The Gorgoneion

Jennafer D’Alvia 

In the middle-school hallway on the second floor, Bobby Gattone’s hanging around. The two of us alone with no one else there. I know it by the time I slam my locker door, squeeze the lock closed. Bobby’s waiting for me. He’s making a show of it, loitering with his large body curved.

There’s no choice. To get to English, I have to walk down the hallway past him. Maybe he won’t say anything this time. Maybe if I cross my arms he won’t even notice me. Yeah right, and maybe the lockers will turn into linebackers, rush at Bobby and smash him against the gray walls.

What now? Should I use my English notebook as a shield to protect myself and hide, or should I keep my arms down, straight as a soldier on parade? Catelyn on display. Catelyn in a one-girl parade, proudly displaying her—

Big tits, he says, right when I’m near him. He kind of whispers it, so it feels like it’s something between just us. His lip is curled into a sneer.

Fuck you, I say, but my words come out in a mumble and I’m already topless in the hallway in both our minds. My breasts are these huge, heavy magnets I carry on my chest, pulling in losers like Bobby, no matter how hard I try to muffle their power under layers of T-shirts.

He follows me into class. He’s right behind me. I hold my breath. For a second, I think he might touch me, but he doesn’t.

People don’t know that Bobby waits for me. Even my friend Denise who I sit with at the little table by the blackboard has no idea. This year’s theme is Ancient Greece in English and Social Studies, and today there’s a quiz on Greek monsters, so Denise is nervous, scanning the other kids, the reading charts, the clock. I take a last look in my notebook even though I don’t really need to. I’ve got all the info stored in my head and now it’s just a matter of letting it flood out onto the page.

Before the quiz, Dave Lind has a question. Is Medusa going to be on the test? I mean, she’s technically a monster, isn’t she?

We haven’t studied Medusa and he knows it, but class just doesn’t feel right to Dave unless he hears his own voice talking—even on test days.

We’ll deal with Medusa when we talk about Athena and the gods, Ms. Soto says, and Dave looks satisfied, like she just confirmed what he already knew.

Ms. Soto starts to hand out the quiz, but then her head jerks up.

Bobby! she yells. She means stop. That’s all anyone ever means when they say his name. I don’t turn with the others to see what he’s done. Nobody likes him. Not students, not teachers. Bobby always seems to be late, even when he’s not late. He’s always standing when he should be sitting. Never in his seat. Never even pretending to be comfortable. He doesn’t fit. Seems too big, like when we go back to the kindergarten now and try to sit on the chairs. That’s how it is for Bobby, legs bending out like spider legs, beefy and tall, hairy arms, and long black hair that always falls over his face.

Ms. Soto serves us the quiz. The first question is: a monster with the head of a man and the body of a bull. The answer is minotaur. I picture hooves kicking Bobby into lockers.

Then he’s gone. This is my world. Vocab and reading. Next to me Denise looks like a jittery colt. Her pen skips right over the short answer section to the multiple choice. When I see her doodling a unicorn in the margin of her test, I turn my paper just a little so she can copy.

Thanks, Cat, Denise says when we’re standing at our lockers. You saved my life. And she looks really grateful.

When she says that, I feel so strong that I almost tell her about Bobby. But then I get distracted by her outfit. It’s eclectic. Not the regular same old. She’s wearing a cool watch made out of cardboard and a leather ring that looks like a rose. Denise is tall and fashionable. She looks cut right out of the pages of Seventeen, which she reads at night and on lunch break. No single part of her body calls attention to itself, so when she wears those accessories, everything is laid out, and it’s like she’s inviting you to look at her, to look at her creation, exactly in the way that she wants.

In Social Studies Bobby is getting chewed out.

Where’s your notebook? Mr. Mason asks.

Bobby holds up his black and white marble notebook, like he’s barely got the energy to lift it. It’s the old-fashioned kind that our parents probably used when they were kids.

I told you that you’re supposed to have a spiral notebook, Mr. Mason says, looking furious, even though I don’t know why he cares. Yesterday, we started in on Herodotus, the father of history, who wrote about his own people, the Greeks, and their wars against the Persians. Mr. Mason made a big deal out of how cool Herodotus was for writing about the great deeds of his enemies, the Persians. He went on about that for a while, and then he said that Herodotus was important in ancient Greece, because he wanted to find the causes behind people’s actions. Herodotus didn’t just report on the facts of the war. He wanted to know why the Greeks and Persians fought each other. Apparently, that was a new thing back then, asking why. It was something that had to be invented. I was hoping today that Mr. Mason would talk about that a bit more, because I don’t think I get it yet, and I like to understand things all the way through. Instead, Mason’s wasting everyone’s time on Bobby, which means that even class-time is Bobby-time.

On the first day of school, Mr. Mason made this big deal about everyone getting a spiral notebook, and even showed us what a spiral notebook was. We’re eighth graders, not kindergartners. We get it. Spiral. Though, I guess Bobby Gattone didn’t get it, or maybe he’s got some sick need to be in trouble or something.

I told you, Mr. Mason says, working himself up. To get a Single. Subject. Spiral. Notebook.

The whole class is looking at Bobby Gattone now. He mumbles that his father wouldn’t buy him a spiral. Something about it being too expensive.

Is that possible? I keep a soft focus, so it looks like I couldn’t care less, but all the while, I take an inventory of Bobby’s stuff: jeans, Pro-Keds, T-shirt, backpack. It’s basically what all kids have, but I believe him about his father. Why would he make it up? Plus, it makes sense: his dad’s a jerk to him, so he takes it out on me. Normally, I’d feel sorry for a kid like him, for his asshole dad, for his stupid cheap notebook and for Mr. Mason’s very long scolding. But then I think of the hallway, and the other Bobby—the one who comes at me with his big body.

I’ll expect you to have a spiral tomorrow, Mr. Mason says.

Bobby rolls his eyes and mumbles, Whatever.

Dammit it, Bobby! Mr. Mason yells and he throws a piece of chalk across the room. It hits the ground near Bobby’s sneaker.                                    

After that, no one moves. The air is charged with the teacher’s fury. We all stare at our desks, as Mr. Mason sits frozen. Seems like he’s got no idea how to continue after losing it. Finally, he takes a piece of chalk and writes on the blackboard New History of Herodotus, pp. 231-50.

Everyone get started on your homework, he says, and people reach into their bags for their history books.

As I’m finding my page, Mr. Mason appears in front of me with big sweat circles under his arms.

He leans his hip on my desk, and it feels like when the performers in a show walk off the stage and out into the audience, looking for volunteers or just shaking things up. I always hate when they do that. It makes me nervous, like they might ask me to play a part I haven’t rehearsed. His eyes are wide and his mouth droops down into a kind of foolish smile.

What do you think people thought of that? Mr. Mason asks.

Why is Mr. Mason asking me? Who does he think I am—class president or something? I’ve got one friend in the entire grade and she’s not even in this class. How do I know what people are thinking?

All around kids look like they’re doing their homework, but I know they’re all tuned in to what’s happening at my desk.

What could impel Mr. Mason to act like we’re friends and destroy my social life? I’m a good student who’s totally into his lectures, true. And, okay, I actually care about how Herodotus affected history, or hell, even created it, but Mr. Mason has always been so smart, so why doesn’t he know that I can’t be seen talking to him?

He’s waiting for my answer.

People probably thought it was pretty stupid, I tell him.

I say it to show the other kids I’m one of them, and to show Mr. Mason that this is how it’s going to be if he wants us all to step outside our roles and just do whatever we feel like. But as soon as the words are out, I realize they’re actually how I’m feeling. It was stupid, a waste of chalk, a waste of all our time.

Mr. Mason’s eyes go wide, he purses his lips and he nods, seeming to accept my criticism, or maybe he finally realizes that he’s not supposed to be asking me. Then, he moves away and I’m relieved that it’s over and I hope the class will forget that Mr. Mason was ever next to my desk. I have my head down, but I watch Mr. Mason move across the room. He’s wearing his trademark jeans and a button-down shirt. He must feel like a fool. I wish I hadn’t been so harsh. If we’d been alone, the conversation would have been different, I think. I could have told him that I understand how Bobby gets under his skin. But, actually, if we were alone, I’d never be able to say a word to him. There are things I just can’t tell him or any of the teachers. It’s not that they wouldn’t understand, it’s just that the only way this works is with him at the front of the class lecturing, and with me in my seat asking questions and copying what he writes on the board.

When the bell rings, I’m the first one to the door. Because after getting yelled at, I’m guessing Bobby’ll be looking for me.

Bobby pulls his crap over and over. Every time he comes towards me, it’s like a mix of two nightmares: the one where you realize you’re naked in front of everyone, and the one where a monster is cornering you and you can’t get away.

One time Denise is there. First, she goes pale. Then she yells at him to shut the hell up, advancing towards him, waving her arms, as if she wants to scatter birds. She surprises me—her sudden action, her anger. Bobby’s surprised too. He puts his elbow up to shield his head from her onslaught. He backs away. I feel like a child watching my mother take care of things. It’s such a relief.

After that, I try to stick with Denise between classes. When she’s not around, I hurry from my locker, but Bobby always finds me—near the cafeteria just as lunch is ending, or in the little hallway where the girls’ locker room connects to the main hall. I look up and he’s there, close and whispering, and, in those moments, it doesn’t matter who Bobby and I are in the world of the school. My good-girl status and my excellent grades don’t protect me.

In fifth grade, a kid said something about my breasts, and I pushed him down to the asphalt. He skinned his knee and started to cry. The teacher wanted to know why I pushed him. I stayed silent and she probably figured I was a psycho, just kicking a kid for no reason. But it was worth it. That boy never spoke to me again, about anything. Bobby’s much bigger. There won’t be any pushing him.

Small groups. It’s our first time trying it and Mr. Mason acts nervous, as if he doesn’t really believe this can work. He even bites his lip. Maybe it’s something the principal’s making him do. The desks are arranged in little clusters of three, turned in to face each other, and Mr. Mason informs us that each island will be a team.     

I take a seat before realizing I should probably wait to see how the groups pan out. Kids mull around taking their time, and no one comes to my group until Scott Martin settles into the seat next to me. This doesn’t even seem like something that’s possible. Scott’s a popular kid. Sometimes, I’ve mused on how cute he was, but always from a few desks over and one behind. Until now, we’ve been like players in that hockey table game on parallel bars.

Hey, Scott says to me, and his voice sounds like a friend’s voice. I should be nervous, but when I say, hey, back, it comes out confident and natural, as if we greet each other all the time.

And then Emma Saunders sits with us, completing our group. She’s a popular girl who doesn’t really talk to me. She’s probably here to be near Scott.

Hey, we both say as Emma takes her seat, and it’s like Scott and I are the original group welcoming Emma, the newcomer. This is how school should be: people getting along and being nice to each other.

Mr. Mason tells us to read The Histories aloud to our groups.

And I don’t know what’s wrong with him lately. First the chalk, now this. Reading aloud is what we did in elementary school when we were first learning to read, and it seems like Mr. Mason wants us to go back to a younger age, so he can teach us everything from the beginning: how to buy a notebook, even how to read.

Scott’s already got his book open to page thirty-nine. It’s the section where a barbarian king and his army burn down a Greek city-state and accidentally destroy the temple of Athena too. In the twelfth year, Scott reads. When the corn crop was being fired by his army: the following thing happened. His voice sounds deeper when he’s reading. And the rhythm of the language relaxes me, brings me back to childhood, when my mom used to read, her voice creating worlds.

After burning Athena’s temple, the barbarian king gets sick, and his sickness goes on for a while, so he sends an embassy to the oracle at Delphi. Scott pauses there.

It’s weird to think of people actually going to the Temple of Delphi to get a second opinion, he says.

I laugh and say. Imagine if you could go to Holy Name of Mary and ask the priest to diagnose you?

Ri—ght? he says, drawing out the word with his eyes all lit up. I look at Emma and smile, but she’s not paying attention. She’s got a little mirror out, checking her eyeliner.

Scott says, Go ahead, Cat, using my nickname, which just solidifies the feeling that we’re friends already. I start to read and luckily my voice comes out loud enough, when the messengers came to Delphi, the Pythia declared that she would give no oracle to them until they rebuilt the temple of Athena.

Who’s the Pythia again? Scott asks.

It’s the priestess, I say.

So she’s the priestess of the oracle, Scott says. And she tells this king that she won’t speak to him. What’s to stop him from burning down the Temple at Delphi like he burned down the temple of Athena?

Let’s just keep reading, Emma says, closing her mirror. We need to finish or it’ll be homework.

Scott ignores her. So, there’s basically this one woman standing up in the face of an entire army, he says. How brave is that?

And I imagine the Pythia dressed in special robes with vapors coming up all around her. She’s almost in a trance. Maybe that’s part of her protection from the army—her crazy stare, her seeing into a whole other world, because if she’s looking at something that’s not there, it’s like she’s not there either, so she can’t be hurt.

Mr. Mason tells us it’s time to go—the fastest Social Studies ever. Scott and I are jazzed and we head for the door together, leaving Emma behind. I’m dreaming of scenes from our future relationship: walking home after school, lying next to each other on Scott’s bed holding hands, talking on the phone about centaurs and minotaurs. What’s the difference again? I imagine him saying. This is how it happens. One day a boy sits next to you.

As we pass through the doorway, Scott has a question for me. Hey Cat, do you want—

Big Tits! Bobby says loudly. People are around, so I guess he needs to yell to get my attention. I hold my breath.

Scott turns. Shut the fuck up, loser, he says. He takes a step in Bobby’s direction. He’s smaller than Bobby, and almost his opposite: short hair, new clothes, good student. I don’t know if he would win in a fight, but then Bobby hangs his head and it’s done. That’s all it took? I thought it would be the worst thing in the world if anyone ever heard Bobby harassing me, especially Scott. But instead I feel protected.

At the end of the hall, Scott asks, Are you okay?

I feel like I’m in a movie where I’ve just been rescued by my hero. I nod and smile at him. But Scott looks down at the gray tiles, embarrassed, and I can see he’s thinking about it: Big tits.

How was school? my mother asks.

I’m doing my homework on the kitchen table, and she’s standing next to me, her hands in a metal bowl, as she breaks up hamburger meat.

Okay.

Just okay?

It was fine, I say.

She waits for me to say more, but I don’t.

Well, you’re so smart, she says. I just can’t get over how easily everything comes to you. She’s said that a million times, and it’s starting to get annoying.

There’s a kid, I tell her, He teases me in the halls, even though tease isn’t the right word.

He probably likes you, she says.

No, he doesn’t like me. It’s not like that. 

She smiles. You’re growing up, she says, happily shaping the meat into a patty, lost in her little fantasy.

She sees me in some other era, where girls grow up and boys show their interest. I picture naive, adult-looking kids in 50’s era clothing—long socks and cheerleading outfits, high ponytails and lots of giggling. The boys carry the girls’ books and ask the girls to ‘go steady.’ Maybe that kind of thing could happen for Scott Martin with some other girl, but not with me. I’m already tainted in his mind. That whole possibility is gone.

And then there’s Bobby. He’s not interested. He wants to make me feel like a slug. He wants to pour salt on my body and watch me melt into the floor.

Back in English class, Ms. Soto’s talking about the Greek gods and not talking about them too.

You guys probably know this stuff already, she says, but we need to go over the Greek pantheon.

I’m not sure why she thinks we know it. Who knows it? I look around, and I guess it’s Dave she’s talking about. He’s always bragging about the stuff his Dad tells him at night while the rest of us are watching Charlie’s Angels or playing Atari. I’ve been waiting for years for some teacher to get into the Greek gods, and who else is going to tell us if not Ms. Soto?

Ms. Soto takes the gods one by one, like she did last week with the monsters.

Of course you’ve all heard of Zeus, she says. Kids call out, Yeahs, and me too, because I know he’s the father of the gods. But I didn’t know anything about the thunder and lightning, or about him marrying his sister. Ms. Soto says it’s fine for them, because they’re gods, but it’s hard to feel okay about it.

Next she brings up Apollo. He’s the god of both sickness and health, which I don’t really get. Then Ms. Soto says, And that seems like a contradiction, but if you think about it, aren’t sickness and health two sides of the same coin?

It sounds cool when she says it like that, but I would have said that they’re opposites, and how are opposites the same? My older sister told me that high school’s when they explain how everything you learned before isn’t really right. Maybe opposites being the same is a hint of what’s to come.  And maybe it’s not clever or true, maybe it’s just wrong, as in, He teases you because he likes you.

Ms. Soto goes on and the more she tells us, the worse these gods seem. They turn humans into animals or even trees, whenever they feel like it. I’m starting to see why Ms. Soto was reluctant to start in on this stuff. It’s horrible. She has pictures of the gods up on the board. They’re marble statues and they look so serene, like good parents for all humanity, but the actual fact is: These gods were monsters.

Then she gets to Athena. She’s the goddess of wisdom so I think maybe she’s better than the rest of them. Maybe she wouldn’t turn anyone into a cow for no good reason. But it turns out she would. She was the one, Ms. Soto says, who changed Medusa from a beautiful woman into a hideous monster with snakes for hair. And she made it so that anyone who looked at Medusa would turn to stone. Petrified, Ms. Soto says, from the Greek word for stone. I thought petrified was afraid, but now I guess it means so afraid you can’t move.

Athena did the horrible transformation out of jealousy, because the girl had gorgeous hair. And when it all went down, Medusa was a teenager who didn’t know that her whole life was about to change. She must have been petrified when the goddess came at her in a fury. I picture it happening in the second floor hallway, near my locker. The goddess, huge and glowing, and Medusa not understanding why she was the one picked out for victimhood. Maybe she didn’t know how stunning her hair was, and even if she did, it was something beyond her control. Medusa was young too. She probably hadn’t had a boyfriend yet. She was just at that point when boys were starting to notice her, but Athena noticed her more, or cared more about that hair. She saw the power in it—how it could attract men and maybe even gods. So she turned Medusa into a hideous monster, and that lovely hair into snakes. After that, if anyone looked at Medusa they’d turn to stone. No one would ever love her again. I feel rattled, a tingling in my fingers.

And the gorgoneion? Dave says in that way he has of steering the lesson to suit himself.

Ms. Soto hesitates. Either she doesn’t understand him, or else she’s not sure the rest of us fools will be able to catch his drift.

What do you mean? she says finally. She’s biting her lip and you can see her patience, as she waits for him to make his point. All those times when Ms. Soto seemed interested in his ideas, maybe that was just her being the teacher. In other words, even though Dave is the smartest kid in the class, maybe she doesn’t really like him.

He says, I mean that the Gorgoneion is an apotropaic amulet that Athena wears.

And you know this is what he really wanted to do all along, to say: Apotropaic amulet, because apparently just saying gorgoneion wasn’t enough for him.

Ms. Soto knows what he’s talking about—thank God–because it would just suck if Dave were as smart as he thinks he is. Do you see this little face here on Athena’s sash? That’s Medusa. Ms. Soto is pointing to the statue. Most of the time when you see a picture of Athena in art, the goddess is wearing this Medusa face. Gorgoneion is another name for it.

Why does she wear it? Denise asks.

Is it, like, a trophy? I say. For conquering Medusa.

That’s a good theory, Ms. Soto says, throwing me a bone.

It’s to ward off evil, Dave says, even though no one called on him.

Ms. Soto nods. That’s right, she says. It’s for protection.

For protection? That doesn’t seem fair, to turn Medusa into a monster, and then use her face as a shield. Why would Athena even need protection, when she’s already so powerful? Plus, you would think that Athena would feel shame at what she did to Medusa, that she’d want to get away from her crime. But she doesn’t. It’s like she’s proud of her power.

I'm alone when I find the black and white marbled notebook bound in cloth, sitting almost exactly in the middle of the hallway. It’s Bobby's. And it’s everything. He didn’t follow Mr. Mason’s advice of a single subject notebook, one for each class. Instead, he’s got every subject right here in one book—an omnibus to use Ms. Soto’s vocab word. It’s English, Social Studies, Science and whatever math he does. Not algebra. I know that because every day after fifteen minutes of homeroom Bobby leaves the class to go to some other math class before Mr. Marchesi starts the algebra lesson.

At home, I drop the notebook onto the kitchen table. Bobby wrote his full name: Robert Gattone in calligraphy on the front. He spent time on it too. It’s pretty well done; in fact it’s very well done.

I don’t want to know more about Bobby, but I open the book like it’s my job: Know thy enemy.

My mother looks over from peeling a potato onto a plate. What’s that? she asks.    She has to see that it’s not mine.

Nothing.

She pauses with her lips pursed.

I can’t say it’s mine and I can’t say it’s Bobby’s.

It’s just an old notebook.

She decides not to press it. When you’re a good kid, people don’t ask too many questions.

I open the notebook, and inside are all the things we’ve studied this year. Herodotus: Asked why, Bobby wrote, and the whole book is like that. Decent notes on everything we’ve done, and everything we’ll need for our final exams. In between are all these drawings. It’s like an illuminated manuscript with elves and warriors popping out of the margins. Fantasy moonscapes take up entire pages. Every page has some intricate, detailed drawing, and they’re all really, really good.

Somehow it makes everything worse that Bobby’s a great artist. If he’s going to make me feel horrible, then I should get to be smarter than him, a better student, more popular and more talented in art. But that’s not how it is. Apparently, Bobby, like the Persians in Herodotus, is capable of ‘great deeds.’

But then maybe your enemy doesn’t have to be a total loser. Maybe he could have strengths, and you could pit your strengths against his and try to win. Maybe it’s not even about the Greeks being better than the Persians in any way, it’s just about beating the Persians back. And Herodotus recorded it all. He was okay with the Persians doing some great things, he even wrote about it, but he was still a Greek, and he still wanted to win.

The last section of the notebook is English class, and Bobby’s written the names of all the Greek gods: Zeus, Hera, Athena, with a brief description after each one. For Zeus, he’s written: King and there’s a thunderbolt in 3D through the god’s name. For Hera, there’s a note: Jealous. Gets revenge. For Athena, he put: smartest. Good at strategies in war. And after going through his notebook, I have to admit two things about Bobby. The kid’s got serious talent in art and he’s also not a bad student. Even though he always sits in the back of the classroom, he’s been there all along, listening, soaking up the knowledge. He’s really not the person I thought he was at all. He cares about school. I start to feel sorry for him, his problems with his father, his lack of funds for school supplies. Maybe Bobby could go to art school, could get away from his dad and have a good life. And part of me hopes that will happen for him, but knowing he’s an artist, when he’s not trying to squish me under his shoe, doesn’t alter things between us. It doesn’t change how he makes me feel like I’m nothing. What’s changed is the way I see him. He’s not my bully; he’s my enemy. And since he actually cares about school, he’s going to want his notebook back.

The next day, I’m in the hall with Denise when I spot Bobby. He’s hunched in on himself. He doesn’t notice me for a change.

Hey, Bobby, I call out. Where’s your notebook?

He turns, shocked. Denise is pretty surprised, too, and I can’t believe how easy it is to taunt him, how good it feels to hear my own voice loud in the hallway.

Do you know? he asks, and he definitely cares. He’s sweating over his lost notebook. I’ve never seen him act like a normal person. I didn’t think he could ask a question, even one as simple as Do you know? He never speaks in class, and in the hallway, his phrases are limited. It’s like he's learned English from a Playboy magazine, and he’s only seen two pages. Or maybe one. All he ever says is: big tits. But now, under duress, he’s getting some grammar together.

Do you have it? he asks.

Seeing him so worried softens me a bit, makes me want to revert to my usual nice girl default and give him his notebook. After that simple, generous action, everything could change between us. Whenever we’d see each other in the halls we’d say ‘hey’ and we’d get along great. Not only him and me, but Scott and Denise and Emma too. And sometimes we’d hang out together on the front steps. Bobby would show us his new drawings, and we’d talk about the Pythia, the Greek Gods, or whatever came to mind. We’d be a little group of friends, a clique.

Give it back, bitch!

The word feels like a slap. It’s not my name, but it’s better than Big Tits, fiercer.

Thank you, I say. I grace him with a tiny evil princess smile.

Do you have it? Denise whispers, as we round the corner.

Maybe, I say coyly. I’m giddy.

She gives me a steady look. Cat?

Yes. Okay? I have it.

You should give it back to him.

I take a moment to imagine that. Me handing the notebook to him and Bobby sneering. Thanks, Big Tits.

You have to give it back, Cat!

No way!

Denise’s eyes open wide.

Look, I tell her. This thing is like an amulet.

A what?

It’s my protection.

Denise looks worried. And if she’s thinking I’m a nice girl turning evil, she might be right, because I do feel wicked, or at least different. I’m unafraid for the first time in months, maybe ever. I feel physically larger, like my legs could take this hallway in one stride, like I might not fit through the classroom doorway.

You’ll get in trouble, Denise says.

Not likely.

And now, Denise has her hand on her lips. She’s obviously not done trying to convince me. She’ll say something else, once she figures out what, but I’m thinking about the last page of Bobby’s notebook and the Medusa picture he drew there.

Bobby went all out for that one, used colored pens and everything. He made Medusa gorgeous and sprawled her across two pages, centerfold style. And maybe that was Bobby’s intention, to make her into a sex object. But she’s not that. Her top half’s a woman, with snakes framing her perfect, chiseled face. Then at the hips, her body morphs into a gigantic snake that coils around behind her and whips into the background.

She’s a warrior too, with an arrow nocked to her bow, aimed at her enemy. Apparently, this Medusa doesn’t just rely on her petrifying face.

And then there’s her body, the top womanly half. She’s got huge, round breasts, just like mine, except they’re not hidden under layers of T-shirts. Instead they’re striking in their bronzed bra, right in the center of the page where everyone can see them. Medusa’s not making any apologies. In fact, she’s about to take someone out.

 ———————-

*The italicized phrases in the second social studies class section are quotes from The History, by Herodotus, trans. David Grene, The Univ. of Chicago Press, Chicago, 1987.