_HIM is scribbling on the back of his notebook as he is standing by his locker between one class and something else. He is indeed back at high school, but indeed not exactly as himself. Then. If you see what I mean. Question is, does HIM? Upon further reflection, I would like to add that the italic Question Mark in a serif face looks very like a scrunched-up nipple in ready ecstasy._ _ANONYMOUS HIGH SCHOOL FRIEND 1 walks up._ ANON. 1: Hey there, Champ! Whatcha been up to? HIM: Oh, I just turned in my poetry journal. ANON. 1: Do you think she’ll like it? HIM: I don’t know. It doesn’t matter I guess. If she gets it or not, you know. I don’t think you can teach someone to write. You can teach him to do all sorts of other things like a trained monkey, but you can’t teach him to write. _HIM whirls, and grabbing out of his locker a fuckin stogey of a magic marker and a piece of poster board, whips up the following billboard, which he then pastes to a wooden ruler with masking tape, and proceeds to wave about:_ _YOU CAN’T TEACH HIM TO WRITE!_ ANON. 1: Well you know, you have to believe in yourself to be a success, but you don’t have to be a success. _Honey braids whirl as ANONYMOUS HIGH SCHOOL FRIEND 1 careens on down the hall to her next class and_ _her exciting life._ HIM: What the hell was that supposed to mean? _Enter ANONYMOUS HIGH SCHOOL FRIEND 2._ ANON. 2: Hey there, Sport, what’s hangin? HIM: I . . . I don’t know . . . . ANON. 2: Oh my god. You’re bleeding! _CURTAIN._