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                             Therapy [part 2]

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   Stalled in the line awaiting service at the cafeteria, my
   nostrils gingerly picked their way (like detectives at the
   morgue) through the noxious mixture of scents escaping from the
   direction of the kitchen, the array of fleeing aromas yearning
   for the freedom of fresh open air.

   Then I spotted the answer I was looking for. I walked over and
   tapped her on the shoulder. "Nelda, what's the forecast for
   today?"

   She turned to examine me through her bottle-bottom glasses, the
   kind with the thick black frames scientists used to wear in those
   old black-and-white movies. She had a narrow black tie to match.
   "Which variable are you attempting to maximize?" she queried.

   "Um, edibility, I guess."

   Meanwhile, someone passed by, dropping some little slips of paper
   on the pile she had gathered next to her laptop. "Here are some
   more results," they said.

   "Thanks," replied Nelda, still examining me. "Well, not counting
   the specimens I haven't entered yet," she placed her hand on the
   pile of little slips, then clicked a button on her laptop that
   made all the numbers dance around the screen. "We have the
   pizza-balls rated at a mean average of 7/3/10."

   "A 3, eh. Pretty high for edibility I'd say."

   "Heavy chiseling required to break through the outer surface, but
   the inner filling seems to be fairly tasty."

   "The 10 is pretty impressive too."

   "It's provisional, actually. Dimples Brown discovered that the
   usefulness as a projectile was enhanced by moistening a small
   circular region on the surface, causing the pizza-ball to explode
   on impact. While creating a spectacular effect. . ." she gestured
   at a tomato-sauce-splattered wall in the corner of the cafeteria,
   ". . .however, pending the injunction passed by Mrs.
   Pennywhistle, further testing has been severely limited."

   A kid I had never seen before sat across from Nelda looking
   baffled. "What on earth are you guys talking about?"

   Nelda fired back like lightning: "The triple-rating refers to
   three aspects of the food item: visual gross-out factor,
   edibility, and suitability as projectile. We collect results from
   multiple participants in real time, computing a running average
   as data-entry progresses."

   Before I met Nelda, I had never met a girl who wore a white
   cotton dress shirt every day, its left pocket filled with pens
   and mechanical pencils guarded by plastic pocket-protector. Every
   day. Her long chestnut curls (held in check neatly by a hairband
   decorated with logarithmic slide-rule scales) plus the hideously
   gaudy skirts and bright red flashing-LED athletic shoes completed
   the incongruous ensemble, an assortment of individually horrible
   stylistic options which she put together in a way that somehow
   managed to wind up being irresistibly cute.

   "Thanks a million, Nelda!" I called back gratefully as I resumed
   my place in line.

   "Any time, Orion," she grinned back at me.

   Next to me I saw a couple of school bullies gawking at her. I
   didn't know either of their names, but recognized both from the
   football team. "Look at the little 4-eyed nerd," leered one of
   them. "She could make a million dollars by recycling all that
   glass in her glasses." He chortled with delight the cleverness of
   his words.

   As the bullies started to walk over in her direction, Mr. Farnes,
   the P.E. teacher, appeared behind them. "Hey boys, I got a riddle
   for you. What do you call those nerdy kids in high school twenty
   years from now?"

   The bullies were stumped (a common occurrence) especially because
   it wasn't a situation where they could use their fists to answer
   the question as they customarily did. Finally one of them said,
   "I don't know. What?"

   "Boss."

   They both started with raucous laughter. "Good one Coach. Funny
   joke."

   "Joke," said Mr. Farnes. "Right."

   At this point, Ms. Fenwick, the School Principal, happened to
   stroll by. Mr. Farnes winced visibly as she threw a withering
   gaze in their direction. "Ah Mr. Farnes," she inquired
   condescendingly. "Keeping the rowdies in check, I see?"

   "Yes, Ms. Fenwick," he muttered obediently.

   "Good work. Ah, and what an industrious young lady." She placed
   an approving hand on Nelda's shoulder. "It's so good to see
   students so dedicated to their schoolwork."

   "Um, thank you ma'am," murmured Nelda, blushing.

   As Ms. Fenwick walked off, one of the bullies smacked his fist
   into his palm. Mr. Farnes cleared his throat audibly. "Say, I
   think it's time you boys helped me move out the blocking sleds
   out for practice this afternoon."

   "Gee Mr. Farnes, I was kinda busy actually, and. . ."

   "You want to play in the game on Saturday?"

   "Aww, Coach. You wouldn't."

   "Yes, I would. Now, move it. Pronto!"

   The gloomy atmosphere lifted as Mr. Farnes ushered the downcast
   bullies out of the room.

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