“You　all　look　so

handsome！”

Not　one　word　about　our　baskets。　Not　one　little　sneak　peek　inside。　No；　for　all　she　cared；　those

puppies　were　empty。

Meat　market？

You　better　believe　it！

“Don't　be　so　nervous；　boys；”　Mrs。　McClure　was　saying。　“You're　going　to　have　a　wonderful

day！”　She　pulls　out　a　list　of　names　and　starts　ordering

us　into　line。　We　get　numbers；　our　baskets　get　numbers；　we　fill　out　three…by…five　cards　to　her

insane　specifications；　and　by　the　time　she's　got　us　all

organized　and　is　sure　we　know　what　to　do　and　what　not　to　do；　we've　missed　all　of　first　and

most　of　second　period。　“Okay；　gentlemen；”　she　says。

“Leave　your　baskets　where　they　are　and　go　to…　where　are　we　now？　Still　in　second？”　She

looks　at　the　clock。　“Right。　Second。”

“What　about　passes？”　some　sensible　basket　boy　asked。

“Your　teachers　have　a　list。　But　if　they　say　anything；　tell　them　I　say　your　neckties　are　your

passes。　I'll　meet　you　back　here　when　everyone's

dismissed　for　the　auction。　Got　it？　Don't　dawdle！”

We　grumbled；　Yeah；　yeah；　and　headed　to　class。　And　I　can　tell　you　this；　not　one　of　the　twenty

of　us　listened　to　a　word　any　of　our　teachers　said　that

morning。　How　can　you　listen　with　a　noose　around　your　neck；　pinched　toes；　and　a　room　full　of

idiots　thinking　it's　open　season　on　basket　boys？

Whoever　started　this　stupid　tradition　ought　to　be　crammed　into　a　basket　a