Bethany: Part V

And what I wanted from Bethany was simple (no, ease your dirty mind, it wasn’t that, sorry to say, that part comes later) – I wanted to compose and recite the class ode at graduation. You see, of all the high school poets who took themselves oh so seriously, I took myself the oh so seriousest.

It’s not that I wasn’t pretty good, after all several of my teen efforts have made it into my collected works (which is saying a lot, thank you very much). Even though I now in retrospect believe sweet Virginia was the better poet, she wasn’t as inclined to toot her own muse-ical horn, and it was fairly obvious even to those who didn’t have a high opinion of me that I deserved to deliver the aforementioned ode, a poem written by the class’s preeminent poetaster commemorating our common Pitt Prep experience.

The only problem with the scenario was my well deserved reputation for rebellious obnoxiousness. I’d carefully cultivated the image of a contrary rebel who sneered loudly at authority and now I was paying for it. Why would anyone in a position of power take the risk of having someone like me stand up at graduation and bellow some scabrous "Howl"-like diatribe against our dear alma mater?

In fact, I’d already begun a heartfelt, conciliatory lyric about hating and loving the place (which I did), but hadn’t bothered to inform Bethany or anyone else of my intentions. No, all I knew, with the concrete certainty of youth, was that I deserved it, and that therefore I should get it, and Senior Class President Bethany should give it to me.

It all came to a head when Bethany came over to our table in the dining hall to consult with Vice President Smiler. I’d already heard from him that there had been an executive decision that Littleman Henry would deliver the ode, which enraged me even more. Littleman was a friend of mine, and one of the few people that I recognized in those ego inflated days as being smarter than me, but he was no poet, and in fact one of the outstanding characteristics that had brought him so much success in life was his complete lack of originality, poetic or otherwise.

Bethany had been avoiding me, but now she’d stepped in close range of my verbal guns. "Hey, Prez," I sneered as she and the Smiler consulted. "Is it really true Littleman is going to do the class ode?"

Unlike most politicians, she didn’t equivocate. "Yes," she said shortly.

I stood up and got right in her face, the most notable aspect of which was, unfortunately, her large, crooked and somewhat pointy nose. "Why, Prez, I mean, everybody knows I’m the best poet, Prez…"

"Yes, but…" Her cheeks flushed, but that nose stayed dead white, standing out even more like the frozen ridge of some icy precipice. "People were concerned that you wouldn’t be…appropriate."

"APPROPRIATE!" I bellowed. I was quite expert in using my verbal facility to intimidate, and there was fear in Bethany’s cool blue eyes but also great resolution. "And who the hell are there people, Prez?"