It's not a movie, Martin
At the desk to Martin's right, Nikki, paying no one any attention, was writing a U.S. history essay for next period. Database — the nickname had stuck to Kyle since grade school — sat at the desk on his left, absorbed in drawing in his notebook.
Fifteen minutes of the period had gone by, and Mr. Glasscock, the economics teacher, still hadn't shown.
Martin's gaze dropped: at his feet lay a note folded in four. Checking around once more, he picked it up.
Whatcha listening to?
The question caught him off guard. How was one supposed to answer? And more to the point — answer whom?
Shrugging, he put the earphone back in and returned to his reading: "Economic growth is a long-term increase in real output—" Another crumpled scrap of paper sailed over his shoulder and landed in the middle of the textbook.
No, seriously, man.
Looking back again, Martin caught Nelson's eye. Nelson turned away at once and fixed his gaze on Simpson, as if genuinely invested in the bragging. Bart had just bent down to his backpack and was rummaging in it, still rattling on.
The player clicked to the next song: Debbie Harry, in her signature insolent manner, singing about stalking the object of her passion to the very end. Whether it was the drive of the music or the fact that Nelson Muntz himself had asked his opinion, Martin began tapping the rhythm out on the desk with his palm. He turned half around, threw a glance at the window — summer had no intention of leaving Springfield — and sang out, mocking. If Nelson had wanted discretion, tough luck.
One way or another, went the promise: she would find him. She would get him — get him, get him, get him.
