“I’m fine, Cliff!” said Aaron. “Oh my God, put me down!”
“Don’t move, Aaron. You might be dying. CALL NINE-ONE-ONE.”
So naturally, about one hundred teenagers frantically dialed 911, informing about one hundred different 911 operators of a very horrible and ambiguous medical emergency.
It was enough to get an ambulance to HVHS in ten minutes flat.
“I’m fine!” Aaron explained to the two EMTs—one who was built like an actual bodybuilder, with muscles on top of his muscles, and the other who bore a remarkable resemblance to a weasel (in both stature and facial construct)—both of whom were preoccupied taking his vitals. “I was out for, like, ten seconds.”
“It was more like fifteen seconds,” I said.
“Go away, Cliff!”
“I told you, you need to leave,” said Weasel.
“It’s okay, I’m his brother,” I lied.
The muscular EMT glanced between the two of us, probably noticing that Aaron looked like a Calvin Klein underwear model, and I looked like the missing link of human evolution.
“He is not my brother,” said Aaron.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” I assured them.
“You need to go,” said Muscle.
“Did I mention he’s had a seizure before? He had a traumatic brain injury. His brain was hemorrhaging inside his skull. He needs a CAT scan.”
“Cliff, I swear to God—” said Aaron.
“Do you want to swear to God in person, Aaron? WHEN YOU DIE?”
“You. Out,” said Weasel. He placed his palm in the middle of my back and forcefully guided me out of the nurse’s office. Except, when he opened the door, we were greeted by a wall of teenagers—Esther and her army of zealots.
“Don’t you hate it,” said Esther, “when you’re about to give a spiritual discourse in front of the whole school, but you realize you’re a fraud with nothing important to say, and you have a sudden, inexplicable nine-one-one emergency. Gets me every time! Am I right?”
“Oh my God, shut your Communion hole,” I said.
“Is that Esther?” said Aaron. He attempted to sit up on the vinyl recovery couch—much to the disgruntlement of the EMTs.
“Do not sit up,” said Muscle, gently grabbing Aaron’s shoulders and guiding him back down.
“But seriously, Aaron’s health is the important thing here,” said Esther. She shook her head in a tsk-tsking manner. “I sure do hate for it to come to this, but if you have to forfeit the Sermon Showdown so that Aaron doesn’t die, I guess I understand.”
“Huh?” I said.
“Fine!” said Esther, throwing her hands up in faux-surrender. “It is with a heavy heart that I accept your forfeit.”
“What the hell is going on here?” said Weasel.
“Like hell we forfeit!” I said. “Who died and made you boss?”
“Well, Jesus died so that good may triumph over evil, sooooo…” Esther gave an emphatic shrug.
“Oh my God, why are you so annoying?” I kind of screamed.
“Look, not to be rude, but I have a busy schedule,” said Esther. “I don’t have time for injury-faking athlete babies.”
“Oh no, she didn’t,” said Aaron, sitting up.
“Oh no, you don’t,” said Muscle, laying Aaron back down.
“If Aaron goes to the hospital,” said Esther, “I’m telling the whole school that you two chickened out.”
“I hate you,” I said.
“Hey, there’s no shame in crumbling beneath the fear of God,” said Esther. “I mean, there is, but…you know what I mean.”
“Well, you can take the fear of God and blow it up your ass,” said Aaron, “because I am not going to the hospital.”
“What?” I said.
“Oh yes, you are,” said Weasel. “The big guy’s right.”
“THANK YOU.”
“What you experienced was probably a mild seizure. And if you’ve already had one in the past due to a traumatic brain injury, then it’s possible that you’ve developed epilepsy.”
“What?” said Aaron.
“It’s not as serious as it sounds,” Weasel clarified. “Epilepsy is kind of a blanket term for people who experience seizures—varying from extremely mild to severe. Yours was obviously mild. Typically, in epilepsy, these seizures recur and have no underlying cause. But there are several cases that occur as a result of brain injury. Due to your medical history, you at least need a CT scan before we just let you go. And we gotta take you to the ER for that.”
“And if I refuse?” said Aaron.
I swear, if Aaron wasn’t being diagnosed as a possible epileptic, I would punch him in his seizure-having face.
“Seeing as you’re under eighteen, you don’t really have a choice.” Weasel patted Aaron on the shoulder. “It’s the law, pal.”
“That’s it then,” said Esther. “You forfeit. I win.”
“Not so fast,” I said. “Aaron’s leaving. Not me.”
Esther looked at me like I had attempted to tell a joke but delivered the punchline wrong.
“Yeah, so?” she said.
“So,” I said, “I’ll give our sermon.”
Esther’s look evolved into that of finally getting the punchline, and realizing it was about dead babies.
“Fine,” she said. “You want to play with fire? Then prepare to be toast.”
Esther marched off—chin up, arms straight, fists clenched into tiny balls of fury.
Finally, after a sprawling silence, Aaron said, “Dude.”
Dude, indeed.
I nodded, slightly breathless. “I’m so glad we made that video.”
Needless to say, school may or may not have been thrown entirely off its tracks. Several kids had failed to make it to class, and now Vice Principal Swagley was galavanting about the halls, rounding up kids like the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Seriously, all he needed was a top hat and a handful of lollipops.
Given my fondness over the idea of not being caught by the Swagster, I made another quick stop by my locker (I had missed the previous period entirely) and made a straight line to my next class.
“Hey! Cliff!”
It was Lacey—clear at the opposite end of the hall. She rushed to catch up with me, a strange black bundle clutched in her hands.
When she finally caught up to me—duly out of breath—she extended the bundle.
“Heard you were doing…the Sermon Showdown…by yourself,” said Lacey, in between gasping breaths. “Thought you’d want your lucky hoodie back.”
“Thanks…?” I said. “You do remember the part where I said my lucky hoodie was actually unlucky, right?”
“Well, yeah, but…you don’t actually believe that, do you?”
I gave Lacey a look of supreme disbelief.
“Your brother gave it to you,” said Lacey. “For your birthday.”
“That’s debatable. He was going to give it to me for my birthday. But then he died. Pretty sure it’s cursed.”
“So you don’t want your hoodie back?”
“Well…I do,” I said, thoroughly divided. “Just not now. Not right before the biggest, most terrifying event of my life.”
“You’re playing a video. I mean, all you have to do is sit there. Jack and Julian are operating the projector. What could possibly go wrong?”
“Bird shit and dog shit,” I said. “In a three-second time frame. Fate always finds a way.”
Lacey took my lucky hoodie and pressed it into my chest.
“Take it,” she said. “Also, I went a little crazy with that thumb-in-the-hole thing. The hole is about the size of my fist now. Sorry about that.”
“How in the hell did you—?”
“I didn’t want Aaron to die! OKAY?”
Fair enough.
I took the lucky hoodie and pulled it over my head, slinking my arms in a sleeve at a time. As I did, I felt something—a trace of Shane, lingering in the fabric. A vestige of his
spirit.
Lucky or unlucky, fate had decided for me.
I was wearing this sentimental time bomb to the Sermon Showdown.
It was one of those iconic ’70s Alice Cooper/“School’s Out” moments. The bell rang, and everyone jumped out of their seats and funneled madly out of the classroom door, flooding the halls in violent droves. Most passed their own lockers and—in a Black Friday–level panic—made a straight shot for the Quad.
Thanks to Lacey, I was now wearing my lucky hoodie. So it should have come as no surprise when shit hit the fan.
“WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?” Principal McCaffrey roared.
She asked this in regard to the four hundred students—basically the entire HVHS student population—trying to sardine themselves into the Quad.
Esther and I had to battle our way through the masses.
“It’s a Sermon Showdown,” said Esther. She went on to explain just what the hell a Sermon Showdown was. The more she talked, the more McCaffrey’s face twisted into a pretzel of knotted skepticism. Extra salt, no butter.
I stood on the sidelines, speechless. Things were not looking optimistic for the Sermon Showdown. I should have been relieved. Instead, all I could process was how much time and effort we’d put into this, and how it was all going to be for naught.
“And that,” Esther concluded, “is why we need to have this Sermon Showdown.”
“That sounds wonderful and all,” said McCaffrey, with an appropriate level of teacherly sarcasm, “but I doubt everyone’s parents will be okay with us holding a school-sponsored religious event. I’m sorry, but I have to shut this down.”
“It’s not school-sponsored, though,” said the Grinchiest voice at HVHS.
Spinelli entered the two-and-a-half-person conversation, placing a gnarled hand on my shoulder. Which, considering the height difference, he kind of had to reach for.
“The school didn’t organize this event,” said Spinelli. “These kids did. To simply shut it down would be to disregard their ingenuity and their ability to debate controversial topics. Not to mention their First Amendment rights. Are we the sort of institution that snuffs a teenager’s freedom of speech?”
“Roger,” said McCaffrey, “I’m sure you’re well aware the Establishment Clause imposes limitations on religious speech. It all comes down to government endorsement of religion. To simply host an event of this sort on school grounds would be to endorse it.”
Spinelli waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, baloney. It’s called debate. I used to run the debate team at this very school, and the district hosted all sorts of religion-oriented debates. Should public prayer be allowed in schools? Should intelligent design be taught in science classes? As long as you have two parties arguing opposite ends of a topic, it’s fair game.”
McCaffrey glanced at Esther, who was the apparent spokesperson for teenagekind. “Do you have a specific topic that you’re arguing?”
Esther puffed herself up sumptuously. “I am arguing that the List Aaron claims he received from God is fake.”
McCaffrey turned to me. “And you?”
I didn’t even need to think about it. “I’m arguing that it’s not,” I said.
“These kids are totally in their rights,” said Spinelli. “If you need an adult to officiate, I volunteer myself.”
“Really,” said McCaffrey.
“Also, can we move this thing to the gymnasium? I think we could use a little more room.”
McCaffrey nodded slowly—not entirely convinced that this wasn’t a trick. “Yeah. Okay.”
“Thank you, Joan.” Spinelli turned back around and cupped his hands over his mouth. “All right, you little cretins! We’re moving this party to the gym!”
This caused an optimistic uproar—a supernova of cheers and whooping and overall teenage cretinism. The crowd funneled in every direction they could, just to get out of the Quad—slowly stampeding to the gymnasium.
Spinelli was at the head of the pack—neck and neck with Esther, who clearly didn’t want there to be confusion as to who was really in charge.
“What happened to that man?” said McCaffrey.
I shrugged, feigning cluelessness. “I guess he remembered why he chose to teach?”
McCaffrey’s eyelids became narrow slits of skepticism. “Uh…huh.”
She slowly wandered off. Probably to spy on Spinelli.
“Hello, Happy Valley High School,” said Spinelli. “And welcome to the…uh, what’s it called again? Sermon Showdown? Who the heck came up with that?”
I had whispered the title into Spinelli’s ear. At this question, however, I shrugged awkwardly and sat back down in my seat.
“Welcome to the Sermon Showdown!” said Spinelli. Under his breath, he muttered, “I guess.”
Esther glared.
The crowd, however, thundered their approval. For a crotchety old fart, Spinelli made quite the MC.
Spinelli stood at a portable podium in the middle of the gym—the nucleus of wall-to-wall bleachers, just as packed as any basketball game. On either side of the podium was a chair. To Spinelli’s left sat Esther. To his right—me.
Nearby, Jack and the gang (minus Jack, notably) were setting up the projector, positioned to display the film against the sprawling pull-down screen on the north wall.
I thought Esther might be upset about this—that we were essentially replacing our “sermon” with a homemade movie. Not that it was a secret. We basically filmed the entire school. Everyone knew about it.
But she wasn’t upset. In fact, she seemed rather pleased with the situation. And more than once, I noticed her cast a conspiratorial glance at the Geek Squad, then smile underhandedly.
Now that I thought about it, Julian, Seth, Diego, and Becky all seemed rather stressed about something. But that was normal, right? They were just stressed because this was a big event, right? Everything was fine.
Everything
was
fine.
Remember what I said about public speaking being one of my greatest fears, second only to little people? Well, let me clarify. Just sitting here—not even doing anything yet—I was somehow paradoxically sweating and shivering. It was hardly a stretch to call my symptoms flu-like. Also, my throat felt like the setting of a Mad Max film.
“Now, for the sake of school ethics, we’re gonna do things a little differently,” said Spinelli. “Despite what the…erhrm…title of this event may suggest—this is a debate. An unconventional debate, yes, but a debate regardless. Meaning our two debaters here are arguing a topic. And boy, do we have one for you. Recently, one of our students has claimed something rather spectacular. Aaron Zimmerman claims he has received a List from God. A List—he claims—that will make Happy Valley High School a better place.”
This elicited quite the response—laughter and booing and cheering—all on a rather equal scale.
“On the affirmative side, we have Clifford Hubbard, defending Aaron’s claim—namely the validity of the List. On the negative side: Esther Poulson, who thinks it’s a load of hogswallop. Now the way this goes, we have two speeches from both parties. To kick things off, we’ll receive a constructive presentation on the affirmative side—aka, Cliff—introducing his side of the argument and any evidence he sees fit to present. Then the negative side—Esther—will refute his claims and present her side of the argument in a constructive speech of her own. This will be followed by one rebuttal presentation from each party, in turn. Any questions?”
I didn’t know who Spinelli was asking, but I, for one, wanted to know if there was any way I could move to Canada. Immediately. Our video would only cover one of the two speeches I was required to give. Which meant that, eventually, I had to do real public speaking. Like, the kind that comes out of one’s mouth. And I just didn’t know if I could handle that.
“No? Then let’s begin.” Spinelli turned and gave me an encouraging grin. “Cliff, the floor is yours.”
Spinelli stepped aside and gestured me to the podium.
I took a deep breath.
I stood up.
I walked to the portable podium—a whopping five feet away. Somehow, I managed to turn this into a three-minute commute. When I finally reached it, I lifted the microphone to my mouth, which apparently was a terrible mistake because I proceeded to breathe loudly into it.
I glanced at the large pull-down screen. It was still blank.
“So…” I said, somewhat out of breath. “Aaron and I made a movie…”
Aaaaaaaand that was about all I had. I turned around to give Julian and the gang a desperate Please start the movie now look.
Except Julian was already jogging toward me. To say that he looked distressed was an understatement.
When Julian reached me, he whispered, “We’re experiencing a little bit of a, um, technical difficulty? But it’s cool.”
I stared. “How exactly is it cool?”
“Jack’s taking care of it.”
“Taking care of what?”
“So, the drive that the video is saved on…?”
“No,” I said, pointing a finger. “Don’t you even.”
“We may or may not have somehow…lost it.”
“Oh my God.”
“But it’s cool,” said Julian. (For the second time. Did he even know what cool meant?) “Jack ran home half an hour ago to find it. And just so you know, according to Pottermore, he’s a Hufflepuff. And Hufflepuffs are excellent finders.”
“I’m supposed to be speaking now!” I whisper-screamed.
“It’s cool. He lives just down the street. We’ll have the video ready by your rebuttal speech—promise.” Julian snapped his fingers, pointed at me, and gave me a Go get ’em, Tiger wink. “You got this.”
And then he hastily retreated to the projector.
I rotated—slowly—like the second hand of a clock. I made vague eye contact with roughly four hundred faces, waiting for me to say something. Anything.
I turned back around and—like Julian—retreated.
But I didn’t get far. I stopped and stooped in front of Spinelli, trying to make my body as small as possible. “So, um, something happened—technical difficulties and such—can I forfeit my first speech, please?”
Neanderthal Opens the Door to the Universe Page 26