The Secret Sheriff of Sixth Grade

by Jordan Sonnenblick

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “What, Maverick? I’m not a mind reader.”

  Clearly, I thought. “Mom, he didn’t put the tree together. I did. All he did was come here, put it right between me and the TV, and leave. He wasn’t even polite to me.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Thank you very much for putting the tree together. And for making dinner. You’re really something. But I think you should give Johnny a second chance. Can you do that for me?”

  “Mom,” I said, trying my hardest to keep my voice from breaking. “Please. He hit you!”

  “But I see some good in him, Mav. I hope one day you will understand. People are very complicated, and there’s good in everybody.”

  “Well, I think you’re wrong, Mom, and I’m afraid he’s going to hurt you again. But I meant it when I said I don’t want to fight on Thanksgiving. Thank you for working all day to support me. I love you.”

  Then I stormed off to bed very, very lamely, before the Grinch’s heart even had a chance to grow three sizes. Mine was feeling pretty small, too. I lay there in the dark for a long time, trying to count the number of times Mom got up, walked to the kitchen, and clinked ice cubes into her glass.

  I lost track at four.

  When I was little, I used to come home every day and tell my mom about this kid who always got in trouble in my day care class. It was never anybody else, just this kid with a funny name getting scolded by the teachers again and again. We’d be getting in line for snack time, and I’d hear, “Toggler, we keep our hands to ourselves in the snack line!” Or at lunchtime, I’d hear, “Toggler! That is not how we drink our milk!” During outdoor recess, it was, “Toggler, we wait our turn for the slide! We do not push our friends! We do not throw mulch—EVER!”

  Throwing mulch was a big problem in day care.

  Anyway, the situation really troubled me. I couldn’t figure out who this child was. So I thought, How bad can he be if I can’t even pick him out of the crowd? I mean, there are only, like, six boys in the group, and I haven’t noticed one of them being particularly deranged. Plus, if they can yell at this kid 24-7 now, who’s going to stop them from switching targets and starting in on me next?

  It was enough to turn any three-year-old into a nervous wreck. It’s amazing I didn’t take up smoking or something.

  The problem didn’t stop until one day at dinner, when my mom smacked her forehead and said, “Toddlers!”

  I was like, Say whu-ut?

  She explained, “Your teachers aren’t yelling at a kid named Toggler, Maverick, honey. They’re saying toddlers. That just means kids. They’re talking to all of you at once. It’s like they’re saying, ‘Hey, guys, we don’t throw mulch!’ ”

  I still wasn’t quite sure how I felt about the whole affair, but whatever. My point is that I’ve never liked it when one kid gets singled out and picked on—even when it turned out to be an imaginary kid. But all of a sudden, right after Thanksgiving, a real kid suddenly became the goat of the soccer team.

  Naturally, it had to be Nate. It went on all morning on our first day back, but really came to a head at lunch.

  I didn’t mean to eavesdrop or anything, but when you’re sitting by yourself at lunch next to a group of people who are all yelling about one thing, it’s pretty hard not to catch the main idea.

  I was just sitting there, using the little plastic scraper device to get out the last bit of cheese from the bottom of a pack of cheese and crackers, when the whole thing erupted around me. As Nate came to the table, Bowen growled, “Oh, look, it’s Mr. I-Got-Beat-By-The-Slowest-Kid-On-The-Other-Team.”

  I was like, Wow, that name’s never going to fit on the back of his jersey.

  Nate didn’t say anything back, but Bowen never really noticed stuff like that. “Didn’t you hear me, Nate? I was talking to you.”

  “Yes,” Nate mumbled. “I heard.”

  “Then why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Well, you didn’t ask me anything.”

  I had to admit, he had a point. But Bowen didn’t seem to feel the same way.

  “Oh, so now this is funny? You let that kid through, he scores, and then I have to drive home an hour and a half with my father yelling at me like a maniac about how it’s somehow my fault. I mean, what was I supposed to do about it?”

  “Well, you could have made the save,” Nate said.

  The whole team went, “Ooh . . . ”

  “I could have WHAT?” Bowen thundered. Heads turned. Somehow, the teachers who were supposed to be on lunch duty remained completely oblivious, but the kids were certainly tuned in now.

  “You could have made the save. You know—caught the ball, deflected it, kicked it away? Isn’t that what keepers are supposed to do?”

  Bowen was turning an alarming shade of deep red. “So now it’s my fault? After all I’ve done for you, you’re blaming me because you got burned by a kid who could barely jog across the field?”

  Nate laughed. He actually laughed. Not in a mean way, but in a “This is ridiculous” way. “Bowen,” he said, “I’m not blaming you for anything. You’re blaming me. I’m just pointing out that goalies make saves, not excuses. And you didn’t do anything for me. I noticed your jacket two months ago and asked you about your team. You told me about it, I tried out, and I made the cut. That doesn’t exactly make you my hero.”

  Holy cow. Nate was treating Bowen like he’d treated his mother. I wasn’t sure this was going to end with Bowen offering him ice cream and then scurrying away, though.

  Bowen’s minions were murmuring helpful things like, “Are you going to take that, Bowen?”; “Oh, dang!”; and “Wow, he really told you!” Meanwhile, Bowen’s facial coloration was progressing from crimson through the various shades of violet.

  I was wondering whether I should cover up the last of my lunch to avoid getting blood and teeth sprayed into my food, but the bell rang before actual violence broke out. The whole team clustered together around Nate and Bowen and headed for the hallway as one big, bloblike unit. I figured the battle would happen as soon as they cleared the cafeteria.

  I didn’t know what to do. On the one hand, Nate had betrayed me by joining the soccer team and laughing at me with them. Besides, he was kind of snotty sometimes, like with his mom, and he was definitely spoiled. On the other hand, if he was fighting my enemy, didn’t that put us on the same side?

  Also, I had vowed the night before school started to stand up for anybody smaller than me, and Nate was the only kid around who even came close to fitting that description. So far, my record in the hero department hadn’t been very impressive. In three months, what had I accomplished? I had tried to save Nate, and ended up banging his head against a wall of lockers. Oh, and I had attempted to drive my mom’s evil boyfriend away, but ended up constructing his hideous mutant Christmas tree instead.

  That settled it. I had to take decisive action before it was too late. I packed up my lunch bag and ran out of there to catch up to the back of my class. I didn’t have to run far. They were all clustered in a short, dim corridor around the corner from the cafeteria, where the teachers almost never went. The kids had formed a ring around Bowen and Nate. Bowen had grabbed Nate’s shirt, and was winding up to punch him in the face.

  This was my moment. I had to make it dramatic.

  “UNHAND HIM, FOUL . . . UMM . . . CHEESE TOOL!”

  The circle opened up to clear a path between me and Bowen, who looked puzzled. “Cheese stool?” he asked. “What the heck is a cheese stool?”

  “I said cheese tool. With a t. Not stool, with an s. Cheese tool!”

  “Okay, well, what the heck is a cheese tool, then?”

  That was a fair question. The phrase had just popped into my head.

  Nate spoke up. “Wow, Bowen, you don’t even know what a cheese tool is? You’re dumber than I thought.”

  I was thinking, Shut up. Shut up. This is so not helping! But Nate didn’t get my telepathic message.r />
  “A cheese tool,” Nate said, as though he were lecturing our class on vocabulary terms, “is the little plastic rectangle that comes in a packet of cheese and crackers. You know, the thing you use to spread the orange cheese product. Right, Maverick?”

  Everyone turned and stared at me again, including Bowen. Well, at least he couldn’t kill Nate if he was focused on me.

  “That’s right,” I told him. “That is what a cheese tool is. And, uh, Bowen, you are one!”

  Bowen said, “And how is that an insult, exactly?”

  “What do you mean, how is it an insult? I just called you a cheese tool!”

  “Yeah, but everyone loves that orange cheese product, right? It’s delicious. I would be proud to spread that cheese product onto crackers. Thus, you are, like, the worst insulter ever.”

  The crowd didn’t know what to make of this. Half of the kids seemed to be muttering things like, “ ‘Cheese tool’? What a moron!” But the other half were like, “Dang! Bowen got called a cheese tool!”

  Well, maybe one or two kids were saying, “Oh, man. I wish I had some of that delightful orange cheese product right now!”

  The important thing was that nobody was beating anybody up. Until Nate said, “So, Bowen, are you going to hit me or not? You . . . cheese tool!”

  It was on.

  I stepped forward, trying to come up with a superhero move that would disable Bowen before he could massacre Nate. My odds of success appeared slim.

  But just then, I felt a mighty hand grasp the back of my neck and propel me forward as a scornful voice spoke in my ear. “Personally, I think all three of you are a bunch of cheese tools. Nice insult, by the way.” I turned and caught a glimpse of my assailant’s neck. I was in the iron grip of Jamie Thompson.

  “Thank you,” I squeaked as she shoved me, hard, into Bowen and Nate.

  “You’re going to get our whole class in trouble. Did you ever stop and think of that?”

  I shook my head. I was pretty sure Bowen and Nate must have shaken their heads, too. However, of course Bowen also had to say something.

  “But—”

  Jamie cut him off. “But what? What do you think is going to happen in about two minutes when the late bell rings and none of us are in class? Somebody’s going to call The Bee, and then we’re all going to get in trouble, just because you three boneheads couldn’t control yourselves.”

  “Boneheads?” a deep voice asked. “I thought they were cheese tools.”

  Either Jamie’s time-estimation skills were off, or The Bee was running ahead of schedule.

  If you wanted an illustration for the concept of socially awkward moment, a snapshot of Nate, Bowen, Jamie, and me sitting in a row outside Mr. Overbye’s office would be a pretty good one. Everybody was mad at everybody else, the secretary was giving us all the Evil Eye, and I assumed the other three were as terrified as I was about getting called in to face The Bee, so things were pretty tense in our little lineup.

  “This is all your fault, Nate,” Bowen hissed.

  “My fault? How is it my fault? I was just sitting down, trying to eat a nice ham sandwich on rye, when you started in about Sunday’s game. This is your fault, Bowen!”

  “You are such a cheese tool!” Bowen replied.

  “Aha!” I chimed in. “Now you’re saying it!”

  “Shut up, Maverick!” the other three said to me in perfect unison. Darn.

  “Anyway,” Bowen continued, “it’s your fault because you got burned by that kid, and then my dad got mad at me. And then when I tried to point out to you how much you SUCK—”

  “Language!” barked the secretary.

  “Sorry, ma’am! I mean, how much you stink. You tried to make me look bad in front of my team!”

  “Well, what do you think you were doing to me?”

  “Yeah!” I shouted.

  “Quiet!” the secretary growled.

  “Shut up, Maverick,” everyone else said.

  “And then there’s Jamie,” Bowen went on. “We wouldn’t even be here if she hadn’t started shouting about The Bee. Everybody knows he has, like, super radar powers. You don’t go yelling his name in the hallway. It’s like saying ‘Voldemort’!”

  “Shh!” I hissed. “We do not speak his name!”

  Everyone looked at me like I was an idiot. I thought it had been an amusing bit of Harry Potter humor, but this was a tough crowd.

  Jamie’s eyes flashed. “This is not my fault. I was trying to stop you all from getting in trouble. And the class. Well, mostly the class. I mean, I wouldn’t waste my time and energy looking out for you, Bowen. And I barely know you, Nate.”

  She looked right through me like I wasn’t even there.

  “And what about me?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did anybody else hear a voice coming from way down there?”

  “Oh, very funny. You’ve only been using that joke since the third grade.”

  “Well, if you had grown since the third grade, maybe I’d have to come up with something new!”

  Ouch. I almost snapped back at her, but then I told myself what Aunt Cat had been telling me since third grade whenever I mentioned Jamie’s constant sniping: Don’t say anything—she’s just insecure. Don’t say anything—she’s just insecure. Don’t say anything—she’s just insecure. Don’t—

  “I’m WHAT ?” Jamie screeched.

  “BAZINGA!” Bowen yelled.

  “QUIET!” the secretary shouted.

  “Did I say that out loud?” I asked.

  “Why would I be insecure about you?” Jamie asked, scorn dripping from every word. “You massive cheese tool. No, you’re not even a cheese tool. You’re a cheese tool kit. A complete cheese tool box. You’ve got, like, the little scooping stick, the toasting supplies, the little wire-blade thing for slicing cheese off of big blocks, the . . . umm . . . ”

  “The cracker assortment?” Bowen added helpfully. Nate giggled.

  Personally, I felt these people were taking the metaphor too far. But I didn’t have a chance to voice my opinion, because just then, The Bee called all four of us into his office. First, he yelled at us for a while about how his job was to maintain ORDER in the school, blah blah blah, and how we had created an UNSAFE ENVIRONMENT in the hallway, yadda yadda yadda. Then his voice gradually built in volume and his face got redder and redder as he threw in some stuff about respecting our peers, our school, and ourselves. Just when I thought the man’s head would burst like an overripe tomato, he looked past our heads, breathed deeply a few times, and calmed himself down, before saying, “Now. Can somebody please tell me exactly what happened?”

  Then he sat back and smiled as we all spoke at once.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Nothing,” Nate said.

  “Nothing,” Bowen said.

  “Bowen did it!” Jamie exclaimed.

  Oh, sure, I thought. She blows everything, but somehow I’m the cheese tool.

  Our only chance had been unity. Now that Jamie had cracked, we were doomed. Mr. Overbye sent me, Bowen, and Nate to three separate back rooms so we couldn’t “coordinate our stories”—which I had to admit was pretty slick of him—and kept Jamie for ten minutes or so. Then he called each of us back in one by one. I was last. When Nate walked by me, his face looked completely neutral, like he was coming back from a perfectly normal trip to the restroom. When Bowen came out of The Bee’s office, though, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Tears were rolling down his face. He caught me looking and muttered, “Shut up!”

  Then I went in and told The Bee everything. I figured I might as well, because clearly, everybody else already had. When I finished, he just sat back, folded his hands over his belly, chuckled, and said, “I like the cheese tool part. That was a nice touch. But what are you doing, Maverick—trying out to be Superman?”

  I was like, Wrong hero, dude.

  My punishment was detention, plus a call to the woman The Bee thought was my mother. Nobody else got i
n any trouble, apparently, except for Bowen, who got detention, too. After school, we had to sit in a smelly little mini-classroom next to the gym with Mr. Cavallero and write I will not cause a commotion in the hallway a hundred times.

  The whole time, I just kept thinking, I didn’t cause a freaking commotion. I was trying to save my classmate from getting pummeled. Even though I don’t particularly like him. And then I got ambushed, grabbed, and slammed into another kid. That’s why I’m here. I should be writing, “I will not try to protect anybody from anything. I will also not allow myself to get strangled or pushed from behind.”

  Bowen didn’t say a word to me the entire time. He didn’t even look up. When the timer on Mr. Cavallero’s desk went off, he walked straight out in a hurry. This was unusual behavior for Bowen, because generally, he wouldn’t have missed a chance to taunt, threaten, or otherwise torment me in a one-on-one situation. I decided to hang back and follow him at a distance.

  Bowen’s dad was waiting for him in a fancy sports car with the windows rolled down right outside the front door of the school. I watched from just inside the door, which was propped open a crack, as Bowen got into the car. I heard him say, “Dad, I can explain.”

  This should be interesting, I thought. And I was right . . . but not in any way I could have expected. Before Bowen could say another word, his head rocketed sideways toward me and I heard him whimper. It was so fast and so sudden that it took me a second to understand what must have happened. Bowen’s father had hit him, really hard, on the side of the head.

  Then Mr. Strack started yelling. And I am not talking about a quiet scolding or a harsh tone of voice. I mean he was yelling like Mr. Overbye at the very top of his range, without any of the quiet parts.

  The very first thing he said was, “Bowen Gregory Strack, you are an embarrassment.” Then things got bad. After a minute or so, I felt guilty even hearing, so I kicked the doorstop out and let the door swing shut. I could still see Bowen’s dad’s insanely enraged face, though, and Bowen’s look of horror. It was awful.

  Right in the middle of the whole thing, Aunt Cat pulled up right behind the Stracks in her little VW. I didn’t know what to do, because I didn’t want Bowen to know I had seen any of this, but then Aunt Cat started honking her horn, and Bowen looked around. He caught a glimpse of me through the window set into the school’s door, which left me with no choice.