Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  Naturally, Clint ended up making out with Angie in the water.

  Predictably, she already had her bikini top off.

  What was almost as bad is that during the truth part of the game, Clint told everyone what we had done together. You know, how far we’ve gone and all that. It’s not that far, but it was so humiliating to know he told everyone.

  When I found out about it, I put everything Clint had given me in a big box, wrapped it up like a present, and gave it to him when he tried to take me parking. At first he was so excited.

  “You’re the best girlfriend a guy could have,” he said.

  But when he opened the box there was Sammy Panda he won for me at Six Flags. There was the hand-stained jewelry box he made for me. There was the mix cassette he labeled “Romantic Songs.” There was the framed picture of Clint in his letter jacket. And finally, there was the gold chain he got me for Christmas.

  Anyway, when he saw what was in the box, he started crying. Well, not really crying, but there were tears in his eyes, and he asked me why I was breaking up with him. I told him what I found out about The Love Boat. After trying to deny it and getting it put back in his face—I knew too many details for him to get away with that—he went off about how “those bitches” exaggerated everything. Then he blamed it on the alcohol. He swore he would quit drinking. But I didn’t budge. I told him to take me home because I never wanted to see him again.

  For the next three days I got roses delivered to me. Then he started calling. At first I would let my machine answer, and he would leave these long messages telling me how much he loved me. He even started leaving original love poems on the tape. I’ve saved those.

  Finally I took him back, and he’s been so sweet ever since. Well, since football season began he’s been pretty distracted, but that’s to be expected. He started on the varsity team last year as a sophomore—he was the only sophomore on the team—and this year he’s supposed to be an all-district linebacker. He gets so fired up on game days that I can’t even talk to him. He goes around punching lockers and doing all this manly stuff that I don’t get, but that’s fine. I’ve got so much to do on Fridays. Between student council and pep squad and being junior-class secretary, there’s always something going on to keep me busy.

  Speaking of which, I’d almost forgotten today was Slave Day. I guess I’m not that concerned. Clint already said that he wouldn’t let anyone outbid him.

  MR. TWILLEY

  7:51 A.M.

  Why didn’t I just throw the memo away? Why did I let it sit there for weeks? For eighteen years now I’ve tossed it without so much as a second thought. That’s what I should have done this year.

  Was it something that Esther said? About having all the life drained out of me? She’s been gone a year, and I still hear her voice, and it’s still telling me what to do. But what will this prove? I tried to tell her, these kids today, they’re just not the same as when we first started teaching. She just laughed at me, told me that I was the one changing, not them. But she was wrong, and one day I think she’ll see that.

  When I first started teaching, students gave me the nickname Mr. History because of how I made the subject come alive for them. I didn’t justify the subject with the clichés like coaches in my department used: “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.” Pshaw. No, I made them see history as a grand story, as exciting as any of the novels Esther taught. Students would beg the counselors to get into my class—the bright ones, especially. I’ve always been challenging. I never bought into that warm fuzzy “new school” of teaching that said dates and names of treaties or significant battles weren’t important. “Human history,” after all, says Mr. H. G. Wells, “becomes more and more a race between education and catastrophe.” Students understood that, and they respected the fact that they earned their grades in my class.

  I don’t grade effort; I grade results.

  They still call me Mr. History, though now it’s in patronizing reference to how long I’ve been here. I’ll tell them about Washington crossing the Delaware, and some smart aleck will raise his hand and ask, “Mr. Twilley, was the water very cold?” They’ll snicker, thinking that I don’t catch the drift, but there are no flies on me.

  I let the memo sit on my desk for too long … thought too much about it. FACULTY, TAKE PART IN SLAVE DAY AND HELP THE STUDENT COUNCIL RAISE FUNDS FOR THE HOMECOMING DANCE. SIGN AND RETURN TO MR. DENHART IF YOU ARE WILLING TO PARTICIPATE. I signed the memo the day I was served the divorce papers. When I handed it to Denhart, he nearly fell out of his chair. He recovered and said something like, “Marcus, you always seem to surprise me.” Denhart—hah. He thinks he’s the only teacher in school who “relates” to the students. They made him the chair of the English department after Esther left. I felt like reminding him that it was Esther’s recommendation that got him that position. I still can’t believe she suggested him. He’s such an odd bean. He takes his kids outside and lets them have sword fights when he’s teaching Romeo and Juliet. They go diddy-wabiddy, and I have to close the windows to my classroom, thereby angering my students. He also sponsors the spring break trip to London each year. He took eighteen kids last year. I don’t think the kids know that he gets free trips for sponsoring them. Get rid of that perk and let’s see how many students he takes.

  Generally it’s just the most popular teachers who volunteer to be slaves. Or should I say the easiest teachers? That’s what shocked Denhart. He knows I run a tight ship. No nonsense. Kids give me any guff and I ship them right down to the principal’s office. Discipline’s their job. I’m here to teach. It’s the teachers who let kids get away with murder in the classroom who end up with their photographs on the sides of coin jars for a “kiss the pig” contest.

  So why am I doing this? It’s too late to back out now. They even announced that I would be up for sale over the PA all week. The first day they read it, my students all stared up at me, but they knew better than to cause a disturbance.

  CLINT DEFREISZ

  8:12 A.M.

  I wonder if it’s cold enough yet to wear my letter jacket?

  Sure, it’s colder’n Dracula’s dick right now, but it’s been warming up in the afternoons, and I don’t want to look like one of those stupid freshmen swimmers who stand out in the bus circle in the eighty-degree weather pulling a Frosty the Snowman in their easy-as-shit-to-get letter jackets. Anyone who can float can get a letter jacket if they go out for the swim team. Let’s see one of them fill a gap, take on Lamar Jones from Liberty Valley or Billy Ramzinsky from New London, put ’em on their backs, stop ’em on third and one. We’ll see how many of those skinny Speedo-wearin’ breaststrokers would be wearing letter jackets then.

  Now, I’m not saying you have to play football to be cool. My homey Damien doesn’t play any sport; he’s editor of the yearbook. I know it sounds kinda limp-wristed—a guy being yearbook editor—but don’t worry. He’s not like that. It’s just that his eyes are so bad he can hardly play catch. I swear his glasses are bulletproof. Damien’s more of a poet. He even helped me write this really romantic stuff that cinched me getting Jenny back when she flaked on me. Jenny’s my girlfriend. More on her later. Anyway, my point is just that they shouldn’t hand out letter jackets like door prizes. It devalues them for those of us who earned it.

  Hell, I’d be willing to give my letter jacket to anyone who would drink one of these each day. It’s my own special recipe: two bananas, two eggs, one pint of OJ, three tablespoons of powdered SuperMass, a giant glob of peanut butter, and five ice cubes. Blend into slush. Serve chilled. I call it a Gameface. I drink one a day. Last year I played at 195. This year I’m at 215. The drinks make a difference. I pour my Gameface into the victory mug Jenny made me. Painted on it is my name, number (44), and a picture of General Pissdoff (as those of us on the team refer to our sword-swingin’ mascot). It fits into the drink holder in my Jeep. I make myself polish off the mess before I get to school.

  Tyke Milton, this all-everythi
ng lineman who played a few years before me, moved back to Deerfield after he blew out a knee playing for Texas. He works out down at DAC—that’s the Deerfield Athletic Club—where most of us on the team work out during the summer. Anyway, he said he could get me ’roids if I was serious about getting bigger. But Milton has these nasty acne scars and he’s balding at twenty, so I told him I’d have to think about it.

  I had my Thursday night pregame dream last night, which sucks, because last night was Wednesday night. I don’t want to get fired up too early. No sense in peaking tonight. I don’t know why I count on the Dream. It’s really more like a bad omen than a motivational sequence. It’s just that we’re five and one—and the only Thursday night that I didn’t have the dream, we lost the next day. So you can see how this could affect my mental preparation.

  The dream’s bizarro.

  In it, the mighty Rebel D is matched up against the Cowboys. Yes, those Cowboys. Aikman’s calling audibles. I’m staring him down. Blood’s dripping down my nose just like in that picture of Dick Butkus you always see in those Time-Life Books. I’m even movin’ in slow motion—everyone is—and that guy with the God voice who narrates NFL Films and uses phrases like “frozen tundra” and “battle-hardened warriors” is calling the game. I can hear’m as I’m playin’. We start out holding ’em, but every play we lose one of our players, and the Cowboys keep gaining more yardage. They’re pilin’ up fifty, sixty yards a clip, but they never reach the end zone. Finally, it’s just me against all eleven of ’em. I’m yellin’, “Bring it on! Bring it on!” like I don’t even know I’m getting my ass kicked up and down the field.

  TOMMY PARKS

  8:35 A.M.

  I can hear the voice. It still sounds a long way off. But I know it’ll get closer. I know whose voice it is by the pitch—occupying the range somewhere between the squeal of a Styrofoam ice chest and alley cats doin’ the nasty. And the voice is calling my name.

  “Tommy! Tommy! Git yo’ ass up, boah! You gonna be late fo’ school.”

  I swear to God. When I get married—if I get married—I’m gonna pick me a velvety-voiced woman. I don’t care if she’s a no-cookin’ hog; she’s gonna sound like Reba McEntire. The voice is getting closer. I put my head under my pillow, but I yell back at my momma.

  “GED” As in “Let me sleep in. I’ll get my …”

  The light comes on. I can tell by the glow around the edge of the pillowcase, then I feel my covers start slipping down my back.

  “Diploma,” she screeches. As in “Your lazy ass is gonna earn a …”

  I am completely uncovered now. “Boah, you din’t even take off yer uniform before you went to bayed. Yo’ gonna end up with bayed bugs.”

  I fake sleeping. Miss Amenny taught us how to pretend we’re asleep in drama class. I try to remember what she said about taking deep breaths to make it look realistic. I hear Momma leave the room, but I know this is a bad sign. A minute later I start feeling water mist my neck and ears. She’s fetched the spray bottle she uses on the ferns.

  “Tommy, they oughtta pay you double down at Whataburger. Yo’ in that uniform sixteen hours a day. Either that or you oughtn’t work so much.”

  I know it’s no use trying to sleep, so I sit up.

  “You gonna start paying for my gas? My insurance?” I ask, knowing what her answer’s gonna be.

  “Shore thang, honey, just as soon as you start chippin’ in on the groceries and house payment,” she says.

  “Trailer payment,” I point out. “One-bathroom trailer.”

  “Well, as soon as you’re a famous actor you can buy us a two-bathroom trailer,” she says.

  “Hell, Momma, I’ll spring for somethin’ that’d put Graceland t’shame.” She heads back into the kitchen. I follow her and pour myself a cup of coffee. I switch to the English accent I used in the one-act play we did in school last year. I played Froggy in The Foreigner. “Mumsy, any chance of me gaining entrance to the loo this morning?”

  “One day, boah, I’m gonna be on Oprah talking about living with my crazy English son, Tommy.”

  “Thomas, please, madam.” I say, still in character.

  “Anyways, I believe Mandy’s already in there,” she answers, stuffing a doughnut in my mouth and heading out the door in her Denny’s uniform. She’s a hostess there. Dan, my stepfather, works the graveyard over at Thermon, the world’s leading heat-traced tubing manufacturer and employer of at least four of the Parks clan. That leaves me responsible for my twin half sisters, Mandy and Morgan, for thirty minutes of hell a day. Morgan’s not so bad. She still plays Little League baseball. Made the all-star team, as a matter of fact. Takes ten, fifteen minutes in the bathroom, max. Mandy, on the other hand, she’s everything bad you can imagine about a seventh-grade girl. She’s like Robo-teenybopper. She’s got a hot-iron curler in place of one hand and a telephone where the other should be. She’s got Momma’s voice. So does Morgan, I guess. It’s just that Morgan doesn’t use it quite so much.

  I make my way back to my bedroom. Anytime I bitch about Mandy’s bathroom time, she reminds everyone that I get my own room and she has to share with Morgan. Next year she’ll get my room. Next year I’ll have a place of my own. Thermon pays eight bucks an hour for any warm body with a diploma. (Or a GED, as I’ve pointed out to Momma more than a few times.) I change into a black T-shirt and fold up my Whataburger uniform. I have to go to work again tonight after play practice. I spray on an extra dose of Right Guard and put on my red King Feed cap. It’s easier than busting down the bathroom door to throw Mandy out.

  SHAWN GREELEY

  8:42 A.M.

  Okay, I’ll admit it, everything up until now has gone exactly like Priscilla said it would. I mean everything. From the election to the meetings to the duties. I mean, just look at her. Every time she says something, about eight people shit their pants.

  “Shawn wants you to get more chairs up on the stage,” or “Shawn wants the band to play ‘Money for Nothing’ when any of the teachers are getting auctioned off.” And people just do it.

  When I first met her, as a sophomore, I thought she was a bitch. Man, everybody did. I remember I was up at the chalkboard in algebra trying to work this problem with two variables. I can never get the ones with two variables, so I was just sitting up there with my thumb up my ass, and this redheaded transfer student in the front row is laughing. Not even trying to hide it. So the teacher tells her, “Priscilla, if you think it’s amusing, maybe you’d like to help Shawn with the problem.” Now, most of the time this will shut someone up, but not Priscilla. She goes, “Miss Burnett, you’ve got to put it in terms a basketball player can understand.” Then she turns the equation into this word problem, something like, “Shawn, imagine someone could hold you to twenty-three points.”

  “Jordan, maybe,” I said. Much laughter.

  “Okay, so Jordan holds you to twenty-three. You check the box score the next day, and you see you made six free throws and you went seven for twelve from the field. How many three-pointers did you make?”

  “Three,” I said immediately. “That’s baby math.”

  “Well that’s all a two-variable problem is. You just deal with the second variable in terms of the first. In this case, X represents the number of two-pointers, and Y equals the number of three-pointers. You know you made seven shots, so to get rid of the second variable, just turn the Y into seven minus X. Voilà … one variable.”

  “Cool, baby,” I said. Then I gave her one of my patented Twelves. That’s one of my smiles. A Twelve means I show twelve teeth. It’s a midlevel grin. I broke out a Twenty at the end of my election speech. It’s pretty much my ultimate smile. Does it work? We carried sixty-two percent of the vote.

  So I was feeling pretty good about myself. I was sailing out of class, and Keene Davenport was walking out the door in his back-to-Africa threads ’bout the same time. And he said to me (I still can’t believe this pudgy brotha had the ’nads), “Think you would’ve gotten the answer if she
would have used watermelons instead of basketballs?”

  I shoulda kicked his ass then.

  Maybe then I wouldn’t be dealing with the Letter to the Editor bullshit today. Seems everyone is anxious to show me the Herald this morning. See what I’m gonna do. I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do—nothing. Maybe flash a Twenty and say, “Keene who?” And you know what? That’s all that will come of this junior Spike Lee’s big protest … nothing.

  BRENDAN

  9:03 A.M. First period, gymnasium

  I could’ve sworn Mr. Denhart told us to wear our student council shirts today. Now look at me. I’m the only one. Everyone else dressed up sharp, and I’m in this bletcherous red and gray jersey with blue stripes and white stars that would drag the ground if it weren’t tucked in. Punt, punt. On the back it says STRONG, PROUD, DEDICATED, which is the student council motto, not just a list of qualities I lack.

  I have this moby fine Hawaiian shirt that I’m pretty sure Deena likes. She told me it was ultracolorful. “Like a Fruitopia ad,” she said. I only let myself wear it once every two weeks, otherwise people might notice. Today would have been the perfect day.

  So I’m sitting here in the last chair in the last row watching the gym fill up, searching for someone who will save me from humilification, when Annabella Guzaldo turns in her seat to face me.

  “Hey, Brendan, do you follow all the rules?” Annabella’s the only other sophomore on the council. We’re in all the honors classes together, but the samealities end there.

  “No. Do you follow any of them?” I’m probably the only boy in school who doesn’t call her Madonna. All the football players do. It’s because she’s Italian, on the dance team, and stars in most of the wet dreams of the class of ’97. She’s so far out of my league that I’m not even nervous around her. Maybe that’s why we’re virtual friends. She invited me to a party at her house last year, but I wouldn’t have known anyone there, so I didn’t show. Pitiful, pitiful.