172. There were 172 holes in the ceiling tile above Ray’s head. He counted. This was 12% off from his estimation using a fourth of the panel.
Ray started when the worksheets being handed around made it to his corner seat in the U configuration of desk-chair combinations, the back corner as usual. He gave his neighbor, Yolanda, a questioning look.
“It’s from Ms. Reardon. It’s about making decisions,” she said in a haughty you-should-know voice typical of preteen girls. Ray rolled his eyes, another worksheet from Ms. Reardon the counselor.
He looked it over, noting the vague generalizations, the insipid cartoons, some guy in a car at a fork in the road. Then he spied the trash can near his seat. He looked at the condescending paper in front of him once more, took a firm grip with both hands, ripped it in half, and threw both halves in the trash.
At this point he went back to counting holes in the next panel. That’s when he saw Yolanda’s hand shoot skyward. Tattletale, he thought to himself.