Here is Altan Zayd, 16 years old, real name Ezra Zaïd--he has forsaken his birth-name in protest of the circumstances of his birth and upbringing, which he still hasn’t quite gotten proper consolation for. He is wearing a military jacket with his last name on it, his born name, anyway--he just shakes his head whenever asked why. Right now, he is leaving school through the staircase in the back of the cafeteria, the entrance of which didn’t have a proper guard today, only Eddy. There would have been a guitar on his back at this moment if he hadn’t left home in a hurry, only to ditch school at this time. He is followed by two bassists and an egoist. One of the bassists does not even attend this school: again, Eddy’s fault, not the bassist’s. Lunch is now dismissed, and hordes of students leave the cafeteria through all openings: Altan and his three followers hurry up, just ineffectively enough to allow a few freshman to catch a glimpse of the group heading down the stairs.

	-- You go, Altan!

Acknowledgment is not given until the group reaches the first floor, averts the real security guards by way of the peripheral exit, and dashes around the corner.

	-- Yeah, I go. We all go. Let’s go get out of here.

A soft chuckle comes from the egoist, followed by piercing stares from the two bassists. The egoist is 15 years old, to turn 16 in six months. His name is Kenichi Takahata, a name that has done him far more harm than good--ever since kindergarten, it has been misread and mispronounced as thousands of other names, from Benny to Kenny to Bennecke, in response to which Takahata, Japanese in descent only, never fails to quite dishonorably squints his eyes, bow deeply, and let out a strong, exaggerated pronouncement of

	-- HAI!

which instantly dispels any confusion over either his name or personality. At this moment, under the bassists’ stares, Takahata feels his ego being battered down, so he coldly ripostes with

	-- Let’s not waste any time here.

the commanding yet faintly hesitant tone of which instantly dispels any confusion over whether or not Takahata acts any differently outside of school. Altan briefly shakes his head and nudges one of the bassists, his longtime friend Levi Hubrecht, age 16, in the shoulder. The two of them make a sharp turn into a deli, Levi calling out

	-- Aight, we’ll just be a second, yeah?

The other two follow anyway.

*

that band was fucking wack man
they listen to some wack ass music and wanna make their own. any fuckin white boy in the citys gonna do that. you know? list their shitty little ep on shitty little sites with shitty little concerts everywhere popping up them always in the listings. yo theyd be a lot better if they were actually influenced by what they say they are
and now that they got a new name the last good parts gone. sounds like a fucking cover band now
they got the old name from me man shit the name wasnt even a good joke to begin with

*

	Here is Altan Zayd again, with the same two bassists and one opportunist, a new follower, having left the deli somewhere between ten and twenty minutes ago, now a good five blocks from the school. They are sitting in what was once a vacant lot, now converted to a very small public park, no larger than the average lower Manhattan apartment. The signpost in front welcomes visitors to Ariadna Kozlowski Memorial Park, while Altan and his present company refer to it as Weed Park. The two visions are not mutually exclusive. The opportunist, age 15 as of last week, is carrying a skateboard with JULIUS LOPEZ, his name, spraypainted on the bottom, with a little skull and crossbones and a triple-X added for good measure. His mousy expression, darting eyes and slight hunch might provoke a tinge of pathos ten blocks down, but in this area, everybody knows exactly what school he belongs to and how to react. His teeth chatter slightly, prompting a bemused stare from Levi. He follows this unwarranted movement of the jaw with another, saying

	-- Ay, there was this freshman today and

He pauses, quickly looking to his left and right like a kindergartener crossing the street, realizing that his status as a freshman gives him no right to use the word as a diminutive label. He makes no attempt to retroactively correct this error.

	-- There was this freshman here today, and I was all like

He pauses yet again.

	-- I was all like, yo, I left my dick at home today... And he believed it and all, y’know? He was like--okay.

All those present pause, as if to mock Julius’ mannerisms, before bursting into collective laughter.

	-- Dude, that does not mean that he believed it.

	-- This kid funny, yo. “I left my dick at home today...” Yo, this kid funny.

	-- I mean, I got six dicks in jars in my closet here, I don’t carry ‘em around, but I still got that special one, y’know, that one lucky dick that I keep with me at all times, y’feel?

	-- Shut up.

	-- Ayy, calm down.

Julius breathes an incredibly loud sigh of relief which is mistaken for a verbal tick, prompting further laughter.

*

	When some kids decide to leave school early, it’s not Ms. Sabina’s fault: students aren’t exactly expected to do well, anyway. The school’s most cherished alumni were all dropouts and delinquents in their days. Perhaps there are a few alumni out there who, in their times, attended school every day, got straight A’s, graduated, and went on to do fairly well in a conventional field, but they certainly keep quiet about it if they exist at all. The purpose of this school is to make it easy to skip class and do whatever one pleases--this, not any collection of angsty, uninspired paintings in the entrance, is what makes it an art school. When a musically inclined group is badgered for cutting school today, who’s to say that they won’t be the pride of the school tomorrow? It’s happened before. In any case, it’s far more likely to happen for the delinquents than for the few cherished straight-A children: if they think they’re going from Strauss School for the Arts to Harvard, they’re in for a nasty surprise. Going after the “losers” just isn’t worth the work here, and might even do more harm than good.

Of course, this philosophy can only go so far. Ms. Sabina will turn a blind eye to bored kids cutting classes, even her own, but she won’t have her intelligence or competence insulted. Her attitude towards her students is that of salutary neglect, but at the end of the day, she does have job to do. So when she recognizes two of her students and some weirdo darting out of a deli during fifth period, she’ll do all parties involved a favor and forget about it. But when a self-righteous little creep from her ninth period class tries to get away by approaching her, making small talk, and somehow feigning innocence, she’ll make it known that she’s no idiot and shoot a quick jab at the boy’s slightly over-inflated self-image before dragging him back to school. He deserves what’s coming to him.

*

	-- Altan Zayd--Ezra on your records--approached me and told me that he and his friends were leaving the school, telling me to come along... I felt bad about it, sure... I didn’t know if I really wanted to go through with it, actually, but by then we were already down the stairs... I know that’s no excuse, and I am prepared to face the consequences... Rest assured that it won’t happen again.

I told them what they needed to hear, really--definitely not more. They fucked me over anyway, no big speech or such, just
	-- We expected more from you.


*

	-- Ayy, there a tourist in weed park!

	-- Came all the way just to light up!

	-- Aye! Ayyy! Yo! Y’enjoying the sights!

	-- Heh... but is he the... tour-est tourist?

	-- Shut up, shut up... Aye! Yo trynna cop!

	-- Hey! Are you my mother?

	-- ... He gone, man, he gone... PfffakkhHHHaha ha ha HA... hnghhh... Nice fucking jacket, yo! You trynna bring that style to the Big Fckkn’ Apple?

	-- Straight outta Hartford... He straight outta Hartford... pfffftthhHHahhahhaAhhaaa... Hartford Club! That’s rich!

	-- Yo, I almost want that jacket. Hartford Club!

	-- Arson Club?

	-- ...

	-- ...
...
... Yeah, yo, Arson Club.

*

Arson Club played their first show on 14 July 2012.