The Boomerang Effect

by Gordon Jack

  “Will do.” Dad and I stood up then and faced each other, not used to hugging it out. After a few seconds of awkward silence, I shook his hand and went to my room.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly pleased with myself. I wasn’t hungover, which I was starting to realize was a great way to start the day. When the first feeling you experience upon waking is pain, you know the day is going to be a long one. But I felt great. Part of me was even looking forward to starting my punishment, which is not something you hear people say very often.

  I went to my closet and grabbed a hoodie. As I was zipping up, my eyes caught sight of my origami shoebox, tucked away safely on a shelf above my dresser drawers. I pulled the box down and brought it to my desk. Inside, the insects and animals looked tossed about like the cargo in Noah’s ark. I picked each one out gently and arranged them on my windowsill, where they could be seen by me and anyone else who came to my room. Staring at them, I realized that I had gone about this mentoring business all wrong. With Spencer and Audrey, I thought I was taking a boring piece of paper and making it look cool, when in fact, I was taking something cool and making it flat and generic. It was the complicated and imperfect folds that made people interesting. The last thing we should be doing is trying to iron them out.

  On my drive to school, I kept thinking about the heart-to-heart I had with Mom and Dad. Suddenly, my parents, and maybe parents in general, didn’t seem like the gatekeepers to fun I had imagined. They could be allies and actually help us accomplish things too difficult to do on our own. The point, I guess, was not to piss them off. If Odysseus hadn’t been such an asshole to Poseidon, he might have experienced much smoother sailing back to Ithaca.

  This revelation helped me think of a way I could help Spencer. I mean really help him. It would require some subterfuge on my part, but I felt ready for the challenge. I owed it to the little guy for treating him like a project instead of treating him like a friend.

  I went to school early to see my counselor. I waited by the entrance until his biodiesel VW Bug pulled into the staff parking lot. “Lawrence,” Lunley said, exiting the vehicle. “What brings you by so early?”

  “I want to do something for Spencer, but I need your help.”

  “Wonderful,” he said, clasping his palms together and shaking them in what I assumed was an approving gesture.

  “It will require that you be a little sneaky.”

  After securing Lunley’s commitment to help, I ran to the cafeteria to meet Spencer for breakfast. I couldn’t wait to see if my plan had worked. Spencer was sitting at our usual table with Heidi, working on some mathematical proof and ignoring the crowds around them having normal conversations.

  “Hey, Spencer,” I said. “Heidi.”

  “Good morning, Lawrence,” Spencer said. Heidi nodded in my direction. Clearly, she was still angry about me foiling her plan to catch the Viking.

  “Spencer, can I speak to you for a second?”

  Spencer gave some last-minute instruction to Heidi on how to solve the problem and then followed me to the corner of the room. “I apologize for not being available for our scheduled meeting,” he began, “but Heidi needed some help with her geometry homework.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Listen, I need you to call your mom.” I held out my cell phone for him to take.

  Spencer raised an eyebrow.

  “Just do it,” I said, and explained my plan. It had occurred to me this morning. The only obstacle to Spencer going to the dance with Heidi was his mother’s intense concern for his welfare. If I could find a way to use this for good, I might help her son lead a normal life. Then it struck me. If his mom had to chaperone the dance, she would have to take him with her—not the best way to attend a dance, but maybe not the worst either. (Escorting a vampire in a studded dog collar won the prize for that category.) All it took was a phone call from the school to ask for her help, which Lunley agreed to do as long as I tried to end this semester with a 3.5 GPA. I readily agreed to his terms, feeling confident I could improve my grades now that every afternoon was going to be spent in my dad’s office, surrounded by Ivy League lawyers.

  He took my phone and dialed his number. Seconds later, he started speaking Norwegian. I waited for some emotion to creep into his voice, as it was the only indication I would have if my plan was working, but his tone was flat throughout the conversation. When he was done, he passed the phone back to me.

  “My mother has agreed to chaperone the dance tonight,” he said.

  I wanted to run back to Lunley’s office and kiss him on his patchouli-scented forehead. Spencer was now on his way to his first American high school dance. I saw the corners of my mentee’s mouth curve upward slightly. This was a smile. I was sure of it.

  “That means you can go, right?” I said.

  “Yes, my mother is not comfortable with me staying home alone, so I will be accompanying her.”

  “And Heidi?” I wanted to make sure he understood the point to all this. He was taking Heidi to the dance.

  “If she hasn’t already found another escort.”

  “Well, go and ask her,” I said, pushing him in the direction of the table.

  I stayed in the corner to give Spencer some privacy. He sat down next to Heidi and told her the news. I assumed things went well because Heidi squealed, bounced on her seat, and threw her arms around Spencer, who stiffened. His upper body stiffened, I should say. I have no idea what was happening below, nor do I wish to know.

  The bell rang and the cafeteria spewed out its occupants to their first-period classes. Spencer and Heidi were caught up in the sea of bodies, but I was able to make eye contact, actual eye contact, with Spencer before he left the building. He waved good-bye to me and I gave him a thumbs-up. It felt great to help the little guy in a way he needed to be helped.

  Just as I was feeling good about my future, a black cloud descended, obliterating the light and warmth of the morning sunrise. Zoe blocked my exit out of the cafeteria. She was wearing a black T-shirt that was patched together Frankenstein-style with mesh and corset lacing. In her right hand, she dangled a studded dog collar. “I need you to try this on,” she said.

  My throat muscles constricted. “No way,” I choked.

  “You are my slave, Lawrence. You do as I say.”

  Unfortunately, I was still at the mercy of the devil’s minion. I had narrowly escaped being sent off to Langdon, but the threat of being transferred to Quiet Haven still loomed large. Unless I did what Zoe asked, she would show her video to Stone and make a convincing case for why I was a menace to Meridian. Of course, she wouldn’t have to say much to convince Stone to kick me out of school. He would accept any excuse to get rid of me.

  “I’m late for class,” I choked, and pushed past her. “Let’s do this later.”

  “Find me at the homecoming game,” she yelled. “Or Stone will find you!”

  I tried to shake off the feeling of dread, but Zoe’s presence tracked me like a shadow. I was doomed to a life of indentured servitude unless I got control of that video. Hopefully, Zoe hadn’t already loaded it onto YouTube. As much as I loved the Internet, sometimes it really complicated things.

  I wasn’t the only one freaking out about leaked surveillance footage. Walking to first period, I was repeatedly stopped by people who wanted their car keys back. Nobody asked me how I was doing or if I got in trouble for hosting the party. Either they didn’t care or they were too freaked out about the possibility of my dad sharing the video with their parents and college admissions officers. I was pretty sure Dad would delete the footage, but I didn’t want to let these assholes off the hook that easily. “He says it’s evidence of a crime scene,” I said, causing a greenish Stephanie Jenkins to slump into Will’s arms and start sobbing.

  I checked my history class for Audrey, but she was a no-show. I hoped she was still sick and not just desperate to avoid me. When the bell rang, Ms. Atkins herded us to the gym
nasium, where the homecoming assembly would be taking place. The school ran a minimum day schedule today so students could save their energy for the homecoming parade, game, and dance. To make the day even less strenuous, we got to spend first period watching the members of the homecoming court compete against one another in trials designed to test their intellectual and athletic skills. At the end of the event, we voted on who we wanted to represent us as our king and queen.

  I walked to the gymnasium with my class, stopping at the entrance when I saw Eddie sulking in his cheer attire.

  “What’s up?” I asked, blocking the crowds of students flowing into the gymnasium. The wave of bodies pushed against me, forcing me to the side. I stood next to Eddie and watched him scowl at passersby.

  “Dawn’s going to the homecoming dance with Jerry. She told the girls at practice yesterday.”

  “Sorry, buddy,” I said.

  “I just don’t get what she sees in the guy,” Eddie said. He shoved an incoming senior and told him, “Sit with your fucking class.” The dude walked toward the senior section of bleachers looking as if he had just received a death threat from Santa.

  “She’s probably only going because it’s expected of her, you know?” I said.

  “I hate homecoming. It’s a stupid tradition.”

  I gave him a consoling pat on the back. “If I can get out of my date with Zoe, we can hang out at my house if you want.”

  “Good luck with that,” Eddie said.

  I left Eddie at the door and joined my class at the far end of the gymnasium. On my way, I passed Stone, who was managing the flow of traffic with his bullhorn and steely gaze. “I’m watching you, Lawrence,” he said. “Don’t ruin this assembly like you did the last one.” I picked up my pace and sat down in one of the few remaining seats in the front row.

  The cheerleaders got the homecoming assembly going with some class cheers. Dawn was noticeably absent from the crew and stood off to the side with the other homecoming court members, awaiting their first competition. She bounced on her heels, not used to being sidelined like this during a cheer routine, and whispered to Jerry, who was smiling and pointing to his football buddies in the stands.

  “Yell louder, you sad fucks!” Eddie screamed at the section of freshmen he was in charge of motivating, sounding more like a drill sergeant than a cheerleader. One of the teachers pulled him aside and spoke to him with a kind but stern expression. Maybe Eddie was going for a suspension. At least then he could claim Principal Stone rather than Jerry had prevented him from taking Dawn to the dance.

  When the stands were sufficiently riled up, Ms. Morgan, the assistant principal in charge of student activities, took the mic and welcomed us all to the forty-seventh annual “tournament of champions!” She was wearing her usual attire of clothes purchased at the student store. Everything from her polo shirt to her socks was stamped with the school’s logo.

  “These homecoming court members have been chosen by you because of their unique contributions to the school,” she began, working the auditorium like the closet motivational speaker she was. “While these individuals have been singled out, they are by no means unique. Everyone here plays an important role in making our school the amazing place it is. As part of homecoming tradition, we must elect a king and queen, but remember, everyone sitting in this gymnasium right now is royalty, and don’t you forget that.”

  Ms. Morgan didn’t like competition. She felt it was unfair to the stupid and weak, which is why she started every high school event, be it basketball game, dodgeball tournament, or orchestra performance, by undermining the achievement of those who were about to perform.

  “There’s nothing special about the ten people on the court,” she went on to say. Her six-foot-two frame allowed her to take long strides and get down court in less than a minute. “You could just as easily be one of them. But fortune has favored them at this particular time and place. Now they will compete for your votes. You decide which couple you want representing your school at today’s homecoming game and dance. But no matter what happens, remember that we’re all winners.”

  Despite Morgan’s pep talk, or maybe because of it, everyone in the stands slumped a little and grumbled, as if suddenly reminded of their own mortality.

  “So that we don’t favor the athletes over the scholars, we asked each department at the school to create an activity for the court to compete in. We begin with the English department. Their challenge”—and here Morgan read a piece of paper on her clipboard—“is to create a haiku about our mascot, the Viking.”

  Each couple quickly huddled together and got to work, tossing out lines and counting syllables on their fingers, while someone pumped “Let’s Get It Started” over the loudspeakers. English teachers suck. Who remembers haiku rules? Not Lawrence Barry.

  After a few minutes passed, Brett, wearing a T-shirt with the Facebook “Like” logo next to his face, ran up to the mic. The music stopped while he performed his composition. “The Viking’s evil. He will destroy our great school. Kill him, kill him now.”

  Now, I’ve never been to a poetry reading before, but I’m assuming it’s rare for an audience to boo a poet off the stage. I don’t know if the people objected to Brett’s poetry or his decidedly antagonistic approach to his subject. Either way, he just stared in disbelief, as if he had focused an entire political campaign on euthanizing puppies only to discover the voting public largely disagreed with his stance on said issue. He looked at Ms. Morgan, who was conferring with Seamus O’Leary, the English department chair and a noted alcoholic. Ms. Morgan turned to Brett and shook her head. “The haiku must contain some reference to nature,” she said. The review punched Brett in the stomach. A few seconds later, Dawn pushed him aside and shared her poem into the mic. “The Viking is strong. Like the free and soaring birds, he is majestic.” The crowd liked this one way better. Had Brett’s “reporting” turned the Viking into a folk legend, like Robin Hood or V for Vendetta? Rather than see him as a destroyer of floats (or a float, I should say, since he’d only demolished one), perhaps they thought of him as a rebel who had made homecoming interesting this year. It was the boomerang effect. The thing bent on destroying the school was actually bringing us all together.

  Mr. O’Leary gave Dawn the thumbs-up, and she and Jerry were awarded one point.

  “The next event comes to us from the world language department,” Ms. Morgan said. Señora Valenza waddled up to Morgan and grabbed the mic. She wore her usual funeral attire—black sweater, gray wool skirt; the woman was in perpetual mourning for something that happened in her native Chile. “Buenos dias, chicos,” she said. Somehow she made all Spanish words sound evil. “Te gusta el flan?” A wave of horror ran through the stands as every student shuddered at the sound of the gelatinous dessert. Plates of flan were set on five tables, placed in front of the court members, who all looked suddenly green and sweaty.

  It was the worst pie-eating contest in the history of the school and perhaps in the history of pie-eating contests. Three of the five court members couldn’t finish, their gag reflexes kicking into overdrive. Lacey Tomatillo got through half her portion before vomiting all over the floor, which triggered two other couples to run to the nearest bathroom. Throughout the mayhem, Señora Valenza looked on smiling, and for the first time I wondered if she wasn’t a war criminal of some sort.

  Brett shoved his face in the dish and tried to smear as much as he could on his skin so he wouldn’t have to ingest it. Jerry, on the other hand, had no problem inhaling the spongy filling, and even licked his plate clean before Brett got close to finishing. He stood up, knocking his folding table over, and raised his fists in the air. Señora Valenza gave a lackluster “Muy bien” and marched back to her chair. The cleanup crew swooped in and quickly wiped the floors.

  In hindsight, it was probably a mistake to run the P.E. department’s obstacle course after the flan-eating contest. More people hurled when they had to spin in a circle with their foreheads stuck to a basebal
l bat. Jerry and Dawn easily won that competition as well. They also kicked ass in the science department’s Diet Coke and Mentos kiss competition, keeping their lips locked longer than any of the other couples (many of whom had the added challenge of vomit breath to contend with). I looked over at Eddie during that competition and saw him take no joy in watching soda shoot out of the nose of his one true love.

  No one’s misery competed with Brett’s, though. Susie Detterline, his partner, wanted desperately to break their embrace, but he held on to her tight until she kicked him hard in the shins. “You’re a monster!” she screamed, and ran away crying, leaving him without a partner for the math department’s challenge to rearrange a set of yardsticks to create three squares instead of four. As the couples worked furiously on the scratch paper provided, I watched Brett grow more and more frustrated until he blatantly peeked at Andrei Bilinski’s work. This caused Ms. Morgan to blow her whistle and kick Brett out of the games. He made a big display of wadding up his paper and throwing it on the ground. “This isn’t fair!” he screamed. “The competition’s been rigged from the beginning!” At this point, Stone grabbed our editor in chief and pulled him off the court and toward the door. “You’re all going to wish homecoming never happened!” Brett screamed as he left. “Mark my words. The worst is yet to come!”

  And so the homecoming assembly had a chilling effect on the school, filled as it was with vomit and Brett’s ominous warning. Despite winning the competition, Dawn looked miserable as she watched her subjects file out of the gymnasium with the stunned expressions of people who have just witnessed a terrorist attack. The only one oblivious to the dark mood was Jerry, who held his medal up high, posing for Crystal and her camera.

  In Yearbook, Crystal showed the class all seventy-seven pictures she’d taken of Jerry as part of her impromptu lecture, “How to Rewrite History.”

  “By creating a timeline of Jerry’s victories, I’m shaping people’s memory of the event,” she said. I looked over and saw Eddie gripping the sides of his desk as if the class were suddenly experiencing a bad case of airplane turbulence. “Years from now, when people look at our annual, we want them to remember the triumphant smile on Jerry’s face, not Brett’s suspension.”