My Cardboard Balcony

by Belinda Roddie Not even the professor could tell where the smell was coming from. Still, the miasma was thick in the room - a complex odor of sweat and cheese and smoke and just the slightest hint of weed. Not good weed, either. My friend Ariana described the cheap stuff as "skunk weed." Either way, it was nauseating. "Dude, it smells like someone's dorm room in here," one of the students quipped, as Professor Turnbull tried futilely once again to seek out the source of the fumes. " Your dorm room," his pal beside him added, snorting as he leaned forward in his chair. "Maybe you're the one stinking up the space." "Take a good sniff of my shirt and say that to me again." "No way, dude. I'm not gay." I was beginning to become dizzy from the smell, which did not make good friends with the sweltering heat of the classroom, considering that the air conditioner was busted. I quietly excused myself and

I followed Eli out of the gymnasium and found him crying against the fence that separated the parking lot from the school. At first, all I could do was listen to him, his sobbing only loud enough for me to hear once I got closer, each wheeze and hiccup like he was emitting another ounce of pain from his body. By the time I sat down next to him, he had quieted somewhat, wiping his eyes with the corner of his jacket.