As I slid the notebook back into my pocket I realized we were missing our teacher. Even stranger, the blackboard was blank. Health class with Bud Corcoran never varied. For the first half hour we copied the meaningless notes covering the blackboard while Corcoran read the newspaper and drank coffee. For the second half hour Corcoran read the same notes aloud, word for word, while we studied for another class or slept. Most people slept. Our grade was determined by how many pages of notes we took.

I turned around to face Rachel. “Where’s Corcoran?”

“In prison, for impersonating a teacher.”

Rachel loathed the man. I was a little less critical. I was a good note taker, and the class was an easy “A.”

A voice from the back row spoke up. “If Corcoran doesn’t show in one minute, I’m out of here.”

The prospect of starting the day with a free hour perked everyone up. Even the kids who had been slumped across their desks with closed eyes lifted their heads and started watching the clock.

Twenty second left. Ten. The room was silent, as the skinny red had ticked off the remaining seconds.

“Time’s up!”

We all stood and gathered our books, then headed for the exit. Just as we were about to make our escape, the way was blocked by a tall, well-dressed man in his mid-twenties.

The class moaned.

“Fine way to greet your teacher,” he said as we shuffled back to our desks.

Substitute.

I hate substitute days. Either the class rips the sub into tiny pieces, or the sub jump all over the class like a grizzly. Neither is fun to watch. If I want to see carnage and bloodshed, I’ll watch it on the Nature Channel.

The teacher scrawled “Bowman” across the blackboard in wide, relaxed letters, then tossed the tiny chalk stub across the room, where it landed in the wastebasket beneath the pencil sharpener. He lifted himself onto the edge of Corcoran’s desk so that he was sitting directly in front of me.

“I regret to inform you that Mr. Corcoran was involved in a handball accident over the weekend.”

Corcoran played handball? For the past two months I had never seen him move from the padded chair behind his desk. He rewarded students with extra-credit points for bringing him his lunch from the cafeteria.

“Some of you might know me as the new assistant hockey coach, but until your teacher is back on his feet again, I’ll be helping with his class.”

He picked up the thick three-ring folder labeled HEALTHY CHOICES FOR A HEALTHY YOU, which contained all of Corcoran’s master notes. “Let’s see what we’ve got on today’s agenda.”

He turned to the page marked with a bookmark and cleared his throat. “The Importance of Chlorogenic Acid in a Young Person’s Diet.”

Mr. Bowman closed one eye and studied the page. I was the only one close enough to hear what he muttered: “What the hell is ‘chlorogenic acid’?

“Forget that,” he said, snapping the folder shut and hopping off the desk. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves over his muscular arms. He shook open the newspaper he had brought along and turned to the editorial page.

“Fast –Food Franchises Responsible for Rising Obesity.”

Folding his arms across his chest, he studied the class. “True or false?”

Silence.

Well, what did he expect? It was first hour, Monday morning.

Most teachers would rather answer their own questions than listen to silence, but Mr. Bowman just stood there and smiled. It looked like we were in for a very quiet morning.

“True.”

It was Rachel, behind me. She was a vegetarian and thought fast-food restaurants were evil.

“False,” said someone on the other side of the room. Nobody can make you eat anything you don’t want to.”

“Great!” said Mr. Bowman, rubbing his hands together.

“We’ve got two lawyers.” He pointed to the back two rows of the class. “You’re the jury. Everyone else is a witness for one side or the other. Lawyers, you have ten minutes to prepare your cases. Anyone who doesn’t participate stays after school and washes jockstraps for the hockey team.”

The threat of unwashed jockstraps got everyone moving. I was the only witness who volunteered for Rachel’s side, and I was worried she would make me deliver a long speech about the perils of high fat foods. To be honest, a plate of onion rings, a slice of pizza, and a Death by Chocolate donut was my idea of a gourmet meal.

“You won’t have to say a word,” she promised. “I’ll do all the talking.”

She lad me across Corcoran’s desk and referred to me as Exhibit A.

“Observe, if you will, the effects of corporate advertising on a typical American.”

She tapped my forehead with Corcoran’s yardstick. “Brainwashed into believing that the more you eat, the happier you’ll become.”

She tapped my stomach. “Bloated, from a diet of greasy burgers, deep-fried French fries, and sugar-laden soft drinks.”

She tapped my mouth. Voiceless, against the powerful barons of the fast-food industry who rule the television and radio airwaves.”

Despite my preference for the fats and sugars food group, I tend toward the scrawny side, so Rachel had stuffed my shirt with her backpack and some crumpled newspaper from the recycling bin. I let me tongue fall out of my mouth and tried my best to look appropriately unhealthy.

The opposing side’s key witness stood on a desk and stuck a Statue of Liberty pose. He began his rebuttal with, “I am proud to be an American who can eat and sell what-ever food I choose, even if it gives me high blood pressure and kills me before I am thirty.” Surrounding him, the other student placed their hands over their hearts and hummed a medley of fast-food jingles.

Perhaps I was biased, but I though Rachel had made some pretty good points. Even so, the jury ruled against her, 10 to 2. She was protesting the decision and demanding the chance to take the case to a higher court when the bell rang.

“Class dismissed,” said Mr. Bowman, pounding a stapler like gavel. “Everyone gets an “A.”

We streamed out of class, joining the noisy crowd in the hallway making their way to their second hour.

“That was a welcome relief,” said Rachel, stepping around a group of seniors holding an impromptu game of tackle football in the hall.

“But you lost the debate,” I said.

Rachel didn’t look too upset. “At least it kept me awake.” We reached the spot where Rachel and I parted ways until lunch.

“And besides,” she said before she turned the corner, “I think Mr. Bowman is kind of cute.”

She raised her eyebrows and waited from me to respond.

Cute?

Was Mr. Bowman cute?

Sure, he had thick black hair that was slightly mussed, as if he had just stepped out of a convertible. And true, he dressed in sharp-looking clothes that showed off his bodybuilder’s physique. And yes, when he smiled, his sky blue eyes smiled as well, making it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

But did I think he was cute

“I didn’t notice,” I said loudly, then quickly headed off to geometry.