by Jim Krieg
A round-faced kid a little older than me sat at the table. Not quite fat, but doughy enough to let you know that he spent a lot of time doing the paperwork. He looked tired. Tired of the responsibility. Tired of command.
“Not exactly turning them away,” I said. “Need another hand, Captain?”
He barely glanced up from his textbook, titled Algebra Is Fun-tastic! His eyes didn’t get any farther than the trumpet case.
“Band practice is every day during football season.” He sighed. “We can only take kids who totally commit.”
Just then, the custodian walked by, rolling that oversize garbage can. Without any fanfare, I tossed the trumpet into his pail. That got their attention.
“Look like I’m afraid to commit?” It wasn’t a question. The captain looked me over. If he was impressed, he wasn’t gonna let me know. He picked up a clipboard and a pen.
“Name and grade?”
“Carver,” I said. “Seventh.”
“Experience?”
“Six years,” I told him, “four on the street, two inside.”
That nearly got a reaction out of him. It certainly impressed his guys. Junior crossing guards were relatively easy to come by. They’re just as likely to drift off once they understand the grind and find out that the badge doesn’t magically bestow the instant status and power they wanted. But an experienced Hallway Patrolman, that was something different.
“Where?” he asked, still not impressed.
“Saint Finbar’s,” I told him.
I saw the wheels turning behind his eyes. He looked up at me again, scrutinizing my face like I was a cousin he hadn’t seen in a long time or maybe I had chicken pox scars.
“Carver. Griffin Carver?” he asked, suddenly interested. “The Griff Carver?”
“Heard of me?” I said. It wasn’t really a question. But I’d been hoping my rep was a little more local.
“Dang,” he said, “everybody’s heard of you. Maple and Third. They still talk about that at Junior Police Camp.”
“Who is this guy, Delane?” asked one of his guys. Doughboy shot him that why-am-I-surrounded-by-idiots glance.
“You don’t know about Griff Carver, Dugan?” he taunted the poor kid. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“Griff Carver is famous.” He said this to me, of course, not Dugan. “The only Safety Patrol officer in history to get kicked out of school.” Then he waited. After a while I supposed that was my cue.
“Look, Captain,” I started, “I don’t suppose you care that it was all in the line of duty. If you look me up, you’ll find my record was expunged by the school commissioner.”
“I’ll tell you what I care about, Griff,” he said. “I care about the fact that five of my guys were eighth graders last year. They’re all in high school now. Good for them, but I’ve lost half my manpower.”
“Captain—”
“Delane,” he corrected me, “and what I’m saying is, you’re experienced and I’m desperate. Got a little welcome-to-the-neighborhood present for you.”
He reached into a metal lockbox on the table and pulled something out. He handed it to me.
The badge. Rampart Middle School Safety Patrol. Cheap plastic with a faux brass finish. A boxful probably runs less than ten bucks. It was attached to the rolled-up patrol belt with a rubber band. I unrolled the belt and put the rubber band in my pocket.
I am not exactly Mr. Emotional. Ask anyone, especially the Old Lady. But looking at that badge in my hand, my vision got blurry. For a second, I wasn’t aware of anything else. But only for a second.
Delane smiled his fat captain smile. “Welcome to Rampart Middle School Safety Patrol, Griff Carver.” He shook my hand. Not in any cool, kid way. He grabbed it straight on and pumped up and down, like your pediatrician.
I’d had enough commanding officers over the years to know that that’s what they were. Politicians. Kids looking to score a few points on their magnate high school application. Of course, once they were on the job, it was more than they bargained for but too late to back out.
Right now, I didn’t care about that. I was just happy to know who I was again. So happy I kept talking. Not like me at all.
“You won’t regret this, Delane.” I gushed like a green-as-grass rookie.
“Oh, I know I won’t,” Delane replied, already putting me in my place. “You’re a loose cannon, Griff, and I’m keeping a tight rein on you.”
I ignored the mixed metaphor, but my face had the question all over it. What did he have in mind?
“Think I’m letting a short-fused M-80 like you wander the halls alone, Carver?” he asked.
“No, no, no . . .” I stammered, terrified of his implication. He was going to team me up. “Captain, I never patrol with a partner. I work best solo.”
“You patrol the way I tell you to patrol, or you don’t patrol at all.” Now he was really starting to sound like a CO. Well, it’s never all good news, right? At least I was on the force. I’d be doing what I was made to do. So what if I had a partner for a little while. How bad could it be?
“Rodriguez!” Delane shouted out into the crowd. “Get over here! Now!” I couldn’t quite make out the figure moving through the press of kids. “I want you to meet someone. Griff Carver, this is Thomas Rodriguez. Your new partner.”
The red reflective patrol belt he was buckling on didn’t do anything to cover up the sash full of badges or his platoon number. There was that spotless, pressed Camp Scout uniform staring me in the face. I could barely see his moronically cheerful, courteous, thrifty smile from the glare off his shoes. Him. Why did it have to be him?
“Friends call me Tommy. Hit me . . . partner!” he said, holding his hand up for a high five. He’d be holding it up there for a long time.
CHAPTER TWO
RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL SAFETY PATROL
Incident Report
TO:
Delane Owens, Divisional Commanding Officer
FROM:
Thomas Rodriguez, Hallway Patrolman 2nd Class
DATE:
Monday, September 14, 8:10 a.m.
INCIDENT:
Near Collision at Stop, Drop, and Roll
At approximately 8:03 a.m. this morning, a seventh grade transfer student, Griffin Carver, was nearly struck by a gang of BMX bikers just after disembarking from a silver minivan at the Stop, Drop, and Roll site.
Delane, I know that you asked me not to file any more reports of incidents that almost happened, of “near misses,” and I’ve made a serious effort to do just that. However, I’m making an exception in this case. First of all, the only reason the seventh grader was NOT struck by the first bike was because, acting purely on instinct and ignoring the personal risk to myself, I somehow managed to LEAP into the path of the bikes, GRAB the endangered pedestrian, and PULL us both to safety. I’m not looking for a “pat on the back” here, Delane, but just imagine what would’ve happened if I weren’t there!
Second, the almost victim of this “pedal-by” is a new student. His first impression of Rampart Middle will always be colored by this moment of danger and thoughtlessness. I immediately did what damage control I could, stressing the safety record of the school, etc., but the damage was done.
Last, and most important, this near occurrence (as well as countless similar ones that go unreported) could’ve been avoided if we’d posted the YOU MUST WALK YOUR BIKE signs. As you know, I have made multiple requests for these signs without results. And, once again, I apologize for going “over your head.”
I know that you believe these signs would be entirely ignored by the student body, but again I must, respectfully, go on record as disagreeing with your pessimistic and cynical viewpoint.
It’s nice to know that some people (such as a certain someone, a personal friend of mine who is running for class president) DO think that there is room for improvement at this school.
RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL SAFETY PATROL Incident Report
TO:
Delane Owens, Divisional CO
FROM:
Thomas Rodriguez, HP 2nd Class
DATE:
Monday, September 14, 8:35 a.m.
INCIDENT:
Addendum to Earlier-Reported Rear Collision
How funny is that? The very kid I save from being run over by the BMX gang ends up volunteering for Safety Patrol!
I don’t want to toot my own horn, Delane, but I can’t help thinking that I must’ve really made a good impression on the new kid! Not only did I save him from almost certain injury, but I also took the time to “talk up” Rampart Middle. If not for me, who knows what kind of impression he’d have of this place? Instead, now he’s on the force!
Allow me to thank you for partnering me with Griffin. I think it demonstrates the great confidence you have in my ability to “show him the ropes.” Don’t worry, I’ll have this rookie doing things the right way in no time.
Reams gave me a cryptic warning about Griffin. He said something to the effect of my new partner being the only Hall Monitor in history ever expelled from school. But I think that was just another example of Reams’s “humor.”
Reams is always “kidding me,” I think, bcause he views my professionalism as being “uptight,” and he’s trying to help me “be cool.” I knew better than to fall for his “jive” this time, but I will ask around about Griffin’s history, just (a) to be thorough and (b) because it’ll facilitate our inter-partner dialogue.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
P.S. I was not thrilled when you threw away my earlier incident report as soon as you read the phrase “near collision.” I’m sure you were simply swept up in the excitement of having a new recruit. So, I have taken the liberty of retrieving the report from the custodian’s trash can and resubmitting it to you with this addendum.
CHAPTER THREE
HELEN NUTTING GUIDANCE COUNSELOR RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL
The following is a continuation of the RECORDED INTERVIEW with seventh grader Griffin Carver, which has been TRANSCRIBED professionally. When I asked Griffin to jump ahead and tell me about his experiences once he joined Rampart’s Hallway Patrol, again he was unsure how to proceed. I suggested he try accessing a SENSE MEMORY. He requested (in colorful language!) that I explain this, and I told him he should pick an object present at the memory he was trying to recall, then re-experience the touch, taste, smell, etc., of that object. This technique, as you’ll see, proved highly successful.
GRIFF: A cup of hot chocolate. Is that okay?
NUTTING: There’s no right or wrong here, Griff. If that’s the memory you picked—
GRIFF: (interrupting) There’s always right and wrong, lady.
NUTTING: Uh—of course. I meant the cup of hot chocolate will work fine. Describe it to me.
GRIFF: I’m holding it in my hand. I can hear the tiny, pellet-like marshmallows tap against the side of the cup. I can feel the plastic Styrofoam squeak against my fingers.
And it wasn’t hot, that’s for sure. There are two things you should know about the Rampart Middle squad room snack table. There’s plenty for everyone. And it’s all terrible. The donuts tasted like papier-mâché, only less sweet and harder to chew. As for the hot chocolate, talk about false advertising. It was neither hot nor chocolate. But I suppose it was faster than saying “lukewarm sandy brown water.”
In other words, it was pretty much like every other Safety Patrol snack table I’d ever run into. I guess that was only natural, since the squad itself looks pretty much like every other Safety Patrol squad. I’d seen a few of the guys already at that “join-up jamboree,” but now, sitting in two rows of folding chairs in what they called the Multipurpose Room while Delane jawed away at an ancient lectern, I got a better look at them.
Maybe the squad attracts the same types in every school, or else certain traits are required for the job. Either way, they were all there. Reams, the clown who laughs at his own jokes. Dugan, the one with his hand up in the air every time he doesn’t understand something—must have a pretty serious triceps from holding that arm up so much. Ciardi, who’s just one of the guys, except for the supermodel hair and the fact that her first name is Gail. And “Meat” Mantling, the exception to No Student Left Behind. Like many a squad strong-arm, Meat would miss his original middle school expiration date by a few digits.
I’d seen them all before, or hall cops just like them. Me? From the looks on their faces, I’d say I defy easy categorization. They didn’t know me from a hole in the wall. Speaking of which, there was a hole in the wall of the Multipurpose Room, at the base of the paneling on the far side of the room. In front of the hole was one of the rat traps I spotted on the janitor’s pushcart, a fact I found more interesting than Delane’s speech. I tuned out as soon as he mentioned Rampart’s safety record. It was starting to feel like brainwashing. Two more times and I’d believe it myself.
I could tell by the tone of his voice, and the old clock on the wall, that Delane was wrapping things up. I felt joy mixed with dread. The joy: Just a few more minutes and I’d be back out in a hallway walking a beat. The dread: I’d be walking that beat with Tommy.
“Just remember, there’s safety in numbers. We work as a group. There’s no I in teammates,” Delane continued.
“There’s an m-e,” suggested Reams, laughing. Dugan was about to raise his hand to ask for the joke to be explained, but Delane cut him off.
“You should always be checking your partner’s six,” Delane said. Then, with an exhausted look at Dugan, he added, “Which is the area right behind you. Remember, Dugan? It’s like a clock? Your twelve is in front, your six is in back.”
By now, the bell was ringing and the squad was rising, tossing their Styrofoam cups of lukewarm sandy brown water in the trash and adjusting their belts. But before we made it all the way to the door, we were stopped by Delane.
“Hey . . .” he called after us. “HEY! I don’t want any heroes out there.”
Every hall cop turned and continued on their way. Yeah, I wouldn’t worry about that, Delane, we all seemed to say with a shrug.
The hallway floors of Rampart Middle are of ancient linoleum. They reflect the fluorescent lights a bit too well and give off a sickly sweet aroma of 100,000 swabbings with industrial-strength vanilla cleaner. The footfalls of endless students have carved rivers of erosion into their once flat surface. And, worst of all, they resound with the echoes of hard-soled shoes. The tac-tac-tac of Tommy’s padded collar high-gloss chukkas drew attention to us in exactly the way I didn’t like. It was our first patrol together, and I wasn’t loving it.
His talking didn’t help either. Mr. Helpful felt the need to narrate the patrol like a chatty tour guide.
“And there’s the second-floor East Hallway drinking fountain.”
I know it’s a drinking fountain, genius. So, this is the second floor, huh? That explains those stairs we climbed. I didn’t say any of that. I just thought it. Just because someone is a nimrod doesn’t give you license to act like a jerk.
“Over here you’ll find our state-of-the-art—”
“Science lab,” I cut him off.
“Yeah, how’d you—?”
“The words science lab on the door were kind of a tip-off,” I told him. I told myself that I’d made that sound chummy, not jerky. But who can say?
“PICK IT UP!” I heard myself shout. It was a reflex. The words were out of my mouth before I was even aware of what I had seen in my peripheral vision. It was the bounce of litter hitting the floor. A tiny piece of crumpled-up paper.
The litterbug was a middle-aged dude in a two-hundred-dollar suit from International Gentleman. And I don’t mean he just grew old because time passed. This geezer had the look of a guy who’d been middle-aged since middle school.
“Excuse me?” he said, raising one white eyebrow.
Tommy tried to wave me off, to warn me away from hassling the faculty. He obviously didn’t know me very well. “You just threw that paper on the hallw
ay floor. My hallway floor.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, playing dumb.
“Right there,” I said, pointing to the tiny piece of debris with my toe. “That’s the wrapper from the straw in your iced coffee. You crumpled it up and dropped it there. It’s still wet from the sloshing around you’re doing. It’s stained the exact color of your beverage.”
Grandpa huffed and puffed for a moment, but he knew I had him. “I meant to put it in my pocket. It must have fallen accidentally.”
“Then you won’t mind picking it up, will you?” I asked. It wasn’t really a question. Meanwhile, Tommy was wildly pantomiming to me from the other side of this guy. I made a mental note to pick Rodriguez in the unlikely event of a game of charades.
“Do you know who I am?” the dude asked. Took him long enough to bust out the diplomatic immunity.
“Let’s see,” I started. “You’re too old for an eighth grader. . . . From your hair, suit, clean fingernails, the fact you’re not carrying any books like a real teacher . . . and the fact that you’re drinking a pricey iced coffee even though there’s a complimentary machine in the faculty lounge, I’d say I’m talking to the principal. Clang? Or something like that?”
“Sprangue,” he hissed. His face was red. I had to hand it to him, Principal Sprangue was an expert at keeping it bottled up. “What’s your name, young man?” he asked in an overly calm manner that would’ve made me nervous if I’d bothered to think about it.
I opened my mouth to say, but he raised his hand to stop me.
“No, don’t tell me,” he said. “I’ll find out everything I need to know from Delane. I’m sure we’ll be getting to know each other very well . . . Officer.”
He turned and started to head toward his office.
“Principal Sprangue!” I called after him, unable to stop myself. He looked back and I glanced at the floor meaningfully.