Matt Wallace has a Problem

She sits in the shade of the oak tree. A breeze does not disturb her curls and is just as gentle and delicate as her hands, turning a page of a cloth, hardcover book that makes her smile, and when she finishes the last sentence, that silence is beyond the hills, and the birds chirp, and the bees buzz. Dandelions sway under an eternal noon.

That is how Manuel describes the painting he found before the lunch bell rang. Phillipe smiles.

"Is there a carrot up your ass?.. How old do you think it is?"

"Probably a hundred years," said Manuel.

"Does that make us rich?"

"Us? What about me finding this makes 'us' rich? Are you cuckoo-cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, you fucking rabbit? Ms. Zaggler is pointing at her watch."

"Ms. Zaggler is about to be Mrs. Coke."

"I heard. Who told you?"

"Your mom."

"Your mom."

Phillipe and Manual have known each other since Matt Wallace crapped his pants in the first grade, which is ancient history when you're twelve, but they still bring it up at the sight of any small resemblance.

"Looks like Matt Wallace crapped all over that painting. Hey, Matt! You shit your pants on this thing?"

Manuel hides his coveted possession behind his back, as if that will prevent any arms from reaching around his thin, pre-pubescent body. Matt Wallace glances at them as he heads to the door, proud to be the first one inside the classroom.

"Matt Wallace may have crapped on it, but it's also older than that dumb ass and is going to make me rich."

"Rich? That pile of shit?"

"You just wanted in on this pile of shit."

Phillipe points to the whistle-blowing teacher.

"They do. You know how much a teacher makes a year? About as much as Matt Wallace's mom spends on underwear every year. I don't need that shit to get rich. Look what I found."

And from his pocket, Phillipe produces a closed, golden locket that achieves the desired effect, creating silence where there is sound and directing all attention away from the painting. Manuel tries to snatch it, but Phillipe is taller and dangles the golden treasure over his friend's head, taking the greatest pleasure in a tormented currency.

"Where’d you find it?"

“Wouldn't you like to know?"

"Yes, I would, ass. That's why I asked."

He jumps, but Phillipe raises his hand higher.

"Careful, you almost dropped your painting."

"My what?"

"Ha! Rich, my ass. I'm the rich one, now. This is made of gold."

"What’s in it?"

"Certainly no eternal noon or ladies reading under trees. I loved the eloquent way you describe your supposedly found treasures… Maybe it's a little painting of Matt Wallace's skid-row undies?"

"Maybe," says Manuel. "But maybe it's just as valuable as my painting."

Phillipe's view cuts the air. His blue eyes dart to their darker counterparts. A corner of the painting dangles between Manuel's legs. Ms. Zaggler's whistle is as loud as her voice that calls them. They are forced inside, against their will, the last to reach their desks. Manuel still has the painting, but the golden locket is in Philippe's locker, nestled between a quarter and a rotting apple core in his pocket. This is not by design, nor is the fact that Matt Wallace's assigned seat is nestled between short, dark Manuel and tall, lanky blonde Phillipe.

Ms. Zaggler tosses her neon windbreaker onto her desk. Her quick entry into the warm classroom causes water to drip from her jacket onto the two rascals' unfinished homework, prompting an eye roll and a deep breath before she regains her composure and searches for them, who kept her outside longer than necessary.

"Matthew, what is that behind your seat?"

"What?"

Manuel is the only one in class who is not surprised. He has placed it there for safekeeping. Phillip nods and smiles.

"Um?"

"Um, what, Mister?"

"Looks like a painting, Ms. Coke."

"Zaggler."

"Mrs. Zaggler, looks like there is a painting behind my chair."

"Is it yours?"

"No."

"Then why is it behind you?"

Matthew scratches the scar down the center of his shaved head, having just returned from having a tumor removed from his brain.

"I don't know. I've never seen it before, but it's beautiful."

Phillipe and Manuel laugh. Mrs. Zaggler's eyes dart between them.

"What’s so funny?"

Phillipe covers his mouth with one hand and raises the other.

“Yes?"

“He said it was beautiful, haha."

Her hands finally go where they have gone a thousand, perhaps a million times before, believes Manuel, to her hips.

"That’s it. You two, up here."

"But what did I do?" asks Maunel.

"You’re guilty of what you're doing."

"But what did I do?"

"You’re laughing, which I can safely assume you are part of whatever charade you and Mr. Zic are up to."

Phillipe raises his hand again.

"Stop doing that," says Mrs. Zaggler.

"Mrs. Zaggler, what's a charade? Is it like the game?"

"Hijinks, a prank, trouble, whatever you and Mr. Garza are up to."

Phillipe raises his hand again.

"Ugh, yes, Mr. Zic?"

"Mrs. Zaggler, I think there is poop on this painting."

The class laughs. Matthew's head feels like a new egg. It feels strange. It feels like something he has never felt before, and it scares him.

"That’s it!" says Mrs. Zaggler. "I'm writing both of you up!"

Maanuel protests as she turns around and pushes aside her windbreaker to grab a pen, but her mind flips. Her concentration, what she is doing; it's all gone. Her windbreaker is light. She searches her coat pockets and cannot find it. "My locket," she whispers, diving into her purse. "My locket."

The class hears what she says. Phillipe turns to Manuel, grinning and nodding over Matt Wallace and his skinny arm that waves like a dandelion at eternal noon, begging, pleading in his healing head to be called on so he can ask to go to the nurse. Manuel looks at the painting. A breeze does not disturb her curls and is just as gentle and delicate as her hands, turning a page of a hardcover book that makes her smile, and when she finishes the last sentence, that silence is beyond the hills, and the birds chirp, and the bees buzz. Matt Wallace and Mrs. Zaggler cry for life. Mrs. Zaggler is turning into Ms. Coke. Matt is turning, literally. Manuel hurries Matt down to the nurse's office without the teacher's approval. The nurse says it's just a migraine and gives him a cup of water and some pills. She and the Principal, Principal Goier, tell Manuel what a good job he has done, and ask why Mrs. Zaggler was unable to help Matt down herself, a question neither of the boys can answer, but when they all return to the classroom, they find Phillipe being embraced by his teacher and smiling.

"I found it in the grass, Mrs. Zaggler, but I didn't know it was yours. I couldn't open it."

"That’s alright, Mr. Zic. It's a picture of."