The Monkeyface Chronicles

by Richard Scarsbrook

  “Hello, Ernie,” my grandfather says.

  “Mr. Packer, if you don’t mind, sir, since I’m conducting official business at the moment.”

  “Then I don’t suppose you’ll mind referring to my son’s wife as Mrs. Skyler, rather than by her first name.”

  “Did I call you June?” Packer says, flashing his hundred-watt grin at Mom again. “I didn’t realize. I suppose we’ve known each other for so long that . . . ”

  My grandfather clears his throat.

  “Well, then,” Mr. Packer says, “to the business at hand.”

  He looks down at my mother’s behind as he takes her coat, then ushers her to one of the two upholstered chairs facing his Vice Principal’s desk. I sit down beside Michael on the hardwood bench reserved for kids who have been sent to the office for misbehavior. So much for standing up.

  “Former Mayor Skyler,” Mr. Packer says, again not quite looking at my grandfather, “if you wouldn’t mind waiting outside the office, sir. What we are about to discuss is confidential, and . . . ”

  My grandfather hangs up his coat, and sits down in the chair beside my mother. “No need for such formality, Ernie,” he says. “Just call me Mr. Skyler.”

  “Well, see Mr. Skyler,” Mr. Packer says, “what we are about to discuss is confidential, and, as you are not one of Philip’s actual parents . . . ”

  “My son is unable to attend this meeting,” my grandfather says, “so I’ll be serving as his proxy. I’m sure that will be acceptable?”

  “Lanny can’t pry himself away from his mysterious work,” Mr. Packer says, “even to discuss the welfare of his son?”

  My grandfather glares at him.

  “My son’s name is Landon. He hasn’t gone by the name Lanny since grade school. Today I will be serving as his proxy. Unless there is some sort of problem with that, in which case I’ll just make a call to one of my Trustee friends at the school board office to secure the proper . . . ”

  “Uh, no, no,” Mr. Packer says. “It won’t be a problem at all.”

  Mr. Packer closes the office door, and then tries to appear casual and comfortable as he sinks into in the overstuffed faux-leather chair behind his big desk.

  Mom straightens her back, raises her chin a little and folds her arms across her chest. Like most of the other mothers with kids in classroom 8-C, my mother is a stay-at-home mom, but unlike them, she is never seen in a terrycloth bathrobe in the middle of the afternoon. Mom wears high-heeled shoes, well-tailored skirts, and trim-fitting blouses, like the professional woman she once was. When my grandfather was the mayor of Faireville, he hired my mother fresh out of the Administrative Secretarial Program at Gasberg College, which is how she met my father.

  “June, Mrs. Skyler, I mean,” he stammers, “I, em, couldn’t help noticing that you’ve got, you seem to have, uh, lipstick or something on the collar of your blouse.”

  “That’s Philip’s blood,” she says.

  “Oh. I see. Blood.” He picks up a sheet of paper from the top of his desk and ceremoniously places a pair of little reading glasses on the end of his nose. “Well then, it seems that your boys were involved in a physical altercation this afternoon.”

  “Two bullies beat the hell out of Philip,” my grandfather says evenly. “Why don’t we call it as it is?”

  “Well, according to the information that’s been accumulated so far on this Incident Report, it was in fact Philip who first attacked Grant Brush.”

  “What?” Michael yelps. “Are you kidding me?”

  Mr. Packer raises his index finger in Michael’s direction, without looking away from the Incident Report. “According to Grant’s testimony, which is corroborated by his brother Graham’s, Grant simply approached Philip to wish him a happy birthday — happy birthday, by the way, Philip, and you too, Michael — at which point Philip, without any apparent reason, attacked Grant.”

  “That’s bullshit!” Michael says. Normally, he wouldn’t say ‘shit’ if he were choking on a mouthful of it.

  “Michael!” Mom yells.

  “Language, Michael,” our grandfather says, never once unlocking his cool eyes from Mr. Packer, who shields himself with the Incident Report.

  Mr. Packer looks at Michael over the rims of his little reading glasses. “Michael,” he says, trying to sound kindly and wise, “did you actually see how the fight started?”

  “No,” Michael grumbles. “Grant and Graham were already on top of Philip when I got there.”

  “Well, that’s consistent with Graham and Grant’s testimonies. They said you didn’t arrive until after Philip attacked Grant, and while they were trying to restrain Philip, you intervened.”

  “Restrain him? They were giving him Birthday Beats! Birthday Beats aren’t allowed, Mr. Packer!”

  “Well, Michael,” says Mr. Packer, continuing with the Socrates act, “so-called ‘Birthday Beats’ are against school policy, and Graham and Grant Brush seem to be quite conscious of that fact. Perhaps, though, since you didn’t actually see how the altercation started, you may have mistakenly assumed . . . ”

  “They were giving Philip Birthday Beats!” my brother protests.

  “Mr. Packer,” my grandfather interjects, “if it was Philip who attacked Grant Brush, then how do you explain the fact that Philip is the one with the black eye and the bruises all over him?”

  Mr. Packer hides behind the Incident Report again. “Allow me to quote directly from the testimony of Grant Brush: ‘Philip was swinging his arms so wildly at me that he accidentally hit himself in the eye. He was so out of control that me and Graham thought we had better hold him down, so he didn’t hurt himself more. We were just trying to do the right thing.”

  Mom speaks up for the first time. “So you’re telling us that Philip hit himself in the face? Really, Ernie.”

  Mr. Packer places the Incident Report on the desktop, and removes his reading glasses. He looks at my mother. “June, Mrs. Skyler,” he says, “when you came here in September to enroll Philip, I warned you that home-schooled students often have a difficult time adjusting to the social environment of formal education. I also advised you that Philip’s, well, unusual appearance might make social acceptance by his peers difficult. We’ve done our best to help Philip adjust; I even personally ensured that he was placed in a class with a more deliberately paced learning environment.”

  A more deliberately paced learning environment. So I was right. They shoved me into the Reject Class because of my face.

  My mother shoots a quick, cold look at my grandfather. She and my father had argued many times about sending me to school. Mom wanted to keep me at home until I started high school, but Dad insisted that I needed to “face the real world” sooner rather than later. When approached to cast the tie-breaking vote, my grandfather agreed with my father. And that was that.

  “I’m afraid I predicted this unfortunate outcome some time ago,” Mr. Packer sighs. “You should have trusted me.”

  “Listen, Ernie, Mr. Packer,” my grandfather fumes, leaning forward on Packer’s desk, “we’re supposed to be able to trust you to keep our boys safe at school. Philip was beaten up by two kids who are not only bullies, they’re also liars.”

  Mr. Brush, the Principal, bursts through the door between Mr. Packer’s office and his. Mr. Packer, Mom, Michael and I all jump in our seats; my grandfather does not.

  “How dare you!” Mr. Brush bellows, his fleshy neck red against his starched white collar, his jowls shaking dramatically. “My boys are good, upstanding, honest young men. How dare you call them liars! I’m raising a family with strong moral values.”

  “Yes, Clarence,” my grandfather says coolly, rising from his chair, “I remember hearing you say that in the speech you gave when you were running for the local Conservative Party nomination. Quite stirring. I’m sure you’ll win next time.”

  It’s no wonder that my grandfather was re-elected as the mayor of Faireville so many times. Those eyes of his, the deep, confident voice, h
is towering height, his full head of silver hair; he is the physical definition of Authority. Despite having retired from the mayor’s office years ago, my grandfather still carries much local political currency. When they see him driving through town in his old Ford, or tending the gardens behind his two-bedroom bungalow near Church Square, they see a lack of pretension, which small-town folk despise in politicians. That he wears a suit and tie whenever he leaves his home shows them that he still has respect for his former office, but the scar in the middle of his upper lip, left by a flying puck during a childhood hockey game, tells them that he is still one of them. The people of Faireville respect and trust my grandfather, and Mr. Brush knows it.

  “How dare you,” Mr. Brush says again, with a little less thunder this time. His thin moustache twitches, and his oil-barrel chest deflates. He snatches the Incident Report from Mr. Packer’s hand and says, “I’ll take it from here, Ernie.”

  My grandfather takes a step toward Mr. Brush, extends his right hand, arches his bushy white eyebrows, and says, “Mind if I have a look at that?”

  Mr. Brush’s little moustache is still twitching, and his small black eyes have narrowed to slits. He looks like he might burst out of his three-piece suit, but he hands over the Incident Report.

  “Philip,” my grandfather says, “do you agree with the version of events you’ve heard read from this page?”

  This is the first time since we arrived at the school that anyone has asked me a direct question. I shake my head no.

  “Michael, does this story accurately represent the facts?”

  “No,” Michael says firmly.

  “Sounds like somebody is lying,” my grandfather says to Mr. Brush, snapping the Incident Report in front of his face.

  “Look, Vernon,” Mr. Brush says, taking the page back, trying to sound reasonable, “It seems to be their word against Graham and Grant’s. Perhaps Philip and Michael somehow misunderstood the situation. Not one other student has provided an alternate explanation of the situation.”

  “Why don’t we go ask them?” Mom suggests.

  While Mr. Brush grumbles, “Really, I don’t see the need to interrupt classes for such . . . ” Mr. Packer says, “I don’t see how it could hurt.”

  Mr. Brush glares at Mr. Packer, who mutters, “It’s only a few minutes until dismissal anyway.”

  Mr. Brush sighs. “Fine, then. I’ll go right now and personally ask the students in each of the grade eight classes if . . . ”

  “We’ll come, too,” my grandfather says.

  “I’m not sure if that would be appropriate, given that . . . ”

  “We’ll come, too,” my grandfather insists, somehow appearing even taller.

  We all assemble in classroom 8-C. Our family stands at the back corner by the door. Every time one of the other kids takes a quick backward glance at me, I feel a sting in my chest like a little bullet striking.

  “Stainless steel, Philip,” my grandfather whispers to me in his deep, confident voice. “Stainless steel.”

  I stand up straighter. The little bullets bounce off me.

  Mr. Brush stands before the front chalkboard flanked by Grant and Graham, who was fetched from 8-A. The Principal stands tall in his pinstripe suit, sucking in his belly and puffing out his chest. He places a hand on each of his sons’ shoulders. The three of them together, with their military stances and their close-cropped haircuts, look like statuettes atop a curling trophy.

  Miss Underwood sits at her desk in the front corner, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. Mr. Packer stands beside her desk, fidgeting with his reading glasses.

  “So, once again, students,” Mr. Brush intones, his voice booming against the cinder-block walls, “did anyone here witness the incident this afternoon between Philip and Michael Skyler and Graham and Grant Brush?”

  Silence.

  “Nobody?”

  Silence.

  “Well, then . . . ”

  “If you saw what happened,” Miss Underwood interjects, “this is the only chance you will get to say anything. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

  “Yes, thank-you, Miss Underwood,” says an irritated Mr. Brush. “As I was saying, since there doesn’t seem to be . . . ”

  Cecil Bundy timidly raises his hand.

  “Excuthe m-m-me, thir,” he stutters, his eyes already filling with tears, “I th-th-think I m-m-may have theen th-th-th-thomething.”

  “This is no time for games, Cecil,” Mr. Brush sighs, taking a step closer to the boy. “This is a very serious matter. Very serious.”

  “W-w-well, thir,” Cecil lisps, looking at his desktop, “I, I think I thaw th-thomething.”

  Brush takes another step closer to Cecil, towering over him. “You think you thaw . . . ”

  Grant snickers.

  Mr. Brush glares at his son, then turns his crocodile gaze back on Cecil. “You think you saw something, Cecil?”

  A tear dribbles from Cecil’s eye, and he sniffles. Grant snickers again. Graham elbows him.

  “I th-th-thaw what happened, thir.”

  “You saw Philip lose his temper and attack Grant? And you saw Graham trying to help defend his brother?”

  “No,” Cecil says, drawing a deep, shaky breath, “I th-th-thaw Gwaham holding Philip down while Gwant gave Philip b-birfday beats.”

  “Well,” Mr. Brush says incredulously, taking a step back from Cecil, “Did anyone else in the class see what Cecil saw?”

  The other kids just sit there looking down at their desktops.

  Mr. Brush taps his toe on the floor for what seems like an eternity, scanning the top of each downturned head with his bulging eyes. Finally, he says, “Well, then, it really doesn’t seem that there is enough . . . ”

  Adeline Brown raises her hand.

  “Yes, Adeline?” Mr. Brush says impatiently.

  Like most of the kids who attend the Tabernacle of God’s Will, Adeline hardly ever talks; but, unlike the rest of them, when Adeline does speak, it’s difficult to get her to stop. The words spray out of her like bullets from a machine gun with a stuck trigger.

  “I saw what happened, too. I watched the whole thing. Graham and Grant told Philip they were gonna give him Birthday Beats, and then they held him down and started punching him because it’s his birthday today, even though Birthday Beats are against the rules. Grant called Mr. Packer Mr. Pecker, and Graham called him Ass-Packer, and they said they didn’t care about the no Birthday Beats rule at all, and no adults were there to see what happened because Miss Underwood was in your office, and Grant and Graham punched Philip twenty times, even though it should have only been thirteen times because Philip turned thirteen today, not twenty, obviously, but they started counting the punches all over again after Michael tried to make them stop, but Graham and Grant’s friends held onto Michael, and, like . . . ”

  “All right, Adeline,” Mr. Brush interrupts, but she keeps right on going until the dismissal bell rings. Usually all the students would immediately spring from their seats, but today nobody moves.

  “So,” says Mr. Brush, after the echo of the school bell has faded, “is there anyone else who has the same story as Cecil and Adeline?”

  One by one, other students raise their hands.

  Mr. Brush slouches a little. “Grant, Graham,” he says to his sons, “go to the office, please.”

  “Gonna walk with us, Dad?” Grant wonders.

  “No, Mr. Packer will escort you. Mr. Packer, please see that an Official Notice of Suspension is filled out for each of them, and call their mother to come pick them up.”

  Grum and Grunt look stunned as they are led out of the room by Mr. Packer, whose clenched-lipped, wrinkled-brow expression fights to conceal a slight grin.

  Mr. Brush turns to the class and says, “You are dismissed.” He leaves the room without saying another word, with the Incident Report still clutched in his hand.

  Yellow to Blue

  The screech of the whistle echoes through the gymnasium.


  Sneaker soles honk and squeak as we stop running around the gym and freeze in position.

  “SQUAD FORMATION!” Mr. Packer barks.

  We scramble to form four straight, parallel lines facing the coach, who stands beneath a basketball hoop like a Roman warrior in track pants. When Mr. Packer is sporting his navy blue T-shirt with the word COACH stenciled on the front, you’re dealing with the real man, and you had better fall in line. The whistle chirps again.

  “INSTRUCTION POSITION!”

  We drop to the floor on our behinds, cross-legged, backs straight, hands in our laps; no talking, no fidgeting, no nonsense. “TODAY. WE. WILL. BE. PLAYING. FLOOR HOCKEY!”

  Mr. Packer enunciates each word succinctly. It comes as no surprise to anyone that we are playing floor hockey again. Mr. Packer is the head coach of the Faireville Blue Flames Triple-A Bantam Hockey Club; when he’s not playing Vice Principal, he is always in his blue leather club jacket with “HEAD COACH” emblazoned on both sleeves. In fact, our Phys. Ed. classes are devoted exclusively to playing floor hockey, except for a couple of weeks in early September when we play soccer, to justify the soccer goalposts donated to the school by the club to which Mr. Brush belongs.

  With the boys of the three academically segregated classes put together like this twice a week, Mr. Packer has made the progressive educational decision to divide us into four “squads” — blue, white, red and yellow — based on what he supposes our athletic abilities to be. Our squad assignments are permanent for the entire year; each of us was required to purchase a blue, white, red or yellow T-shirt as part of our official Faireville Public School gym uniform.

  “BLUE SQUAD! WHITE SQUAD! FACEOFF POSITIONS!”

  My brother, Michael, is on the Blue squad, along with Graham and Grant Brush, Brian Passmore, Trevor Blunt, and Bernie Wall. It’s not a coincidence that all six of these boys play for the hockey team Mr. Packer coaches, and that their gym T-shirts are the same colour as the navy-blue jerseys the Blue Flames wear for home games. Michael centres the top forward line on the team, with Grant Brush on the right wing and Graham on the left. Blunt and Passmore (a great name for a hockey player, I think) are the top defensemen on the team, and their starting goaltender is Wall (maybe the best name ever for a goalie). Passmore is one of Michael’s best friends, but my brother doesn’t care much for Grum, Grunt, or Blunt; nevertheless, you play with whoever the coach tells you to.