Where the Cats Will Not Follow

by Stephen Stromp

  “Did you forget your combination?” I heard a smarmy voice ask. I clutched the knob and closed my eyes for a moment, hoping he’d just pass by. But I felt another splash of the liquid. I broke out in an instant sweat. The sweat mixed with the liquid, giving me a moist, uncomfortable feel that sparked a tingling chill across my shoulders. Then came the aroma: woodsy and sweet, with a dash of rubbing alcohol. It was an aggressive scent. It could’ve smelled appealing in small doses, I supposed. But with the amount doused on me, it was a potent bomb.

  Feeling queasy enough to vomit, I turned to face him. He held a dark-green plastic bottle of what had to be the cheapest musk cologne on the market. And my back marinated in it. Ian had this look about him. It was something, maybe in his smile, that made it seem as if I could be, or actually was, his friend. So as pathetic as it was, I smiled back at him. I even laughed a little to show that I was in fact in on the joke too. That I could take being pranked. That I was just like one of his groupies—that’s what I called them, in my head at least—the nameless and faceless bunch that gravitated to his meanness.

  Once more, he shook the bottle in my direction. It was as if the liquid came at me in slow motion as it shot across the hall. It splashed my face and ran down the front of my sweater. I wiped my face, but nothing could be done to quell the overpowering fumes. My eyes watered. My head began to pound. Ian’s deceitfully warm smile disappeared as he burst into laughter. The groupies laughed too, making it clear: I was not one of them.

  I didn’t have friends in junior high. I was used to that. Yet a curious thing happened when I started high school: The friends I didn’t have, for some reason, became my enemies. Perhaps I was an easy target. I ate lunch by myself. Was too skinny. Too quiet. Too weird. They laughed because they knew they were untouchable. How safe it must’ve felt to be part of the group—protected, empowered, and all too willing to point, to laugh, to enjoy the benefits of not being me.

  While most of the groupies were just a collage of generic faces, one stood out: Ian’s head groupie, Todd the Toad. His response to the situation was to pretend to masturbate while dancing a sort of jig around me, his tongue flicking in and out. I had no idea how to interpret this, how it related to Ian splashing me with the cologne, or how anyone could’ve found it remotely funny. But of course, to the others, this was hilarious.

  On the football team, Todd played whatever position heavy guys were supposed to be good at. He had broken his collarbone the previous season. Ever since then, his neck seemed incapable of moving independent of his shoulders. He reminded me of a toad—thick and stiff. So in my head, I referred to him as Todd the Toad whenever I was forced to look at him. His eyes darted back and forth as he stared me down. He breathed with exaggerated groans while he continued his perplexing gestures.

  I was pissed off. Afraid. But didn’t dare lash out. I couldn’t even say a word without being demolished one way or the other. I was powerless. So instead, I did the only thing I could: I imagined the heads of everyone surrounding me exploding, their skulls bursting open and chunks of their brains sticking to the wall. Yet no matter how intensely I focused, their heads remained frustratingly intact. My concentration was broken by the Toad, who finally concluded his performance. “What’re you lookin’ at, faggot?”

  Defeated, I turned away from the crowd and faced my locker once more, attempting to leave the scene as quickly as I had been dragged into it. But I wasn’t granted relief. I felt breathing on the back of my neck. I turned to see the Toad, who began squealing in my ear like a pig. His torture culminated in a swift shove. My body crashed into the lockers. Scrambling to gain control of my limbs, I imagined I looked like a marionette dancing with tangled strings.

  By the time I steadied myself, I felt a presence blanket the hall. It silenced the crowds. It hushed the ambient chatter and laughter. I no longer sensed Ian, Todd, or the groupies over my shoulder. The reprieve allowed me to once again concentrate on the spinning numbers. Slowly, I rotated the knob clockwise, watching the tiny hatch marks pass under the groove. I stopped at twenty-seven. I twisted the dial counterclockwise until I reached sixteen and spun it clockwise again until I reached eight. 27-16-08. I lifted the latch and tugged open the metal door. Funny how things come to you. I swapped my math book for my English book. With some hesitation, I slammed shut the locker, wondering if I’d ever get it open again.

  I feared that the calming spell would be broken, that as I turned to face the hall, Ian, Todd, and their persecuting crowd would still be leering at me. Yet they had been swapped out—for Everett and Phillip. I was at once relieved—and crushed—to see them. Had they witnessed my humiliation? I forced my spine to straighten, attempting to appear as though I had some semblance of confidence.

  “We’re mowing the apartments over on Elmridge tonight,” said Everett. “We have to be there before four o’clock. So either you can come with us, or you’ll have to take the bus.”

  “I suppose we could still give him a ride even if he didn’t want to come. We’d just have to roll him out of the car as we drive by your house,” joked Phillip.

  “I’ll go!” I happily agreed.

  “What’s that smell?” Phillip asked, crinkling his nose. I clutched the front of my sweater, futilely attempting to cover my stench.

  Everett leaned in close for a whiff of his own. I backed against the locker as he inhaled deeply. Then, like some kind of animal that could decode a rival’s message via scent, he turned his head and scowled to the corner of the hall where Ian and Todd the Toad stood talking to the Blonde Eagle and Kirsten. The Blonde Eagle was the girlfriend of Todd the Toad. I didn’t know her real name, but her feathered hair, so bleached it was actually white, reminded me of white eagle feathers. I knew Ian’s girlfriend’s name was Kirsten because she was in my English class. I didn’t have a nickname for her—not then anyhow.

  Somehow, Everett knew what had taken place. He didn’t have to see it. And I didn’t have to tell him a thing. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “We’ll stop this,” he promised. “And I have an idea how. We’ll meet in the cornfield, tomorrow after school, to talk it over.” I was elated. Since school had started, we hadn’t been in the cornfield. I was anxious to get back, especially since the corn was nearly ready to be harvested. Yet I was also confused. Why was Everett mentioning a visit to the field in front of Phillip? Except for the dig, Everett hadn’t invited Phillip to take part in any of our adventures that summer. “Yeah, Phillip’s coming too,” Everett affirmed. “Now get to class.” He gave me a wink before he and Phillip headed to the corner of the hall.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder and took off in the opposite direction. To Ian and Todd, it must’ve been intimidating: two upper classmen approaching. And Everett had an overpowering presence, a burning intensity, whenever he was focused or angered. I picked up my pace as I heard a rumbling murmur escalate to an uproar. I neared Ms. Davis’s classroom with a smirk on my face, knowing Ian and Todd were experiencing Everett’s wrath—and eager to learn just what else he had planned.

  14

  The Magnetic Ceiling

  Knobby, leafless trees lined both sides of a dirt path leading to a tiny moss-covered cabin. The surrounding field was full of the most beautiful wildflowers: purple, blue, and yellow. I took my time wandering the path, gazing over the field and to the wilderness beyond. I wondered who I’d meet when I’d finally step up on the covered porch and knock on the door . . . Gazing into my locker’s dial wasn’t my only mode of escape. The painting above the radiator in Ms. Davis’s classroom was even easier to dissolve into. And if I cocked my head just right, no one noticed I wasn’t really there.

  I was inside the painting when Todd the Toad entered. I didn’t notice him until he straddled the desk in front of me and greeted me with, “Hey, faggot.” My stomach came alive with that familiar sickness. Normally the Toad sat on the other end of the room, leaving me in peaceful isolation with my cabin painting. That day, however, he was feeling particularly vengeful
. “You smell real nice,” he said as he brought his nose in for a whiff. “Sexy!” On cue came laughter from several groupies, also straddling their desks to participate in their favorite spectator sport. “We did you a favor,” he continued. “Now you can smell real good for your brother. Because we all know you two sleep together. Don’t ya, buddy?”

  I stared forward, unresponsive. I found it revealing how the Toad became more dominant, more vocal, when Ian wasn’t around. It said something about their pecking order. There was an insult somewhere in that thought I could’ve slung back at him. But I couldn’t formulate it on the spot. And even if I could’ve, I wouldn’t have dared.

  “Your lover didn’t appreciate our favor, did he?” he continued. “Your lover likes to throw a hissy fit when we fuck with ya, huh?”

  “I guess,” I said meekly.

  He let out an exaggerated laugh. “Yeah, I knew you two were lovers. It’s all right. You can admit it. You two are bed buddies, huh?” Every eye in the classroom was locked on me, anticipating how I’d answer. The sickness in my stomach became a quagmire I couldn’t escape by simply gazing out the window or focusing on the painting. “You guys sleep together, right?” he persisted.

  My eyes met his darting frog eyes. My face was red-hot. My throat was dry. Finally I decided to just give in. Just give them what they want. Maybe then, they’d be satisfied. Maybe then, they’d feel I’d been decimated enough to leave me be. “Yes!” I declared in the clearest voice I could conjure. “We sleep together.”

  Todd’s face lit up with delight. He flashed his horse teeth as he produced the widest grin. He chuckled at first. The chuckle segued into a more sinister laugh, followed by a look of disgust. “Gross!” he shouted and immediately turned away from me. He scooted his desk forward several feet. The groupies did the same, separating themselves from me. Shunning me. Leaving me with my heart in my stomach and my stomach on the floor. Kirsten, sitting near the front of the classroom, turned back and gave me a half smile. I lowered my head.

  By the time Ms. Davis entered the classroom, I had my notebook out doodling. With my angst and nervous energy, I dragged the pen forcefully across the paper, nearly ripping a hole. But as my breathing steadied, so did my hand. I began controlling the pen, guiding it so I could draw what was in my mind. I drew what allowed me to escape back to summer; I drew the outline of a horned monster. Strange how an image of evil could bring me more serenity than a classroom. But it felt familiar. And it was hardly frightening at all since Everett and I had defeated the monsters dozens of times before school had started.

  Ever since the night they escaped the walls, the monsters had inhabited the woods and the fields. During the day, they’d hide. I didn’t know where. Maybe within the stalks? The tall grasses? Underground? But at night, they’d emerge. We’d often sneak downstairs to find a group of horned monsters tapping on the sliding glass door, politely prompting us to engage in battle. Sometimes we’d sneak into the corn at dusk to surprise the skeletons. We’d creep up on them. Trip them. Everett would grab a giant arm and I a giant leg, and we’d tug on their limbs until they’d collapse. Sometimes we’d have to fight our way through a horde of horned monsters to make it to the craft, which waited for us anew each evening. Other times, we’d make it to the craft unimpeded—only to find it surrounded when we got there. Everett would heroically fend off the demons as I unlocked the hatch. Everett had become an expert pilot. And I turned out to be not so bad of a copilot. We only crashed a few more times.

  While at night we battled demons, during the day, we were landscapers. Phillip had gotten a job with RJs Landscaping cutting grass for homes and businesses five days a week. He convinced Everett to apply, and he too was hired. Even though I wasn’t an official employee, I’d often ride along when they were sent together on a job. They paid me a small cut of their wages for pulling weeds and trimming with the push mower. My favorite job was the cemetery in Ruthsford. It wasn’t easy since it sat on a hill and I had to trim around all the headstones. But I loved reading the old inscriptions. And the setting, bordered by a winding river on one end, was peaceful. The spending money was nice. And better yet, I had become almost as comfortable around Phillip as I was with Everett. By the end of August, I considered Phillip my friend too.

  It had been the best summer of my life. I enjoyed spending time with Everett and Phillip mowing lawns. But when school started that fall, it was the monsters in the corn I missed most of all.

  I looked over the scene I had furiously sketched. It was our spacecraft surrounded by monsters. The monsters overlapped into a montage of haunting figures. I began filling the empty space with crude cornstalks. The more I drew, the more I began to smell the sweetness of their dewy leaves. I began to hear them rustle in the breeze. The gentle sound mixed with the low hum of the ship.

  I was forced to evacuate the scene, however, when Ms. Davis’s shoe came into my peripheral vision, impatiently tapping beside my desk. I looked up to her, embarrassed. She had the textbook open in her palms while curiously examining my ink drawing. The class erupted in laughter. My face became instantly hot. Without saying a word, I pulled out my English book and placed it over the drawing. She spared me further embarrassment by moving on without calling me out. I flipped the book to a random page and pretended to follow along as she spoke of prepositional phrases, topic sentences, and words of transition.

  But my mind still craved wandering. With my options limited, I simply focused on the empty desk beside me. Although it was a rather mundane thing to be concentrating on, I allowed my eyes to follow the metal legs down to the small, circular feet keeping the desk sturdy. I then traced the legs back up to the frame that supported its wooden surface. Aside from their wooden tops, the desks were composed entirely of silver metal. We were studying magnets in earth science class. Metal made me think of magnets and how magnets were attracted to metals that contained iron, nickel, or cobalt.

  I wondered what would happen if the ceiling in the classroom was a giant magnet. Such a magnet would surely attract the desks’ metal frames. If the ceiling was a magnet and if the magnet was suddenly activated, I hypothesized it would cause the desks to instantly flip upside down. I figured this since the metal was beneath their wooden tops. After flipping, the desks would fly, upturned, toward the ceiling. Their metal feet would then fuse powerfully to the magnetic ceiling, forming an unbreakable bond.

  If my classmates were in their desks when the flip occurred, it would happen so fast they likely wouldn’t fall out. They’d be held to their seats like water held in a bucket when spinning real fast overhead. Centrifugal force. As the desks rotated, their heads would strike the floor before they sailed to the top of the room. There, they’d be suspended upside down, their torsos draped over the back of the wooden desktops. Their bashed heads would drip blood, which would form tiny pools on the floor. Those not knocked unconscious would be screaming, hysterically grasping the metal frames to keep themselves from falling on their heads. Ms. Davis would run out of the room in a panic, shouting for help.

  Because he had such a big head, I imagined when Todd the Toad’s desk flipped, his skull would crack when it struck the floor. The magnet would struggle to pull his fat body to the ceiling. If he was alive and conscious, his face would be full of terror. He’d scream. He’d cuss. Under his weight, the wooden top would break from the metal. He’d be the first to fall. And there he’d lie in a pool of his own blood.

  Captivated by the scenario, I ran it through my head over and over. It was two twenty-five. What if the magnet activates at two thirty? The more the thought cycled through my mind, the stranger it seemed that Ms. Davis continued writing on the board, oblivious to what was to occur in just five minutes.

  While the rest of the class sat calmly, my leg began to bounce. I couldn’t sit still. I needed to get out of my desk before it flipped upside down. I closed my book and shoved it in my bag. My knees were weak as I stood. I kept my eyes to the floor as I quickly made my way to the front o
f the room. “And to where are you wandering off, Ayden?” Ms. Davis questioned.

  I slipped to the other side of the door before poking my head back in. “Sorry,” I apologized. “I guess—I’m just—I don’t feel very well.” I could hear the classroom erupt in giggles as I scurried down the hall—with just two minutes to spare.

  I didn’t want to hear it when it happened. I left the building and weaved my way through the lot looking for Everett’s car. He bought the white Grand Am from a college student a few weeks before school started. He paid for part of it with his lawn-cutting money. The rest came from a loan from Mom and Dad. I slumped into the passenger seat just about the moment the Toad’s desk would’ve been flipping upside down. I pictured him dangling from the ceiling. Blood dripping from the gash in his head. I eyed the doors. Any moment, I just knew a rush of traumatized students would come running out, screaming.

  15

  The Fifteenth Row

  Startled by the sudden realization there was a stowaway in the bed of his pickup, Ian slammed on the brakes. I braced my arm against the rear window as the truck jerked to a halt. I sprang over the tailgate. They flew out of the cab faster than I had anticipated. “What the fuck were you doing back there!” Ian bellowed as Todd the Toad joined his side. I stood at the tailgate not saying a word, concentrating on what I had to do. “Are you deaf! What were you doing in the back of my truck, fag?”

  My silence especially agitated the Toad. He shuffled his feet. His angry energy only caused Ian’s anger to escalate. No longer able to hold in their anger, they rushed toward me. After pulling the knife out of my pocket, I fumbled with it for a moment before locating the switch on the handle. Drawing a sudden blank, I couldn’t remember which end the blade would pop out of, so I held the knife between my fingers instead of in my palm. When I finally got the blade to appear, I aimed it toward them. I held it low, behind the truck, should anyone near the building happen to be watching. The sight of the blade instantly stopped their advance. Ian even took a step backward and showed me his palms in submission. Even so, he spouted, “You better put that goddamn knife down, or you are fucking dead.”