I swear, New York’s Board of Education swept up the teacher refuse from city schools and emptied the dustpan into P.S. 63. Other kids could rave about the teachers they looked up to, or those who had a critical influence on their lives. I only had oddballs..
            Mr. Vilbig, my seventh-grade biology instructor, bragged that he’d been a Marine. He loved to blurt out, “Oorah!,” still sported a buzz cut, and spoke with the clipped cadence of a drill sergeant. Rotund as a candy apple, he would’ve been Camp Lejeune’s poster child for what Marines call a “Fat Body.” My guess was that he was a bullied recruit and saw it as fitting that the pain he suffered in the service be passed on to us..
            For example, when he lectured on the periodic table, he emphasized that potassium’s symbol was K, and that if anybody dared to put PO on a test, he’d be PO’d. Dread was Vilbig’s favorite teaching tool. Crude, but effective..
            On the first day of class, he called out each of our names, giving us a sort of dead-eye stare, intending that we would be intimidated into behaving. He boomed “Hillary Carroll.
A boy with horn-rim glasses raised his hand. I burst out laughing, thinking Vilbig was teasing, not imagining parents who would burden their son with two girl’s names. Carroll was tall and obviously in shape, probably a necessary defensive strategy for someone encumbered with the first name of Hillary. His hard glare and body language told me that I had to be wary about a punch in the mouth during schoolyard recess. I shrank in my seat. Teenage embarrassment was a constant stalker and my flushed face indicated that it had struck again..
            “Did you hear that?” Vilbig asked Carroll with a voice rising sarcastically to impart maximum challenge. “Anthony made fun of your name. Are you going to take it?” Vilbig slipped eagerly into gladiatorial promotion..
            Perhaps, I should’ve apologized to Carroll, but surrounded by a classroom riveted on the drama including girls, who I desperately wanted to impress, and boys who I vied with for pecking order, I tried to display a confidence I didn’t feel..
            Sensing my discomfort, Vilbig exhibited the lurid smile of a man excited that the pot he’d brought to simmer would soon begin to boil..
            The next day, I walked into biology class with a black eye, evidence of Carroll’s right cross. While I hadn’t won, I’d maintained a semblance of boyhood dignity by not having run away from a fight. To make sure I would suffer the self-consciousness of having my shiner put on view, Vilbig ordered me to the front of the room, ostensibly to assist with his demonstration on how to dissect a fetal pig..
            “What happened to your eye?” he asked with mock concern..
            Scanning the room for the girls’ expressions, I observed a cute girl exhibiting empathy for my pain. My shoulders straightened with rekindled self-esteem..
            I turned to Vilbig saying, “Oorah!” to his suddenly deflated face.

Joe Giordano’s stories appeared in his short story collection, Stories and Places I Remember. His novels include Birds of Passage, and the Anthony Provati thriller series: Appointment with ISIL, Drone Strike, and The Art of Revenge.