Academic Assassins

by Clay McLeod Chapman

  Now I was hollow.

  You know who’s the real Black Hole here? You are, Spence. You constantly drag your pals into the vacuum of your own selfishness. First Babyface, now Sully….

  This was what it meant to be my friend.

  Who’s next?

  More like—Who’s left?

  I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any family. I had my mouth and that was about it. My big, fat, sarcastic mouth.

  My very own black hole.

  Like everybody knows, nothing—not even light—can escape from it.

  Maybe it was time I dove in, myself.

  Once every few months, the Yellow Brick Road needed a little touch-up. The line’s golden hue was under constant attack from hundreds of scuffling heels—so somebody had to pull out the paintbrush now and then and bring its vibrancy back.

  Guess who volunteered for painting duty?

  “Looks like somebody’s turning over a new leaf,” Grayson said when I showed up in the basement. His scarred lips lifted up into an uneven smirk.

  “I always wanted to explore my artistic side,” I muttered. “Might as well try painting landscapes.”

  Grayson handed me my own roller brush. It was attached to the end of an adjustable extension pole for long-distance painting.

  Peering over Grayson’s shoulder, I counted at least fifty cans of egg yolk yellow stacked inside the supply closet. I’d never seen so much paint before.

  Suddenly, I had the urge for a little Farts and Crafts.

  “You got a mile’s worth of painting to do,” he instructed. “That line better be beaming by the end of the day.”

  A team of twenty ants assembled for the job. Table Scrap tagged along with a couple Orphans and Screaming Mimis. “You really ticked off the wrong tribe,” he whispered to me. “Better watch your back. Lotta She-Wolves wandering the halls.”

  The She-Wolves blamed me for their leader getting sent to solitary. Now the pack wanted revenge. Not that I blamed them. The Wolves didn’t have to punish me for what had happened. Felt like I was doing a pretty good job at it myself.

  Take a number, guys….

  I spotted Buttercup amongst our crew. She hefted a can down the fading Yellow Brick Road with one hand as if it were as light as a lunchbox.

  “Here,” she said and swung the gallon can straight into my stomach. She let go and the full weight of the paint yanked on my arms, sending me buckling.

  “Thanks,” I strained.

  “Heard your girlfriend’s locked in the Black Hole,” she said. “If you need anybody to talk about it, you know where to find me….”

  “That’s a sweet offer, Buttercup.”

  “As a friend,” she insisted. “Completely buddy-buddy, I swear. Everybody needs a pal now and then. Even you.”

  She was right. The supply of pals was running drastically low at the moment.

  “Thanks.”

  Our crew was assigned to the corridor connecting the cafeteria to the Hive. I popped the lid on our can and filled up a plastic paint tray with enough golden goo to last Table Scrap and myself a few feet each.

  We got rolling right away, spacing ourselves by ten feet and painting in the gaps. When our brushes touched fresh paint, we ambled down to the next section.

  Most ants kept their heads low as the Men in White sauntered along the hallway, C.R.U.s in hand, ready to shock anyone who misbehaved.

  “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen,” Table Scrap sang in a low baritone. “Nobody knows my sorroooow….”

  “Pipe it down.” Grayson pushed Table Scrap’s shoulder as he ambled by. “Missed a spot.”

  “Sir, yes sir!” Table Scrap tightened his grip on the adjustable pole. I could only imagine what he was thinking of doing with it.

  A hush hung over the hall. The only sound for the next few minutes was the tacky rotation of our brushes rolling over the floor. I lost myself in the yellow line for a while, my thoughts drifting off into that endless stretch of paint at my feet.

  Squeee-squeee-squeak…

  At first, I figured it was a mouse. Maybe Minnie was paying us a visit.

  Squee-squee-squeak…

  But there was a rusty rhythm to this squealing.

  Squee-squee-squeak…

  Like a wheel.

  I spotted a She-Wolf pushing a laundry cart full of dirty linens down the hall. She wouldn’t look my way, her head kept low. Eyes on the ground. But I noticed how tight her jaw was—almost like she was biting her own tongue.

  “Aren’t Napoleons usually the ones on laundry duty?” I asked.

  “Yup,” Scrap answered back.

  The Wolf was about to pass us, that rusted wheel on her cart continuing its shrill squee-squee-squeaking.

  “So why’s this Wolf pushing—”

  Before the synapses in my brain could connect one and one together, a blast of soiled sheets burst out from the hamper.

  I found myself face-to-face with another Wolf, popping out like a rabid jack-in-the-box.

  No time to run. Her slingshot was aimed straight at my face.

  “This is for Sully,” she snarled.

  Table Scrap swabbed his roller brush over her face before she could shoot. Her features scrunched up beneath the even streak of yellow like she was a sour sunflower.

  I had to think fast. These two Wolves weren’t going to back down that easily. Locking my eyes onto the paint tray at my feet, I kicked it, sending a yellow swell of paint across the floor. It washed over the feet of the She-Wolf who’d been pushing the cart. Not that she had noticed. She rushed for me, stepping right into the puddle. Her shoes couldn’t find any traction, slipping-slipping-slipping, until her feet were flung up in the air and her bottom landed smack-dab on the floor.

  Buttercup grabbed the edge of the laundry cart and shoved with all her might. It went crashing into the wall with one Wolf still inside. “Leave him alone!”

  “347678!” Grayson broke out into a steady gallop, trotting toward us with his remote control aiming our way.

  A Screaming Mimi picked up her paint can and splashed Grayson in the face. His C.R.U. slipped out from his hand and skidded across the floor, leaving a yellow streak in its wake. Temporarily blinded, Grayson tried wiping the paint out from his eyes. He looked like a prehistoric embryo, freshly hatched from some massive egg. He could barely stand on his own two feet, slipping and sliding along the floor. By the time he had blinked his way back to the hallway, able to see once again, his eyes settled on me dangling his remote control over a bucket of paint.

  “You dropped this,” I said.

  Grayson’s yellow eyelashes fluttered like sunflower petals. “Don’t—”

  I let go of the remote and—PLUNK—it plunged into a bucket of paint.

  “Whoopsie.”

  Grayson started charging. “You son of a—”

  Traipsing through the paint slick, Grayson’s feet seemed to suddenly decide to head in separate directions. His left foot veered forward on its own while his right slid to the side, like a clumsy ice-skater unable to keep his balance. He tried realigning his feet, but the yellow puddle wouldn’t let him. Before he could stand still, Grayson was buckling over backwards, landing on his butt with a yellow SPLAT.

  Table Scrap turned to me, still gripping his roller brush. “What do we do?”

  “I think it’s time we expressed ourselves, don’t you?” I asked. “Let’s get painting.”

  Table Scrap’s face brightened. He picked up the nearest paint can and without hesitating, doused the walls. A yellow sunburst gushed over the hall. Paint dripped to the floor. Anyone within splashing distance was now covered in yellow freckles.

  I turned to find the pair of She-Wolves standing behind me, looking ready to pounce. “You’re gonna pay for that,” the sour sunflower said.

  “You can fight me,” I said, “or we can both go after the real enemy here.”

  “Merridew can’t take the blame for your big mouth,” one of the Wolves said.

&nb
sp; “Did it ever strike you that maybe Merridew wants you to blame me for what happened to Sully?” I suggested. “If it’s my fault for sending her to the Black Hole, then you guys would come after me—and Merridew would get exactly what she wants. You would’ve done her dirty work without her even lifting a finger.”

  Neither Wolf said a word.

  “You guys have every right to come after me for what happened to Sully. But I want to get her back just as much as you do. More, even. So please—help me.”

  Both Wolves hesitated. “How?” one asked.

  “I’m diving into the Black Hole—and I’m not coming back until I find her.” I picked up a can of paint from the floor and held it out for her. “Lend me a hand?”

  The Wolf grabbed the can. “Just bring her back to us, okay?”

  Splat!

  Lids popped open.

  Splat!

  A wave of paint washed down the halls, crashing against the walls.

  Splat!

  Explosions of yellow burst across the walls, along the floor, over each other.

  Splat!

  If the remote controls were wet, the C.R.U.s would short circuit. The Men in White couldn’t keep their balance as they raced after us. They flopped and fumbled, sliding across the floor as if the Yellow Brick Road had become one long Slip’N Slide. Their starched white uniforms were a perfect canvas.

  The Men in White were now the Men in Yellow.

  “Tidal wave!” Buttercup hollered as she tossed an entire can’s worth of paint into an orderly’s face.

  “Here comes the sun,” a Screaming Mimi sang as she splashed a surveillance camera. Paint dribbled off the lens.

  We were all spackled in paint, from head to toe. Wide toothy smiles beamed out from painted faces.

  The Yellow Brick Road was gone, its rigid parameters lost in a gold splatter pattern.

  So much for coloring in the lines….

  We were ordered to stand along the Yellow Brick Road.

  What was left of it.

  The line itself was now lost in a distorted mess of paint, blurred and blotchy. Yellow footprints scattered over the floor like one of those dance step diagrams.

  Nobody seemed to care if our toes crossed the line anymore.

  I stood close to my pod, leaning against the doorway. I kept my hands tucked behind my back.

  Merridew walked into the Ant Farm, navigating her way around the puddles. She was immediately greeted by the sight of the Tribe’s stick figure, towering over twenty feet. Along the ring of this massive yellow fresco it read:

  BRING BACK BABYFACE! BRING BACK SULLY! LONG LIVE THE ACADEMIC ASSASSINS!

  Talk about a work of art. We had a Michelangelo in our midst.

  Merridew picked her way down the line. Her heels never dipped into the congealing pools of paint, their click-clack echoing through the ward.

  “Congratulations,” she said, finally breaking her stern silence. “All of you. Look at the damage you have caused. What extraordinary damage! What chaos!”

  She clapped.

  “Bravo!”

  The sound of her applause echoed dully through the Ant Farm.

  “Bravo!”

  Merridew kept clapping as she walked down the uneven row of residents.

  “Now tell me,” she pressed one ant. “What exactly has your diminutive rebellion won you, exactly? Do you feel you have achieved something? Anything?”

  She waited for an answer.

  “No? Nothing?” She nodded in agreement. She pointed toward the wall, as if her polished fingernail could crack through the cinder blocks and wriggle out into the free world beyond Kesey. “Today you have proven that you are exactly what the world outside these walls thinks you are. Delinquents. Miscreants. Criminals. You are exactly where you were before—only now you have no freedom, no privileges. You have nothing. You will never leave Kesey now! Never!”

  I cleared my throat. Merridew couldn’t send all of us to the Black Hole.

  Just me.

  I’m calling your bluff, Merridew….

  “So you’re an art critic now?” I asked.

  The powdered foundation around her lips cracked into a grimace. “Excuse me, Mr. Pendleton?” I could smell her mothball perfume as she approached. “Is there something that you would like to say?”

  “Yeah….” I stepped forward.

  Merridew didn’t notice the can of paint that I had stashed behind my back, pressed against the wall by my spine.

  “Mind if I sign my masterpiece?”

  Before Merridew could retreat, I had brought the can over her head. A swell of yellow rushed over her perfectly permed football-helmet hair. It looked as if I had just cracked an egg the size of a football directly against her skull, with the yolk cascading down her forehead, her cheeks, her chin.

  Merridew staggered back, her mouth hanging open in an oval, gasping like a fish. Her face was now completely eclipsed in yellow. Her arms swung out at her sides, blinded by the paint in her eyes.

  “Yellow looks good on you, Miss Merridew,” I said. “I think it’s your color.”

  Just what does a guy gotta do around here to get sent to solitary?

  For the life of me, I couldn’t land my ass in the Black Hole. There were no punishments doled out for my yellow dye job. No shocks from Grayson.

  No nothing.

  Perfect opportunity to get a little reading done.

  I wandered down the warped Yellow Brick Road. The paint had dried into a curving serpent at my feet. The rigid lines that had dictated our path throughout Kesey had twisted into the road less traveled.

  Entering the library, I was instantly greeted by the sight of the aisles swarming with ants, scrambling for ringside seats.

  I saw Orphans. She-Wolves. Screaming Mimis. Even a few Peer Facilitators.

  A book brought us together.

  Now that book was ending.

  We were finally closing in on the climax of Peter Pan. Only two more chapters to go. I felt the bittersweet twinge that comes with finishing a good novel. You never want the story to end, no matter how bad you want to reach the last page and find out what happens.

  Where would we go from here?

  Could we escape into another book?

  What about The Call of the Wild?

  The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?

  The possibilities felt endless. We could go anywhere—escape into any book.

  But first, time to finish Peter Pan.

  We had reached the final showdown between Hook and Peter. Hook had captured Wendy and her brothers, along with the rest of the Lost Boys. Locked up, just like Sully and Babyface and every other ant Merridew had sent to the Black Hole. Now, swords drawn, Peter and Hook were only sentences away from facing off onboard the Jolly Roger.

  Looking at the mass of ants, I asked—“Everybody ready?”

  A resounding YES shuddered up from the empty shelves.

  Table Scrap stood by the shelves. He nodded to me. “Let’s do this.”

  I opened the book.

  Found my place.

  And began.

  “‘Proud and insolent youth,’” said Hook,” I read. “Prepare to meet thy doom.”

  I’d never had such a captive audience before. They hung off every word.

  “Peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with—”

  “So this is what you have been up to, Mr. Pendleton!”

  I glanced up to discover Merridew standing at the back of the library, arms crossed at her chest, staring at me. I half-expected to find the fissures along her face still filled in with yellow, but no. It must’ve taken her all afternoon to sandpaper that paint out from her wrinkles. Her hair was perfectly preserved, immaculate as ever, as if a drop of paint hadn’t touched her. She almost looked younger. Rejuvenated.

  Had she taken a spa day?

  “You’re just in time for our read-aloud,” I said. “Would you like to read a section to the rest of us?”

  “There will be no more readin
g of this…this inciteful filth!”

  “It’s just Peter Pan.”

  “It is propaganda,” she objected. “That is what you are up to here, is it not? You have taken a fairy tale and attempted to pervert its words right under my nose. You have made a mockery of my rules by making a martyr out of Peter Pan! Well, I will not stand idly by while you undermine our system. Hand over that book!”

  “Please, Miss Merridew,” I tried. “Let us finish and we’ll call it a day, okay?”

  “The book. Now.”

  “Just one last chapter….”

  Merridew shook her head solemnly. “I have a surprise for you, Mr. Pendleton.”

  Merridew stepped to the side. It was only then that I noticed a slight figure had been standing behind her. Lifting himself onto his tiptoes for a good view was…

  “…Babyface?”

  “Hello, Spencer.” His voice was flat. Monotone. His eyes had glassed over.

  Lost to the Black Hole.

  “What did she do…”

  I couldn’t finish aloud.

  What did she do to him?

  Babyface only smiled, but I couldn’t find any happiness in his face.

  “Merridew helped me.”

  I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to touch him and see if he was real. I wanted to see if my hand would pass directly through his chest as if he were a ghost.

  Was I imagining him standing there in front of me? Was he actually back?

  What had happened to his eyes?

  All I saw were marbles.

  I wanted to shake him. Hard. Hit him over the head, knock some sense into him, something—anything—to bring the life back to Babyface’s eyes.

  The ace up Merridew’s sleeve had been Babyface. She held onto him all this time, knowing she could pull him out from the Black Hole whenever she wanted.

  She knew I blamed myself for what happened to him.

  Now she was using him against me.

  That was cold.