a wonderful imagination, but right now I want you, I want everybody, to get ready for an algebra quiz."
      "But!" Lucretia protested.
      "But, nothing," I said flatly. "We're doing a math quiz."
      The day after that event, at the IEP meeting I had with Mr. And Mrs. Giver, I tried to tell them, in the privacy of my 3:00-p.m. classroom, about Lucretia. Although most unusual, since each student was a part of his or her IEP team, I had not invited Lucretia to attend this meeting, of course. I opened my mouth, swallowed, opened my mouth again, and then tried even harder to begin speaking about my large concerns for Lucretia's mental state.
      Mr. Giver, however, interrupted my momentary silence. "I heard you had toilets in here." He, as did Lucretia, had an unnerving intensity in his eyes. His hair, like Red Skelton's, stuck out at the sides of his head. "Lucretia said one of the students--an adult student!--from the class next door had come in--while you were teaching!--to ask if she could use the toilet." He guffawed. "Tell my wife what you said." He grew so excited that he wrinkled up his face to such a degree that he seemingly aged two decades in seconds.
      Mrs. Giver had gray skin.
      "Tell her!"
      "Well," I said, "it happened more than once, but on one occasion I said, 'I don't think that would be a good idea.'"
      Mr. Giver produced blasting guffaws that made my ears ring. He pounded one fist on my desk and said, "Can you believe that mother? 'I don't think that would be a good idea.'"
      "Perhaps she had diarrhea," Mrs. Giver said sympathetically.
      We began. Rather I began telling them about Lucretia's thinking aliens were using the school district to brainwash students. I spoke of the satellite dishes, the electing of mind-controlled dupes, and transporter landing sites in factories.
      Mr. Giver nodded with the happiest look on his face. Mrs. Giver kept her head cocked to one side while she blinked her eyes in 4/4 time, accenting every fourth blink, with a squint.
      I finished describing the incident. Mr. Giver announced, "True! Absolutely true! Every word of it!"
      Mrs. Giver interrupted. "We--well--we don't know for sure, do we?"
      "Of course it's true! Why do you think they're building new schools with no windows? So people can't see what's going on in there. So they can't see how the school system is brainwashing our children, changing their values into alien value systems, right while they sit in their desks, soaking up all those satellite radio waves, filling their heads with subliminal messages."
       "I don't know, George," Mrs. Giver said. "Sometimes I wonder if you read too much."
       "Read too much?" His body appeared to swell up. "Read too much?" His intensity in his eyes had turned to astonishment. Then he turned to me. "Mark my words. The whole system is going to the aliens."

I had met Mr. Giver at the top of the steep driveway. He held the feet of the headless, upside-down chickens.
      "Have you noticed a change in the weather?" he said.
      I knew I didn't want to have this conversation, or any conversation with Mr. Giver. "I know I love the change to autumn--the yellow and orange and red leaves," I said.
      There was that intensity in his eyes, something he'd passed on through the X chromosome to Lucretia. "There's going to be a flood, right from Prince Rupert down through the middle of BC, and it's going to wipe this valley off the face of the map. It's going to rain for a year. Can't you feel it in your bones? The run off will turn this entire valley into another Grand Canyon." He pointed one chicken at the sky. "Prophecy. I've been reading Apocryphal prophecies, and the future is right there for anybody with half a brain to read."
      "I'll see you later, Mr. Giver. Is Lucretia inside?"
      "Sure she is," he said, suddenly laughing. "If she hasn't burst yet."
      "She's five months along, isn't she?" I said.
      "Five months along what?" he said, laughing harder.
      Mrs. Giver invited me through the back doorway into a dim, oily house with plywood floors and an enormous wood stove that crackled loudly. Fingers of fire clawed their way through gaps between the stove's door and body. The home was far too hot.
       "You can sit at the kitchen table," Mrs. Giver said, her apron and running shoes abundantly covered in flour. "Lucretiaaaaaaaa!" she yelled. Mrs. Giver had looked gray at the IEP meeting; in her house, she looked green.
      "Whaaaaaaaat?" Her voice bellowed from another part of the house.
      "Your teacherrrrrrrrrrr!"
      Already the heat was making me sweaty, even dizzy. I removed my bomber jacket; I was glad I was wearing a short sleeved shirt
      "I'm here, mother," she said, a little defensively. She wore a soiled maternity dress. I hadn't seen Lucretia for a month. Now her pregnancy was obvious. Her abdomen looked cartoonishly large. I suddenly wanted to make her life better, but really, all I had to offer her was her final English exam, which I was holding.
      In the hot kitchen, we sat at a wooden table with considerable dried jam on it. Strawberry, I think. I held up the test, hoping I wouldn't have to hear any more about satellites, dishes, or floods. I placed the test strategically between several sticky globs.
      She fidgeted. That intensity in her eyes that I had come to expect had been replaced with a vulnerability. I tried to put her at ease by telling her about other pregnant students I had visited. That's when a tall, skinny girl with a twisted face jerkily entered the half-dark kitchen. She looked about twenty.
      "Stupid!" she said, pointing clumsily at me. "Stupid!" She had a bandage on one arm.
      "She keeps falling on the stove," Mrs. Giver said, standing at the kitchen counter, stirring something in a bowl. "She burned her arm."
      Already I was sweating so much I felt my underwear sticking to my flesh. Heat everywhere assaulted me, while the machine gun stove frequently crackled.
      "Kendra," Lucretia said with eerie sweetness, "don't call my teacher stupid. And be quiet. I'm trying to write a test."
      "Stupid!" Kendra said vehemently. "You dumb ass!"
      "Go to your room," Lucretia said firmly. Her eyes now cold.
      Kendra twisted on one spot, her coordination requiring much of her concentration. "I'll spit on you!"
      Mrs. Giver took her by one hand and pulled her away as she cried "Stupid!" repeatedly. Mrs. Giver returned while Kendra screeched in some other part of the house. Mrs. Giver did not appear embarrassed in the least.
      Lucretia, however, was embarrassed. Her level of concentration waned.
      I tried to help her relax by making light conversation. "Don't you have a brother, Lucretia?"
      "Two brothers. Zain's in jail. He shot up some of the neighbor's cars from his bedroom window with pa's 30.06. Cadoc's my other brother. He--"
      "I'm going to do some work while you write that exam," I told Lucretia. "Just pretend I'm not here."
      While she worked, methodically writing answers, spelling many, many words wrong, I busied myself writing a poem. We worked between jam globs, while Kendra screeched, Mrs. Giver made bread, I think, and Mr. Giver, I'm happy to say, remained outside, possibly butchering more chickens.
      The poem was based on a true story; it helped me forget to some degree that I was sweating far too much--unlike Lucretia and her mother who seemed completely comfortable:

I was grateful for the opportunity to use that time to write about Eileen, a woman I'd enjoyed visiting very much.

As I was leaving, quickly entering my Malibu before Mr. Giver could discover me and explain more of his latest reading, an RCMP patrol car bounded up the driveway, almost landing beside my car.

      Mr. Giver appeared, holding one chicken. Two officers exited the vehicle. The driver, a middle-aged, gray-haired officer with a large belly, opened the rear door on his side, pointed to a young man with long curly locks of blonde hair, and gruffly said, "Get out!" He turned to Mr. Giver. "Your son, Mr. Giver, is lucky to be alive."
      "How's that?" he said, clutching his chicken.
       "Why don't you tell your father what you did, Cadoc?"
      The other officer spoke up. He placed his enormous hands on his hips, and said, "He climbed to the top of an electrical tower." He shook his head. "Do you know how many firemen had to come out to help him get down?"
      I'm pretty sure I saw Mr. Giver grin. I climbed into my purple Malibu, threw my jacket into the back, switched on the air conditioning--I was still so hot!--and headed down the roller coaster descent. At the bottom, to my great surprise, I saw, as I braked hard, Arlene driving her Celica, with Tom as her passenger, past the driveway. They replaced their own surprise at seeing me with notable glares.
      I was grateful my ABS brakes worked.

      I soon realized why no students were waiting outside the locked, pine green front doors just before 12:30. Usually they could be found scattered up and down the cyanide-treated steps, smoking, jostling each other, spitting, and/or practicing using obscenities, waiting for me to unlock the school and then our classroom. The first two days I had begun teaching in The Barn, Arlene and Tom, who often spent lunch together inside the school, had kindly let early students in to wait in the hall. But by the third day, once they'd learned more about the eccentric nature of many of my students, they steadfastly refused to exercise this kindness, no matter how loudly impatient students banged on the door.
      As I headed down the hallway to my classroom, uneasy about where my students were, I thought, "I haven't seen Tom today."
      I unlocked my classroom, hearing the notable clunk of the old, tarnished deadbolt. I pushed open the door, and then heard the chorus:
      "Surprise!"
      There sat seven smug-looking students, including Pavlos, who had returned to class. I had suspended him for a day for calling Tom a "hunchbacked dumb-ass" and for intimating that his father might harm Tom. Pavlos and the other students needed to know that I couldn't tolerate their crossing the boundary from acceptable to unacceptable speech.
      I saw the open window, and they saw the astonishment on my face, which gave them great pleasure.

      "Which one of you cat burglars opened the window?"
      Pavlos scratched his nose vigorously in a peculiarly delicate manner, careful of the four rings in his nostrils.
      "Gabrellia," Babur said.
      "Oh, right," she said. "Why don't you tell Mr. Landers how you fell off the ledge opening the window and scraped your Pinocchio nose on the stucco?"
       Gabrellia, as she often did, heartily chewed gum. Her shiny hair looked stiff.
       Babur touched a finger to his nose; the finger revealed a spot of blood, which he studied. I took another look at him, noting the depth of his scar above one eyebrow.
       They admitted to their "criminal" activity. One by one, each student had climbed onto the commercial-sized natural gas meter, and had slid along the wooden ledge that separated mustard stucco below the ledge from gray stucco above. Apparently I had left the window unlocked, and Babur had opened it. After falling, he'd joined his colleagues in the big joke of surprising me.
      The bantering continued while I determined to lock the window before leaving each lunch or day's end.
      Vibol ducked, apparently saving himself from another pterodactyl, then said, "My youth care worker is here to pick me up. I have to meet with my social worker."
       I hadn't sat down yet. I turned to discover a dark-skinned, muscular man in my classroom. He looked angry.
      " Hello," I said. "My name is Don Landers."
      " My name is Tree," he said, his lips tight.
      " Tree?"
      " Isn't that what I said?"
       Pavlos spoke up. "That's sure a weird name. Tree? Ha!" Pavlos wore a red t-shirt that read "crap on you, buddy."
      " Was I talking to you? If I'm not talking to you, why don't you shut your trap?"
      "You're a youth care worker?" I asked more than said. I would have thought of him first as a wife beater.
      Pavlos grabbed one of his four nose rings and pulled. That made his nose look quite hideous.
      "Didn't Vibol already say I'm his youth care worker?" Tree said.
      Vibol stood up. "I'm out of here."
      "No you're not," Tree said. "I'll tell you when you're out of here."
      Some secondary alternate teachers were fortunate enough to have full-time youth care workers to work with, to help the students deal with socio-emotional issues. I was fortunate enough not to have to work with this man.
      I couldn't resist asking him, "Where did you get your training in youth care work?"
      He sneered at me. "I was a drug addict. That's where I got my training."
      Vibol and Tree left.
      "Pavlos said, "What a--"
      "Use a synonym," I reminded him.
      "Freaking bum-hole."

     I wanted to move on from practical jokes and Tree. For our daily discussion on a socio-emotional subject relevant to the students, I chose to ask, "What options exist for one who loves but receives no love in return?" I sat down.
      "Love?" Babur said. "What the hell's that?"
      Tom appeared at the door. His right arm was in a cast and sling. He looked particularly agitated and--balder than usual. Have you ever noticed that some men suddenly appear much balder than you've ever remembered seeing them?
      "Tom," I said, "what happened to your arm?"
      His face was scarlet, and he fidgeted. "I broke it!"
      I could see that.
      "Look, I'm--I'm--sorry I called your students chimpanzees." He glanced at Pavlos. I couldn't tell whether he were afraid or angry or both. "D-D-Do you hear me!" he exclaimed. "I'm sorry!" In an instant, he was gone.
      Immediately, I followed him down the hall. "Tom," I said, "what happened to your arm?" I had a knot in my stomach, thinking that his broken arm could have been from...No! I couldn't believe that! But the knot turned into a sickening lump of dread as I imagined Pavlos' father attacking Tom.
      He turned around. He looked flustered and angry, his face weirdly twisted. "Look, Don, just never mind. I fell down and broke my arm. Alright? So leave me alone."
      "Did Pavlos have something to do with this?"
      "You're not listening," Tom said. "I don't ever want to talk about this again." He tried to straighten his curved back, but couldn't.
      Arlene's door opened. She peered out. "You two are certainly loud." She smiled nervously at Tom, then scowled at me. "Did Tom tell you about how he fell down his basement stairs?"
      "No," I said. "He said he didn't want to talk about it."
      She looked closely at Tom for a moment, then stared directly into my eyes. "There's something fishy going on here."
      "I don't want to talk about it!" Tom said flatly. He entered his classroom, absently banging his cast on the doorframe.
       Arlene exited her room. "I'll just be a minute," she told a little, scared-looking girl at a seat alongside her desk. She shut the door. Her manner grew awfully serious. "Look, Don, I don't believe Tom. He's been jumpy and he can't sleep and that business about his falling down his stairs doesn't wash." She shook a finger at me. "I remember what that student of yours said outside. Don't you remember? He threatened to have his dad break Tom's arms and legs."
      I know my eyes looked very wide.
      "I'm calling the superintendent about this. You and your students shouldn't be in this building. You should be out of town in some sort of fortress."
       Before I consciously knew what I was saying, I blurted, "Too bad Tom called my students a bunch of chimpanzees."
      "Chimpanzees?" Her nostrils flared. "That's a compliment. They're barbarians!" Her face turned red. "Bloody barbarians!" She angrily departed, re-entering her room.
      I almost informed her that "barbarian" originally classed non-Greeks from Greeks, but not in any derogatory sense.
      I sighed. Back in my classroom, I found Pavlos working furiously, his calculator in one hand, his yellow text open on his desk. I had a bad feeling deep in my intestines. Then the feeling got worse as I thought about Tree, and how he'd addressed Pavlos.
      I returned to the door. "Pavlos, I need to talk to you."
      "What about?" His face had a spooked/defensive ambiguity.
      "I need to talk you outside." My heart sped up; I realized my MEd courses in counseling were about to be put to the test.

      Pavlos and I stood at the bottom of the treated steps. He sneezed. He tried to wipe his nose on his bare arm, but the four nose rings made painless wiping complicated. I tried to collect my thoughts as I read his "crap-on-you" t-shirt. Suddenly a dust devil whirled along the lane that ran perpendicular to the long side of the rectangular Barn. The dust devil stood still for a few seconds, as if confused, and then it entered the gravel parking lot between us and the lane. Again it stopped, but for a longer period, as if thinking. How it threw debris--pop cans, paper bags, and dirt--at all four cars in the parking lot! The sound of the debris hitting metal created an electric overdrive drone! Centrifugally charged granules stung my face!
      "Down here!" I said, amidst the whacking sound of debris colliding with the school wall next to us.
      He followed me into the stairwell that led down to the other "classroom," the windowless rectangular cuboid with the gargantuan sewer pipe that ran between the ceiling and floor. I stopped halfway down the fourteen steps, in the dim spray of light that pushed through two small Plexi glass windows in the door. Both windows had been vandalized, burned in many places by lighters. The smell of the stairwell reminded me of a full laundry basket overwhelmed by moisture and time. I sneezed.
      "What is this all about?" Pavlos asked, his eyes suspiciously searching my face, his head inquisitively cocked to one side.
      "Tree made quite an impression."
      "What about him? Are you trying to say he's one of Hitler's great grandchildren?"
      "He said to you, 'why don't you shut your trap.'" I had studied Rogerian counselling in my MEd program, and here was my chance to use it. I had to help him focus on what emotions were directing his thoughts. But my premise had an odd twist. Forensically, I had to address my suspicion that Pavlos's father had broken Tom's arm and might do the same, or attempt to do the same, to Tree. On top of that, I had to address the criminal aspect of his father attacking people who insult Pavlos. "How did that make you feel, Pavlos?"
      He cocked his head to the other side: "How did that make me feel?"
      "Yes," I said, my voice sounding a touch squeaky.
      Pavlos laughed so hard his open mouth revealed he had two missing molars, one on each side of his bottom jaw. "Are you worried he might show up with a broken arm, or leg?"
      "As a matter of fact--well, should I worry?"
      "I didn't know you were such a wreck, Don. You gotta relax."
      I was off track. The Rogerian questions should have focused on his feelings, my hope being that Pavlos would empathize with Tom.
      "Look, Don," he said, "let's go back to class and forget this happened."
      I wished I'd taken the follow up course. And, I realized, "Why should Pavlos empathize with Tom who had insulted him?" I was heading the wrong direction. Pavlos, not Tom, was the subject of interest!
      "Yes, but Pavlos, how do you feel--"
      "Put it in a can, Don. Someone ought to take an axe to that Tree freak. What else is there to say?"

      I entered B.O.B. My principal and I had been invited to a staff meeting at Morgenstern High to talk about secondary alternate education, and we had planned to go together.
      Henrietta, the receptionist at the plenty-of-oak-and-brass front counter, could have been the hotel clerk at a five star hotel. "Don," she said, "those kids of yours haven't burned you on a stake yet?"
      I grinned. "They're an entertaining, colourful bunch," I said.
      She smiled wonderingly. "I guess you teach the kids that nobody else wants."
      Henrietta had a special warmth.
      My principal, an Aboriginal who calls himself Geronimo, rounded the corner that led to a row of senior administration offices, each with a brass sign detailing the name and title of the occupant. His mischievous eyes, as usual, revealed some internal parody running through his head. He gleefully held up part of a tie. "Anybody want to buy a used tie?"
      Behind short, spiky-and-thinly-haired Geronimo stormed the assistant superintendent, Patrick, a long-legged man who, from his usual tenseness of face, appeared well into high-end hypertension. "You cut my bloody tie in half, you damn Indian."
      "Did you hear that?" Geronimo said, waving about a foot length of the wide end of a striped tie. "Don? Henrietta? Racism. He called me a damn Indian. That's bad, Patrick. These are my witnesses. Good thing there's no reporter here. Imagine that--Assistant Superintendent of the Shyswamik Valley School District calling the Principal of Secondary Alternate Programs a damn Indian. The chiefs from the reservations will have you hunted and scalped, Patrick."
      "You cut my tie in half," he said. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders, but short arms.
      "I won't do it again," Geronimo said, "at least not at another Board Meeting. And I do mean bored."
      I'd heard him say 'I do mean bored' before.
      "Look," he said, "I'll buy you another ugly tie. I'll have one of the chiefs ride a horse bareback and deliver it to you."
      Geronimo often grinned. It disarmed many, and it infuriated many too.
      Leaving, Patrick muttered "damn Indian" under his breath, then he stopped. He turned to me. "I heard you're running grade 11 and 12. Thelma, that Egyptian trustee, said she had some concerns about the location of our senior secondary alternate program. I'd like to know what senior program? I don't recall authorizing a senior program."
      I tried not to look at Geronimo, and he tried not to look at me. For eleven years I'd taught grade ten, three classes a day (8:30, 10:15, and 12:30), in the Teachers' Reading Room of the Teachers' Resource Library. But a year ago we had had to move once health officials condemned the building due to a toxic mould in the walls. The mould produced spores that, inhaled, could cause a deadly form of pneumonia. I moved the program to the pink bathroom, and I started, in stealth, the grade eleven/twelve secondary alternate program. Let me explain what I mean by "in stealth":
      In Geronimo's office of much sunlight, one hour after I'd taught my last class in the library, I said as I'd said many times before, "We need a senior grad program to help these secondary alternate students complete high school. Grade ten isn't enough."
      Geronimo lost his grin, but only for a short time. "I keep telling senior admin and the board that we need a senior program." We sat across from each other, each in one of those swivel chairs that are fun to twirl around in. "They keep saying no. Too expensive. These people are paid to say no. They get master's degrees that teach them how to say no. The superintendent has a doctorate in how to say no. Hell, he can say no in his sleep, and he can even conduct a meeting while he's asleep. I think he takes NO-Snore so nobody notices." He leaned back in his chrome-enhanced chair, and then his eyes twinkled. "I might retire next year, Don. Hell, order the materials you need. Just don't tell anybody. Make sure the invoices go through my office. Just don't tell anybody."
      Years before that decision, Geronimo had told me, "Survival in a bureaucracy rests on two rules, Don. One, never ask for permission to do anything. Someone's liable to say no. And two, if people don't like what you're doing, tell them you've been doing it that way for years. Then change the subject."
      I faced Patrick. I wondered what his blood pressure was. 180 over 120? "The senior program?" I said, feigning surprise. "We've run it for a long time." Then, speaking to Henrietta: "Do I have any mail in my box?"

Copyright © 2005. All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system, without written permission from the author. You may contact the author at landersdon@hotmail.com.

Footnotes:

Academic Exchange Extra invites reader response to any writings in this issue--especially articles advancing the scholarly debate of issues raised.

------------------------------ Page Citation Reference:
Landers, Donovan A. (2005). AE-Extra. April. Available Online.
[URL: < >.
Created: 23 March 2005. Updated: 13 May 2005. Accessed: ]

Margins © [Note 1]

4

THE SPECTACLE OF TUNE

EILEEN AND ERIC

5

AT THE GRAVEYARD

6

7

ONE HOT DAY

Footnotes: