Golden Rule Dayz

Mark stood up and looped his book bag over his left shoulder when the final bell of the day rang.

"Mark, can you come here for a second?"

He made his way over to Mr. Cook, whose first name was Irwin and who hated that fact and did everything to avoid its mention. Mr. Cook was in his thirties, a tall man with an anorexic build, who looked like he'd be much more comfortable on a runway in his Old Navy clothes than talking about books in front of a bunch of open-mouthed, bored kids, of which his youthful looks made him seem as one, so much so that many times he'd been mistaken for just another apathetic student, even by his own colleagues. Mark always felt under-dressed walking into Mr. Cook's classroom and now thought he was almost naked.

"So did you at least like Dorian Gray?"

"Oh, yeah, I liked it. It was very well-written and put together. I just, um, I'm just disappointed in Wilde-"

"How so?"

"Well, for all his philosophizing and arguing about art for art sake's and experiencing the soul through the senses and vice versa, in the end, he essentially says that's all crap and will just lead to a life of insanity and a not so very nice death-"

"You can't confuse an author with his work. His biography and his writing are two different things-"

"No, but you can expect more." Mark looked up at the clock on the wall above them. "Look, I understand that a work of the imagination is just that. But that's only good in theory. This is real life. And if you're going to make yourself a household name and live a certain way and pretty much support a specific way of living, then you shouldn't write a novel that says just opposite. It's just disingenuous and cynical and insecure and makes one question everything about you and your work." He looked up at the clock again. "I'm gonna miss my bus-"

"Where do you live?"

"In Cedarville. In the Westfield development."

"So do I. Burberry Court."

"I'm on Manson Ave. On the other side."

"I can give you a lift home-"

"Cool-"

Mr. Cook's Toyota was a small affair of chipped paint, dog-eared books, smashed insects, dust, and great gas mileage. "You know, you're the only student who gets it-"

"Really? Thanks-"

"I mean - and don't you repeat a word of this - the rest of these kids are just out of it. At least you read the books-"

"Actually, I read all of them years ago-"

"Wow. Really?"

"Yeah. A few times-"

"Jesus." Mr. Cook shook his head. Behind his words, the light, trembling guitars and moaning voice of an indistinct British band could be heard spitting from the speakers under the dashboard. "See, that's what I mean. Not only do the others not get it, they don't even give themselves the chance to get it." He cleared his throat. "So what do your parents say about you reading so much?"

"It's just my mom. I live with her and her boyfriend-"

"Oh. Divorced?"

"No. My father was murdered-"

"I'm so sorry. Forgive me-"

"It's okay. He was murdered by a serial killer in the state where we used to live-"

"Oh, my God-"

"Right before I was born-"

"Mark, I'm really sorry-"

"It's okay. It's not like I knew him or anything-"

Mr. Cook glanced at Mark and shifted in his seat. "Do you have a girlfriend?"

"No-"

"No? Why not?"

"I don't know-"

"A good-looking guy like you? You should be having to beat them off with a stick-"

Mark giggled. "That sounds interesting-"

Mr. Cook laughed and put his foot on the brake as he pulled in front of Mark's house. "There you go-"

Mark got out of the car. "Thanks for the ride-"

"Mark-"

"Yeah?" Mark leaned into the passenger side window.

"We'll have to hang out some time-"

"That's cool-"

"Do you like chocolate?"

"Yeah, I guess-"

A Hershey bar appeared in the palm of Mr. Cook's hand. "I got 3 for a dollar but could only eat 2-"

Mark grabbed it, his fingers scraping the back of his teacher's hand. He looked into Mr. Cook's bespectacled eyes from under his blond bangs and grinned. Mr. Cook looked away with a smile. "I'll see you in school tomorrow-"

"Cool-"

Mark slid the chocolate bar into his pocket and skipped up the driveway.