"For those about to Rock, WE SALUTE YOU!"

“Time’s Up!” the proctor called.

The thing was over, and the cafeteria full of students released a collective sigh of relief. The sound of zippers sliding and chair legs scraping against the floor resonated as the large room came back to life. Cell phones snapped on a with a variety of musical pings as students furiously resumed their lives in cyber space, anxious to return to the realm of social media after three hours of technological abstinence.

“What’d you think?” Harry asked, his high-pitched voice strained in feigned anxiety.

“It was alright, I guess,” hummed Patricia, adjusting her hair for the umpteenth time as the two exited into the hallway.  Her dreadlocks were her pride and joy, and she went out of her way to give them proper attention. She had not been given many physical gifts, and so she was over zealously vain about the one luminous feature she possessed.

“I think I bombed it,” Harry squeaked unctuously, hanging his head in a studied look of shame. Patricia had learned long ago not to take Harry seriously when it came to academics. The boy had scored the highest on every exam he had ever taken, and was the top student in their class.

“Shut up Harry,” she said, not unkindly, as she dropped her writing supplies in her locker on the first floor of Goode Dale High School.

“No Pat, I’m tell you, I’m finished! That question about feminism was so HARD!”

Pat believed that Harry’s method of coping with the fact that most saw him as hopelessly dweebish was to pretend that things like simple arithmetic and spelling sight words were tantamount to calculus and literary analysis of arcane medieval texts. The problem, thought Pat, was that rather than coming off as endearing, he seemed like a braggart.

           

“I mean, I guess I just don’t understand feminism.  Like, one time, I saw a dude tell someone she was beautiful in the super market and she flipped out saying he was being inappropriate! ”

Pat slung her lightened backpack over her shoulder and thrust her headphones over her ears.

“You need a ride?” she asked tiredly.

Harry was wrapped up in thought and continued on, following Pat out into the cool Michigan spring air without replying.

“So, what? If a woman is told she’s gorgeous by a man who doesn’t know her, he’s a pervert? I just feel like that’s so fucked up!”

Pat took out the faab to her ’99 Honda Accord. With a “beeup”, the locks popped open. Harry climbed into the car, truly agitated now. Pat dropped her bag in the backseat, cast aside her headphones and prepared for the short trip home. Snapping on the radio, she extracted a fresh piece of Winter Fresh gum from the glove compartment, handing Harry a piece without saying a word.  The minty flavor always soothed her nerves.

“And what does this outlook on how men and women relate to each other say about the interactions between the two when the man KNOWS the woman?” Harry squealed, as he smacked on his gum.

Patricia decided against listening to the radio, and popped in a CD. The band ACDC sounded on the car’s speakers as she adjusted her perfect hair and straightened the rear-view mirror. She thought about the nap she would surely be taking when she got home.

“I feel like feminism is making it such that nice guys are being lumped in with assholes! Where, like, there’s this sense that if a man comments at all about a woman’s style, or eyes, or intelligence, or hair, or whatever, he’s said to be some sort of degenerate!”  Harry shouted, seemingly oblivious to the pulsing music.

           

“FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK, WE SALUTE YOU,” sang ACDC, as Pat made a left onto Chalfant Drive, the huge mansions of the town’s elite coming into view.

           

“I mean, I just don’t GET it. What do feminists WANT?!” Harry whined.

           

Pat slowed to a stop in front of a beautiful brick house.  She abruptly turned off the music.

           

“Damn it Harry, just say it.”

           

“What?”

           

“Stop beating around the bush, and ask what you wanna ask?”

Harry stared at Pat, his mouth agape.  His eyes betrayed him though; he knew what she was asking.

           

“Get out Harry, you’re home,” Pat said, rolling her eyes and turning away from him.

           

Shrugging, Harry stepped out of the car and shut the door.

           

“Seeya tomorrow,” he called, but Pat had already begun driving away, ACDC blasting.

           

Pat pulled into the driveway of her family’s modest home. With a flick of her hair, she grabbed her backpack. Weariness began to descend over her as she climbed the stairs to the side door, and let herself in. As she settled into her room, something vibrated against her leg. Pulling out her phone, she stared at the text.

           

“Wanna go out with me?” it read.

           

She smiled.