by Tom Twitchel
A bedraggled and puffy-faced Russell Chu walked by close enough for me to touch. Seeing him, I felt guilty. But hey, sorry Russell. I was busy getting kidnapped and having the crap beat out of me. He was pushing an old wooden podium with a surface-mounted microphone to the center of the stage. Jockeying it back and forth he finally satisfied himself with its position and then he pulled some cables from a cubbyhole at the bottom and started plugging them into outlets in the surface of the stage. Lights came on in a little open space at the bottom of the podium. He stood up, flipped a couple of switches on the side of the podium, tapped the microphone and frowned. A static crackle and a flash of lights emanated from the base of the podium. He tugged on a panel at the side of the podium, but it wouldn’t open. Bending down, he removed all the plugs, reinserted them and stood up again. Tapping the mic again, he was rewarded by a loud audible thump echoing through the gym. Smiling and nodding, he headed back to the wing where I was hiding. Baffle had been craning his neck watching Russell working on the podium, probably thinking he could do better. Even with the distance separating us, I could feel Baffle’s nervousness. It was like being too close to an electrical generator. My eyes flicked over the interior of the gym, from the unchecked trashcans to the entrance and back to Baffle. Something about the undercurrent running through him confused me, but his anxiety made it too difficult to pin down.
A teacher I didn’t know well walked up to the podium and banged on the mic a couple of times. A loud squeal of feedback screeched over the loudspeakers. Groans and catcalls circulated through the assembly. Smiling, she spoke into the microphone.
“The holidays are upon us.” That was met with applause and whistles. “This weekend, we will celebrate the season at the Christmas concert, which I hope all of you will attend. Today, we have a few awards to hand out to students who have excelled or contributed to our community in a significant way. But first, I want to introduce our vice-principal, my friend and a friend to all of you, Mr. Royce Conroy.”
You can tell the difference between polite applause and enthusiastic, heartfelt applause. The place rocked. There were piercing whistles, screams and a deafening booming applause. It made me happy for Mr. Conroy. He deserved it. If there were any boos, they were drowned out in all the positive noise. Baffle looked queasy and tense. The tension inside of him was still buzzing. He didn’t clap. There was still no sign of Munger and Witkowski. I was making myself dizzy from jerking my head back and forth looking for them.
Mr. Conroy entered from the other side of the stage, his long strides carrying him quickly and smoothly to the podium. Raising his hand in an “aw shucks” wave, he faced the audience and grabbed both sides of the podium with his big-knuckled hands. His brush cut was in fine form, all spiky and glistening in the stage lights shining down from overhead.
He lifted a hand that seemed to shake a bit and patted the air, asking for the crowd to settle down. There were a couple of hollers and whoops, but he got the silence he wanted.
Head bowed for a second, he looked down at the podium, but I hadn’t seen him bring any notes. Twitching his shoulders, he brought his head up and I could see he was struggling with his emotions. Clearing his throat, he adjusted the microphone.
“This is usually a happy time. And for most of us, it is. But before I give the speech I prepared, I want you all to know that the two students who were reported missing have still not turned up. I mention this because these two students are two of Roosevelt’s brightest. You might not know them personally but if you do, you know how special they are. We are praying for their safe return, and the authorities are hopeful as well. I just want to encourage all of you to make good choices this weekend. Celebrate the holidays in a way that honors what you have accomplished and that keeps you out of harm’s way.”
I was having trouble swallowing the lump in my throat. He was talking about Justine and me for sure. The gym was completely quiet. I felt like Tom Sawyer eavesdropping on his own funeral. My feelings were confused. I was swept along with Mr. Conroy’s speech while my nerves screamed as I waited for the goon squad to arrive.
“My speech today is different,” he continued. “I usually tell a few jokes and issue a friendly challenge. I have a challenge that I’ll mention in a minute. I want all of you to know what a few of you know firsthand: I love the students of this high school.” He stopped and took a deep breath, and applause started up, but he waved it off.
“Being your vice-principle is a privilege. It’s a hard job but I feel blessed to be here and I believe that I honor it most of the time. Most of the time—I say that because there are days and moments when sad events, difficult decisions and poor choices test my resolve. This year has been challenging at times and I found myself taking my job, and you, for granted. Then, in the middle of a particular problematic situation, I got a wake-up call. A student who was being bullied and stood up for himself went over the line. I was disappointed. This student is a good person and I didn’t think he had shown good judgment in the way he handled himself. So, I disciplined him. That’s the part of my job I don’t enjoy despite what some of you think.”
When I confronted him, I expected the kind of response I typically get: a denial, a fairytale or stonewalling. But that isn’t what I got. I got honesty. The plain simple truth and this student accepted my punishment without complaint, but also shared a story with me. The things this student has overcome outside of this school and here on these grounds are amazing. It would crush most people, but it didn’t crush him.”
The direction of his speech was making me feel nauseated and weak. It was me and I was embarrassed even though he thought he was disguising my identity. But it also made me feel proud. Glancing over at Baffle, I saw his face twisted in frustration.
“When I knew the backstory, the history that this student had been fighting through, with decency and courage…it woke me up. I can’t put you young people in a box. I can’t categorize you and check off lists and pat myself on the back for doing the part of my job that everyone sees. I can’t allow myself to forget about what’s really important. My job is you! All of you and all about you. This…” he waved his arms indicating the gym and the school grounds beyond, “…this…is all about YOU! And I am thankful that this student, this brave and honest person, attends this school and helped me remember why I wanted this job in the first place!”
I had never heard, or rather not heard, the gym so quiet.
Mr. Conroy was fighting back tears and I was pretty sure everyone could see it, even on the third floor.
“So, my speech is about three things today. First, thank you to a student who had no idea what that experience meant to me. Second, I pledge to all of you to make you come first in all of my decisions here as long as I hold this job. Third, I want something from all of you. I want all of you to pledge to work at extinguishing all forms of bullying on this campus. We can’t afford it and the fact is…it hurts both the person who is being victimized and the person who is bullying. I care about the students of this high school and as corny as it sounds, I want all of you to care about each other too.”
He took another deep shuddering breath. “Can we please do this for each other?”
I was struggling to stay camouflaged and not to cry as if I was eight years old. When the applause started, it caught me by surprise. It dwarfed what had happened earlier. It was like a living, roaring beast. Everyone was standing and stomping. Girls were crying; guys were yelling and chanting Mr. Conroy’s name. It was amazing.
Except, not everyone was standing.
Baffle was still in his chair. He had a phone in his hand and he was stabbing a finger at it frantically. He looked around the gym at the locations where I had removed the bombs and I could see he was frustrated. Then I noticed another trash can on an upper level.
I did a slow turn.
There were another dozen cans scattered throughout the upper levels of the gym. My eyes flicked over the second and third floors, sweat trickling down my fac
e. How could I have missed them? Baffle kept jabbing his finger at his phone. I closed my eyes expecting to hear an explosion any second. Time stretched, and there was thunder from the standing ovation, but there was no smoke, no explosions. Baffle dropped the phone and dug a hand into the pocket of his jeans while his eyes focused on Mr. Conroy and the podium. I started to breathe---
Then, pieces started slamming into place.… Baffle, angry at Mr. Conroy…Russell having trouble getting the audio to work…unable to open the access door…Baffle watching him…watching…the podium.
I stood up, shaking and worried and watched Baffle struggling to pull something out of his pocket. Panicking, I looked out over the crowd for Munger or Witkowski.
Without thinking, I ran from my hiding place, galloping at Mr. Conroy. The curtain billowed from my sudden movement and I got tangled in it for a second. The floor stage was dusty and my shoes slid as I moved forward.
Baffle was still digging around in his pants pocket, looking back over his shoulder toward the entrance. His neighbors were cheering and clapping, focusing on the stage and unaware of his frantic movements.
As I loped at Mr. Conroy, the bone-deep weariness and the muscle tension from sitting in my hiding place caught up with me.
My bad leg cramped, turning my lurching run into a forward falling stumble, and at a moment when I could least afford it, my left leg betrayed me.
I tripped.
My headlong flight had been carrying me toward Mr. Conroy for a high tackle that I had thought would drive him away from the microphone and the podium.
As I fell, I saw Baffle pull another phone from his pocket. Glaring at Mr. Conroy, he started punching at the keypad.
Flailing, I realized that I was going to barrel into Mr. Conroy at a much lower angle.
Tripping had changed my angle so instead of hitting Mr. Conroy high, I hit him in the knees. He was so big and lanky that I only succeeded in knocking him down.
We both went sprawling to the floor.
If I had hit him high, we would have probably both been left standing.
Surprised, Mr. Conroy twisted his body violently and pushed me off him. His eyes went wide when he recognized me.
“Benny? What in the…”
The explosion cut him off, and in a heartbeat, we were covered in dust and wood chips. My ears rang and I could feel myself starting to black out, but as I rolled toward the edge of the stage, I saw Munger and Witkowski running in from the entrance, both of them holding rifles, bursts of light flashing from the barrels. They sprayed gunfire wildly overhead, chunks of plaster exploding as the hail of bullets tore at the ceiling and walls. Witkowski’s face was contorted in rage. He stopped at the mouth of the main aisle and screamed at the crowd. Munger sprang forward, capering and dancing like some demented monkey. To my ringing ears, all of the sounds were muffled. Munger pointed at the stage and shouted to Witkowski. They turned in unison and ran forward, their grinning faces seeming to look right at me.
Something snapped inside my head. The blackout that had threatened a moment before vanished like smoke. A white-hot anger ripped through me. Images stuttered and burned through my consciousness: My mother’s empty room…Dennis on the stairs…Mike beating on me in the park…Munger tripping me in the hall…Miss Hoch in the alley…Justine’s head drooping on her chest…Oso getting shot…and then I saw Munger lower his rifle and take aim at the stage.
My vision went blurry and my head pounded. What started as a groan escalated to a yell as I focused on the two insane bastards who had planned to kill a gym full of innocent people. My knack surged out like a tidal wave and slammed into the two thugs, throwing them forty feet through the air.
Their bodies wind-milled wildly until they landed hard on the lobby floor, where they slid violently into the glass walls—and didn’t move.
People were screaming and running in a mad unorganized dash for safety. I felt hands pulling at me. My head jerked back and bounced off the stage. My eyes swept the gym as incredible pain roared in my head.
Dazed and feeling sick, I saw Baffle running toward an exit.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When the fog lifted and I could process what was going on around me, I found myself on a bed of some kind in a crowded room with a lot of loud voices. I cracked an eyelid to see what was what and noticed that I was in the school nurse’s office.
There was a party going on in the room, if not a party, at least a debate. Several voices were raised. My head hurt from all the talking they were doing. They were arguing, loudly. I closed my eyes to thin slits and eavesdropped.
Mr. Conroy was standing with two men, one fat and looking overdressed in a brown suit and expensive looking tie, the other of average build and wearing a gray suit that looked like it had been bought in a two for one. Principle Black was there too. She was too fashionably pretty to be a principal in my opinion. Most students figured it was just a temporary gig on her way to public office. She was wearing what girls called a pencil skirt and a short jacket. All the fancy people made me feel kind of important.
“I know this boy,” said Mr. Conroy. “We need to get him some serious medical attention, not have some political rally.” He stared pointedly at the fat guy in the brown suit.
Miss Black spoke up. “I asked the mayor here because of the severity of this incident. Calm yourself. In the end, no one was hurt. The nurse said the boy, Benjamin is it? he’ll be fine.”
“He was hurt last summer, a mugging. We should really get him some medical attention beyond the school nurse,” Mr. Conroy growled.
“There are paramedics tending to students in the gym. I asked them to send someone over here,” said Miss Black.
Seemed like a good time to open my eyes and join the conversation.
“He’s awake,” said Gray Suit.
All the others stopped talking and stepped closer to the gurney. Mr. Conroy reached over the side rail and rested a hand on my shoulder.
“How’re you doing, Benjamin?” he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at me.
“Bad headache,” I replied. “Is everybody okay? Did anybody get hurt?”
Miss Black and the fat guy, the mayor I guessed, approached from the other side of the gurney.
“No, thanks to you and the bad timing by the boys who planned the whole thing. They were the only ones who got caught in the blast somehow. It was a miracle really,” she said. Mr. Conroy frowned and I knew why. My freakish burst of knack influence had thrown them back seconds after the bomb went off and they were yards farther away than several people who had gotten out of their seats and crammed the aisle between Munger and Witkowski and the stage.
Mr. Gray Suit noticed Mr. Conroy’s frown. He nodded at me.
“Hi, Benjamin. I’m the district attorney for Seattle. The incident here today is a pretty big deal. We want to make sure these boys are prevented from trying anything like this again. Good to see you survived your act of heroism. How did you pull it off? How did you know?”
“I didn’t know for sure. But I overheard some kids in the hall after the music recital on Tuesday talking about some big thing they were planning.” No need to tell everyone I’d known about it for over a week. “I was going to talk with Mr. Conroy the next morning but Justine and I got mugged outside my apartment building. When I woke up, I was in the hospital and it was already Friday morning. I just got to the assembly as fast as I could. Everything else just kind of happened.”
“But how did you know when it was going to go off?” he asked, smiling. I sensed more than simple well-wishing behind that smile.
“The PA, the podium, it started to act funny. I just took a gamble that it was where they had planted something.”
He nodded.
Touching my arm, the mayor cleared his throat. Probably took a lot of clearing, folds of fat spilled over his collar and his face jiggled when he talked.
“Benjamin, Ben, we are very proud of what you did and what you prevented. We have some people
from the media outside. When you’re up to it.” Mr. Conroy looked disgusted; Miss Black and the D.A. seemed to like the idea.
“I don’t want to be on TV,” I said quietly, and I wanted to be on my way. Too much time had passed and I had a sick feeling about Mr. Goodturn. I needed to get to him stat.
Waving his pudgy hands in the air, the mayor acted as though he could dismiss any worries I might have by simply wishing them gone.
“Not to worry, not to worry. Doesn’t have to be today. They can wait. We can wait, until you’re feeling better.” He smiled and his eyes practically disappeared in creases of fat.
Groaning, I laid my head back. “I don’t want to have my name in the paper or be interviewed.”
The mayor stuck out his lower lip in a confused pout. “We can speak for you if you’re shy. It’s really not a problem.”
The D.A. pushed off the rail at the foot of the gurney. “I don’t think that’s the issue, Gabriel. The boy doesn’t want the attention—at all.”
Miss Black started to say something when the door to the infirmary opened. A female paramedic came in carrying a bulky medical kit and hesitated in surprise. “Excuse me? I was told the boy who got caught in the blast was in here.” She checked off on all of the people in the room and then focused on the mayor, clearly recognizing him. “Are all of you family?”
Stepping forward, a big salesman grin on his face, the mayor said, “We’re here on behalf of the city. There’s nothing to worry about.”
She set the kit on the floor and tapped a clipboard in her hand against her leg. A smug smile spread over her face. “And I’m sure I don’t care. Everybody who isn’t family…out.” Nobody moved. “Now!” I figured she hadn’t voted for the mayor.