The Clowns

by Tim McBain

  “This is more important than school. Now get in the damn car, Turdholder.”

  “Look, I can’t say it any plainer. I’m not getting another tardy. I just did hard time in detention yesterday, and I’m in no hurry to go back.”

  Phillip turned and headed into the building before she could argue the matter further.

  “Phillip!”

  Her cry was swallowed by the glass door swinging closed so that the second syllable was almost inaudible. Strange girls pressuring him to skip school? This was more unbelievable than the armed clowns in the woods.

  “Has the whole world gone insane?” he muttered to himself.

  To Phillip’s surprise, art class came and went without event. Moffit was absent along with his red-haired lackey. That made things easier. He kept his head down as usual, his construction paper mosaic of a dog coming together nicely. He enjoyed the quiet.

  The first half of the day slipped by, and he forgot all about the events in front of the school that morning, the strange girl in the Le Baron beckoning.

  He had Beef Stroganoff for lunch. Not his favorite, but it wasn’t crusty around the edges, at least. He’d eaten worse things in the cafeteria.

  He doodled in the margin of his notebook paper during social studies, a twisted braid of vines that worked its way toward the top of the page as the teacher droned on. It was one of the only things he drew. He didn’t know why.

  Mr. Neiderhauser had a knack for putting people to sleep, his monotone almost more soothing than it was boring, Phillip thought. Maybe the class falling just after lunch somehow assisted in inducing people to slumber. Phillip wasn’t sure, but he drew to stay awake.

  Neiderhauser’s monk chant cut out for a beat, but Phillip didn’t bother looking up. He wove more vines around each other.

  “Phillip,” Niederhauser said. “You’re, uh, needed in the office.”

  His pen stopped, and he looked up to the front of the room. In a way, he was surprised to see who had come to fetch him, and yet it seemed somehow inevitable at the same time.

  It was her. The hot dog witch herself. Chloe. One hand on her hip, she smirked at him, looking quite pleased with her charade.

  “Should I bring my stuff?” he said, not knowing why he asked.

  “Better bring it,” she said, smirk erased and replaced with mock gravity. “It sounded serious.”

  He fumbled with his books, certain his cheeks had those pink blotches they got when something embarrassed him.

  He followed her into the hallway. The skim and clatter of their feet moving over the floors resonated around them like a soft backbeat to this awkward scene. Something about the sound made the hall itself seem cavernous, Phillip thought. The school building felt different than usual. They were two tiny beings alone in a strange place.

  “This is pretty fudged up,” he said, keeping his voice hushed now that they moved in the quiet of the hall. “Pulling me out of social studies like that. Are you even an office aide?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Nice. Just perfect. I guess I’ll just flunk social studies on top of geometry. No big whoop.”

  “It couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. We have matters to attend to. Clown matters.”

  “And these matters couldn’t wait until after school?”

  The place between her eyebrows creased a moment.

  “That’s actually a good point. I hadn’t thought about it that way. We probably could have waited.”

  Phillip threw his hands up.

  “Un-fudgin-believable.”

  She looked around, barely seeming tethered to their conversation.

  “Too late now. Which reminds me, if you see any hall monitors, you should probably hide.”

  “Just me?”

  “Huh? No, me too. Both of us should hide.”

  “OK. It’s just that the way you said it, it kind of sounded like you meant that just I would need to-”

  Phillp’s explanation was cut off by Chloe grabbing him, both hands latching around his left wrist and tugging full force. He followed her involuntarily, catching himself from falling over with cloppy steps, an uneven stagger that led him out of the hallway and into the…

  No.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  She’d pulled him into the girl’s restroom. It smelled vaguely of baby powder, unlike the boy’s restroom which had more of a dehydrated urine and diarrhea odor.

  “This is…”

  “Look, I know it’s utterly fudged, but we need to hide out here for a minute,” Chloe said, and he was pretty sure she was mocking him with the fudge thing. She pointed a thumb at the hallway. “Hall monitor creeping out there. I don’t think he saw us, but…”

  Phillip couldn’t stop scanning for some place to hide. Could he crouch behind the garbage can, scooting it in such a way so as to pen himself into the corner? Should he huddle in one of the stalls, climbing up onto the seat so his shoes wouldn’t be visible if the hall monitor burst through the door and stalked from toilet to toilet?

  What if someone came in? Say some girl needed to waltz in here and take a big ol’ donkey crap before gym class?

  He took a step back at the thought, edging away from the stalls, his elbow catching on a metal box attached to the wall. He glanced at it, doing a double-take.

  Tampon machine.

  Phillip’s vision went swimmy along the edges. Sweat beaded on his forehead, thick droplets of perspiration sogging into his brow. Was this a panic attack? He thought this might be a panic attack.

  “You OK?” Chloe said, after looking at him for a long time.

  “What? Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “He should be gone by now. Let’s move.”

  They pushed through the doorway and fled the building, Phillip holding his breath until he was safely sealed inside the car.

  Chapter Eleven

  October 30th

  1:39 PM

  Vinyl squeaked as Chloe scooted over the cushioned booth. The door to the kitchen swung open and for a moment, the sizzling of the flat top and the gurgle of the fryer grease could be heard. The delightful smell of French fries and bacon and coffee wafted over to their table, and Chloe's mouth watered. A waitress walked by with a double decker club sandwich and a giant pile of onion rings. Chloe's stomach grumbled. Man, she was starving.

  She yawned. Tired, too. She hadn't slept well again. She had paced around her room until 3 AM, too jacked up on adrenaline to sleep.

  She glanced over at Phillip. He held the laminated menu up so it obscured most of his face, and his eyes shifted from side to side.

  Chloe leaned back in the booth.

  “You alright over there, Turdholder?”

  His eyes stopped roaming and studied her.

  “It's called keeping a low profile,” he said. “I would assume that a delinquent such as yourself would be well versed in the art of being inconspicuous.”

  Delinquent, eh? He gave her a snotty look and then went back to perusing his menu. Chloe smirked to herself.

  It was funny. Chloe had never been in trouble with the law, and she even got decent grades. But Phillip was not the only one that took one look at her and thought, “screw up.” Most people, she'd found, were extremely superficial that way.

  It hardly bothered her anymore. She'd had three years to get used to it.

  She picked up a spoon and tapped it against her lip ring. Click click click.

  The old Chloe, the one that had long blond hair and played soccer and volleyball, thought she knew what people were really like. But the old Chloe didn't know shit.

  That all changed in eighth grade.

  Twas the night before Picture Day. Chloe's mother was in her room, helping her decide how to do her hair for her yearbook photo. Hanging on the outside of her closet was the outfit they'd chosen at the beginning of the year. A white lace blouse layered over a shell pink tank top, and though the neckline was high enough to mostly conceal her ample cleavage, Chloe still hated it for two reasons. O
ne, it was much too form-fitting compared to all the baggy shirts she'd started wearing. Two, the lace was too feminine. Lace was for panties and bras and teddies. The last thing she wanted to be associated with.

  “I changed my mind about what I'm going to wear,” Chloe said. “I think I'm just going to wear my striped polo shirt instead.”

  “Uh,” her mom said, tugging a brush through Chloe's hair. “I don't think so, missy.”

  “Why not?”

  A hair got caught in the brush and Chloe winced.

  “Because, we picked that out especially for picture day. We both agreed.”

  “But I don't want to wear it anymore.”

  Her mom stopped coifing and put a fist on her hip, studying her daughter. “Why are you being difficult?”

  Chloe was too embarrassed to tell her about Faith and Greg Moffit and really just about everyone else at school. About how the boys stared and the girls whispered. About the teachers that constantly battled with their inner horndog, eyes bouncing from Chloe's breasts to her face like they were reading the words to a sing-a-long song on TV.

  Or maybe it was how her mom phrased it. That yet again, this was something Chloe was doing. She didn't ask what was wrong, or just “Why not?”

  Why are you being difficult?

  Chloe picked at the stitching on her quilted bedspread.

  “It doesn't fit me anymore,” she said. “I guess I gained weight.”

  Chloe thought this might elicit some sympathy. Her mom was always on some kind of diet and obsessed over whether or not she was currently able to fit in her “skinny clothes.”

  She got no such reaction. Instead, her mother insisted that Chloe try the outfit on.

  Begrudgingly, Chloe changed into the white and pink ensemble.

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” her mom said. “It fits you perfectly. Like a glove.”

  That's the problem, Chloe thought.

  “Your real problem is that you need to stand up straight, like this,” her mother said, sticking out her own chest. “Roll your shoulders back, and stop hunching like an old crone.”

  Right, mom, Chloe thought. Stick 'em out. Loud and proud.

  She sighed. “Can I please wear something else?”

  “Chloe Marie Trepper, I paid good money for those clothes, and it's way past the 30 day return policy. You are wearing that outfit, missy.”

  Maybe seeing how dejected Chloe looked or possibly just trying to smooth it over, her mother added, “But how about this, honey? You can pick how you want to wear your hair.”

  The next morning, her mother got up early with her, supposedly to help Chloe with her hair. Chloe had a sneaking suspicion it was really to make sure she was indeed wearing the lace blouse they'd picked out.

  As her mother yanked at her hair, subjecting her to the blow dryer and the curling iron, Chloe's eyes fell on her father's electric razor sitting on the edge of the counter.

  Turdholder's voice broke in, parting the cloud of memory that had enveloped Chloe for the last several minutes.

  “What are we doing here anyway? Are we meeting up with some... er... contacts?”

  Something that was part laugh and part cough crackled in Chloe's throat.

  “Contacts?”

  “Other people sympathetic to the cause?”

  “And what cause would that be? The P.A.C.C.? People Against Creepy Clowns?”

  Phillips brow wrinkled, and he dipped his head forward, looking deadly serious.

  “Is that a thing?”

  Chloe laughed in earnest then.

  “Phillip. Dude. There are no contacts. It's just me and you. And we are here,” she lifted a finger and drew a circle in the air, “because I didn't eat breakfast or lunch, and now I'm fucking starving.”

  The waitress appeared to take their order. Phillip stayed hidden behind his menu as he requested the chicken finger platter and seemed reluctant to part with the laminated sheet when the waitress put out a hand to collect it.

  Chloe ordered cheese fries, mozzarella sticks, and a Coke, and Phillip muttered something under his breath about soft drinks being like battery acid on the teeth.

  He must have been feeling naked without his menu to hide behind, and Chloe watched him lift a napkin to keep the lower half of his face concealed.

  Chloe leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “Hey, I have a disguise kit in the car, you know. Fake mustaches and whatnot.”

  He shifted the napkin away from his mouth. “Seriously? Why didn't you say so?”

  Chloe just grinned, and she watched his face change as it dawned on him that she was messing with him.

  “You know, that's very funny. But I don't think you'll be laughing too hard if we get spotted. Truancy is a serious offense.”

  Ah. So he was still paranoid about ditching school. She thought it might be that, but she also hadn't discounted the idea that he didn't want to be seen socializing with Chloe the Freak.

  Chloe sat through her first two classes on eighth grade picture day, wearing a baggie University of Michigan hoodie over the lace top her mother had insisted upon. During her third hour English class, the students were called down to the gymnasium, one by one, to have their pictures taken.

  “Chloe,” Mrs. Posnansky announced from the front of the room. “You're up.”

  On the way to the gym, Chloe made a detour to her locker and then to the bathroom. Under the buzzing florescent lights, she stared at her reflection in the mirror and wondered if she actually had the guts to do it. Her teeth ground together, and she plugged the cord into the outlet on the wall. Her thumb found the switch, flicked it, and the electric razor hummed to life.

  When Chloe reached the gym, there was a line of five students from other classes waiting ahead of her. They jostled each other and whispered upon seeing her. She waited for one of them to make some kind of remark as she took her place in line. But a curious thing happened instead. They all fell silent.

  The photographer, a good-looking guy she guessed to be in his thirties, did stare at her. But not at her chest for once. He couldn't take his eyes off her freshly shaved head.

  And it was different still. He did it only when he thought she wasn't looking, though she caught him gaping out of the corner of her eye. To his credit, he said nothing about it, joking with her and doing his best to get her to smile when her photograph was taken. She did not smile for the picture, though. When she was through, he gave her a thumbs up and said, “Stay strong!”

  She understood then. He thought she had cancer.

  Hushed whispers filled the room when she returned to class. Enough that Mrs. Posnansky looked up from her desk. Her eyes followed Chloe all the way to her seat.

  Yes, there was whispering. Yes, there was staring. But honestly, she was surprised there wasn't more of a reaction. She'd expected someone to say something. An open confrontation. Before, if she'd even so much as gotten up to use the pencil sharpener and caught one of the boys staring, they'd call her Jugs or pantomime something sexual in nature.

  But this was different. Everyone was so careful not to let her see them staring.

  Mrs. Posnansky sent the next person in line down to the gym, a girl named Phoebe Trethaway. Before Phoebe left, Mrs. Posnansky whispered something to her. A few minutes later, there was a light knock at the door.

  Chloe felt the teacher glance at her on her way to answer the door. There were more hushed voices, and then she saw Mr. Philbrooks, the principal, poke his head into the room. His eyes roved over the sea of students before landing on Chloe. He looked alarmed, like a bird startled by a creeping house cat. He withdrew his head immediately. The murmuring outside the door resumed, and then she heard Mr. Philbrooks clear his throat.

  “Ahh, Ms. Trepper...” he trailed off. “Could you come out here?”

  Christ, was she in trouble? Was it against the rules to shave your head at school or something?

  She gathered her books, unsure if this was a permanent removal from cla
ss or not, and went out into the hallway. Usually, such a summons would cause some “oohs” from the other students. Maybe a taunting, “Someone's in trouble!” They were notably silent that day.

  She exited the classroom and Mr. Philbrooks closed the door behind her. He licked his lips, still staring, apparently unsure how to proceed

  “Chloe,” he said, crossing his arms. “Could you tell us what happened? Is there... something going on that we should know about?”

  “Like what?” Chloe asked. Did he think she was being abused or something? She wasn't sure what he was getting at.

  “Are you,” he glanced at Mrs. Posnansky, “sick?”

  It was a beat before it dawned on Chloe exactly what he meant. Right. The cancer thing again. She blinked.

  “Sure,” she said, nodding. “I'm sick. Sick and tired of all the bullshit.”

  The look on their faces? God, it was priceless.

  Mr. Philbrooks took her by the arm and yanked her down to his office.

  Their food arrived and Chloe practically dove headfirst into the cheese fries. Phillip huffed a breath out of his nose, and she stopped chewing just long enough to say, “What?”

  With both his hands placed face down on the table, he gazed at her levelly.

  “We aren't going to say Grace?”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said, dunking a mozzarella stick into a cup of blood red marinara.

  Phillip's face got a little red, but then he composed himself. Bowing his head, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and muttered a few prayers to himself. Chloe resisted the urge to take another bite of food until he was finished.

  “Amen,” he said, then took up his knife and fork. Chloe wouldn't have thought it was possible to eat fried chicken fingers in a prissy manner, but somehow Turdholder found a way.

  His eyes flicked up at her a few times while he ate. The way he avoided eye contact reminded her of how they said not to look a mean dog in the eyes. At least he'd stopped hiding behind his napkin.

  A strand of melty cheese oozed out of one of the deep-fried sticks, and she wrapped it around her finger.

  For a while they didn't talk. They just ate.