Farts, farts, farts, was all Albert heard. That was all he heard for a long time. And still it was a whole lot better than Albert. Farts wasn't just a name, it was a badge, it was a title, it was a status, it was an honor. At Abraham Lincoln Junior High School in Illinois you were just a number. No one knew your name-- or even had time to ask you your name--, or cared. You were just a student. If you weren't the smartest, or biggest, or meanest, or dumbest, or ugliest, then you were nothing.

Farts tried hard to be someone. He had tried to be the smartest, but Brenda Steinfeld was a brain above all brains. He had tried out for football, but one tackle from Todd Wilinski and he knew it was either quit or die. The newspaper would only take honor students' work. The chorus only took guys who could sing. What was he to do? All that was left was stamp club! UGH !

Then one day, he was out back with his best friend Scotty, and he farted. I mean he really farted. Poor Scotty almost fainted from the smell. Scotty said, through gales of laughter, "You got a real talent there, man." That was the beginning of it all; the beginning of not being a number anymore. He could make his mark on Abraham Lincoln Junior High School. He could be important!

With a little practice he got his talent down to a real art form. He let one loose in old Mr. Carne's class, as Mr. Carne started his talk on dangling participles. The class broke up. The cute girl next to him squealed and soon the whole class was gasping for air. The person who used to be nameless rescued the whole class from dangling participles. The new power he had at his disposal was amazing. Who could punish a person for doing something so natural?

The problem was that Grandpa wouldn't understand. He was raised when teachers were Gods. If a teacher said you were "disruptive," that was like saying you had AIDS. How would Grandpa know the thrill of hearing the cute girl in English say "Hi" to you in the hall? How could Grandpa know what it was like to have people yell out your name in assembly when the principal was droning on and on? Grandpa had come to this country from Wales and went to night school so he could finish high school. He worked in the steel mill for 40 years. He met Grandma in church and they even paid cash for their house. He was retired. He read the paper, watched TV, bugged the family, and went to church. His whole life he was a straight arrow. He never had anyone yell out his name in assembly. He never knew the excitement of being somebody.

Now it was all coming unraveled. Albert had to see the guidance counselor and Grandpa. He didn't care a fig what the guidance counselor thought of him, student number #24356, but he cared very much what Grandpa thought. He would never do anything to hurt his Grandpa.

Walking down the hall was like walking to his own stoning. The hall was long and smacked of institutional paint and nameless people. He wished it would go on forever. He wished he could die before he opened the door to the office. This would be the last time he could fart, ever. This would be the end of his name and the reissuing of old number #24356. Maybe the cute girl in English was #24357? He knew that couldn't happen. He had to quit dreaming and face reality. He had had his time in glory. It was gone. Over.

He opened the huge institutional gray metal door and walked into the reception area. The secretary told him to take a seat. He sat down on one of the metal and plastic chairs, that are like all the other metal and plastic chairs in the world--see one seen 'em all.

The speckled gray and tan tile on the floor under his feet looked generic. The secretary, in a gray dress, typing into a tan computer and putting cards of student's numbers into a gray filing cabinet, looked generic. He too, would soon become just a card, a number, #24356. Albert felt as if he were being digested and reprogramed into another member of the neutral nameless herds in the school. He longed to jump up on the secretary's desk and fart one very last time. Maybe he would be thrown out of school, but he'd go out farting.

A buzzer squawked, announcing that his stoning was about to begin.

He opened the door with 'Guidance Counselor'� painted in black block letters on the half glass, and wished he could decompose. There was Grandpa, sitting in his best suit and holding his hat.

He smiled when Albert entered. The guidance counselor was not smiling. She looked as though she was gasping for air.

She was!

The place stank. Grandpa had farted!

He greeted Albert and continued to talk with the woman about how hard Albert worked on homework, and how proud he was of Albert. He even told her that he planned to send Albert to college. "He'll be the first one in our whole family to go," Grandpa said proudly. The woman smiled weakly as she fanned herself with a tissue. The whole time Grandpa talked, he farted, and after each blow-out he said a quick, "I am so sorry." He talked on and on. He farted on and on. Even Albert was finding it hard to breathe in the tiny windowless office. Albert had never seen Grandpa like this before. He never knew that Grandpa could fart on cue.

After school Grandpa and Albert had a long talk about farting and school and teachers and stuff. They talked as they made their favorite after school snack--grilled cheese sandwiches and broccoli, with peanut butter and jelly crackers for desert. They talked about having a dream and working toward their dream. Grandpa had had a dream a long time ago, a dream to come to America and start his own family.

Albert decided that maybe he could go on to develop other talents. He really could go to college. He could become somebody. He could have a dream, like his Grandpa, maybe go just as far. Grandpa did understand!

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