by A. J. Lape
The wind picked up, and the first flakes of snow floated down like a blanket. I blew a few off my glasses before they smeared. Dylan held his key fob out to the Beemer, beeping it locked as we left Jagger and Ivy to makeup or breakup. He threw his arm around my shoulder, the incident all but put behind him. Surely, he knew I’d want a more detailed explanation, but doggone it, right now I had to turn around. Nothing shocked me more than to witness Jagger and Ivy kissing. Like really, really kissing. It was “the rockets red glare, the bomb’s bursting in air” kind of stuff. Her hands were in his hair—his hands were…well, everywhere. PDA overload. Um, yucky. After watching their version, I concluded what I thought I knew about the art went right out the door.
Was that a goodbye kiss? God only knew what a hello looked like.
4. The Season for Miracles
Christmas Cheer, my a-s-s.
Some people were definitely more cheery than they were the other days of the year; others were mean SOBs, mowing you over at the Black Friday Sales. Sort of like VHS today. Some were friendly; others couldn’t wait to make like Elvis and leave the building.
My Christmas cheer was currently on blackout, and sitting in junior science with Herman Himmel, Ph.D. at the helm, turned me into Ebenezer Scrooge. I’d already made it through math, health, and career development and had hoped the world would end in a fiery ball before fourth period.
It hadn’t…
Can you just say…crap?
And crap again. Um, CRAP.
Herman Himmel. The name alone made my underarms sweat. One would think time would help you outrun bad teachers, but alas, that wasn’t the case. I’d had Mr. Himmel in grade school, and he made it clear he had no patience for my particular ailments. I failed tests. I stared out windows. I chattered too much, plus I had a myriad of other issues I preferred to remain nameless. But that was the ADHD…some days were great; others you couldn’t even remember you should be upset about your current predicament. There also was a period of time where I missed a ton of school. Mr. Himmel wouldn’t offer extra help in any way, shape, or form, no matter how hard Murphy begged.
Little by little, it chipped away at my soul.
By some twist of fate, there’d been a shakeup in the educational system, and he now taught at the high school level. Wouldn’t you know I’d have to study under the man who caused me to chug Pepto-Bismol for an entire year? He gave me a serious case of PTSD, and my body produced a weird physiological response every time I neared him. My stomach churned, my nose ran, and I could never tell from which end the nausea would appear first. Usually, I ran to the restroom to cover all the bases.
Mr. Himmel wasn’t exactly what I’d call attractive either. He had short, graying-blond hair and stood several inches shorter than me (like troll height), with a scaly-red face that belonged on Jurassic Park. He always dressed in brown, matching his beady, soulless eyes. He droned away in the kind of voice that sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard. Painfully annoying, and the only way for it to go away was for someone to cut his tongue out.
I glanced around the room, housing twenty-one students, trying to locate something to inspire me for the next fifty minutes or so. It was devoid of decorations, a stark, sterile white reminding you of an insane asylum. Most teachers made an attempt to be festive during the holidays, but his room was so boringly bland I’m not sure how anyone was ever inspired to get an A. I’m not sure Mr. Himmel believed in anything other than his ability to beat the shiz out of your self-esteem.
I wrote a post-it note and slapped it on Grumpy’s back for a little extra help. The note said, Sit still, be quiet, and don’t get up. Then I kicked my UGGS off to help me relax.
Grumpy had a stocky build with wavy brown hair and eyes, generously listed at six feet tall. Like me, he mostly wore jeans and t-shirts because he ranked low on style. He knew I’d done something but couldn’t decode the specifics.
Laughter spilled out of my mouth when he started to squirm. I cleared my throat to cover it. Cleared it a second time. When I decided to go for a third, I held my breath until a twitch entered my left eye.
“Miss Walker?” I heard Mr. Himmel say.
In between hypothetical shots of tequila, I voiced a prayer to be invisible, but when Heaven wasn’t used to you calling, I’m not sure it felt obligated to answer. This conversation had only one place to go—in the crapper. “Yup, Mr. Himmel?” I mumbled. I was the only student who didn’t address him as “Doctor.” Hand to God, I didn’t mean it disrespectfully. I’d done it before as a joke. Now the habit was so ingrained I’d had difficulty breaking it.
His bushy unibrow bounced up. “It’s Doctor Himmel, Miss Walker. Are you paying attention?”
“Darcy,” I heard Dylan coach behind me.
There goes my dramatic silence…
My answer was a long time in coming. “Can you rephrase the question in a way that I won’t have to lie?” I grimaced. A chorus of eeks immediately filled the room followed by a deafening silence. Everyone wondered how I could be so blatantly stupid.
Frankly, so did I.
Mr. Himmel leaned a hip up against the blackboard, crossing his arms over his barrel chest. “Well, aren’t you the comedienne,” he grunted.
“I do what I can for the planet.”
Mr. Himmel barked a few more sentences at me; accompanied with a scowl so acidic it’d melt the flesh from your bones. I carried on the entire conversation covering my left eye. My nervous tics sometimes surfaced when I had energy that needed to go somewhere. When Dylan saw my hand over my face, he cursed under his breath, murmuring diplomatically, “We were all a little distracted, Dr. Himmel, but I promise it won’t happen again.”
Mr. Himmel slowly rapped the fingers of his right hand on his left elbow. Pinky to index, pinky to index, pinky to index. He repeated this sequence four times. “You weren’t addressed, Mr. Taylor,” he fumed.
A caustic and confrontational groan escaped Dylan’s chest. It wasn’t readily clear whom he was angry with—Mr. Himmel or me—but the deadly atmosphere made a few chairs squeak in terror.
“Miss Walker—” Mr. Himmel continued, eyes glaring at mine.
Dylan sidled up to where his lips hovered right underneath my ear. “Darcy,” he whispered, “this is where you’re supposed to say, I’m sorry, Dr. Himmel. This is my favorite class, and I’m happy to be here.”
In other words, I needed to lie. Problem was, I couldn’t lie if I lived in a compound for sociopaths. Being truthful or at least semi-truthful would help my chances with the universe. But then again, my reasoning abilities were clearly a little skewed. I took a deep breath, knowing this wouldn’t end well but hoped I at least got a happy-ending December 25th.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Himmel,” I sighed. “This class is a snoozapalooza, and I guess there’s someplace else I’d rather be.”
Mr. Himmel angrily slammed his chalk in the tray. It bounced to the floor and split in two with powdered smoke staining the floor. Most teachers would pause to deliberate the degree of mercy they’d dispense; Mr. Himmel paused to deliberate the degree of pain. But guess what, he had the magic word in teacherland: tenure.
And wasn’t that a total suckfest for the rest of us.
He stalked forward and hissed in my face, “This attitude of yours is going to catch up with you sooner or later, Miss Walker.”
“I figured as much,” I mumbled, “and with my luck that might be on the soon part of later.”
“Well, figure this. You’re out of my class for the rest of the week. And if I had my wishes, you’d never return. You’ll never make anything of yourself, Walker. You’re still the same kid you were when you were younger. Nothing has changed.”
And there you have it. All of those times he made me feel icky weren’t the products of an imagination fueled by negative thoughts. Those words were confirm
ation he hated kids with problems. Why do I say this? I’d never participated in this class one time—even when I knew the answers—because I feared what would come out of his mouth. Now he made me think lying would’ve been an appropriate response.
“Oh, goody,” I stupidly said out loud.
He narrowed his eyes into snake-like slits. “Make that two weeks. No,” he amended, “you’re not back until January.”
See, this was where I sometimes liked to push back. Categorically dumb, but dang it, no one wanted to publically be made an example of. I blinked my uncovered eye, hoping to go Superman and laser vision him down to a lump of clay.
I tried. No dice.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, suddenly aware he’d humiliated me more than anyone had in a while. “Please, forgive—”
Mr. Himmel waved me off like you would an annoying fly. “Leave, Walker.”
Dylan forcefully cleared his throat and cursed in my ear. Then he halfway stood out of his seat, exasperation coloring his voice. “Dr. Himmel, that’s not fair. Not to mention your comments were flat-out rude, unprofessional, and uncalled for. Can you not think of another more appropriate punishment? We have a test coming up and a science experiment due before Christmas Break.”
Mr. Himmel carefully placed one gray orthopedic shoe in front of the other, thundering up the aisle like he had plans to drop a six foot two boy dead to the ground. “I’d advise you to take a seat, Mr. Taylor, or you’ll be joining her.”
Dylan stood his ground, looming like he’d eat Mr. Himmel’s head off if he could get his mouth to open that wide. With the addition of my hand to his arm, the threat eventually chased him back down into his chair. My eyes brimmed over with desperate tears. I didn’t always care what happened to me, but I always cared what happened to him. While I made a mental note to get my inner-idiot in check, I gathered up my books, shoved my feet back in my UGGS, and gave a quick nod in Dylan’s direction.
He grabbed my hand, stroking it under his thumb. “Sorry, D,” I whispered, tears spilling to my cheeks, “I just didn’t want to lie.”
And you know what, I didn’t care about the audience. I parallel parked myself alongside him, leaned into his chest, and gently brushed my face against his, leaving it there until I could collect myself. I went on autopilot. Something I’d learned to do ages ago when I’d been embarrassed. “Pardon my French, but I’m such a screwup,” I sniffed in his ear.
Yep, Dylan could always pull my emotions out…even when he wasn’t trying.
He was one heartbeat away from going gonzo. When I stepped back, his eyes softened, then hardened, and then turned mushy one last time. “Aww, sweetheart,” he solemnly muttered. “You’re beautiful. Don’t allow his words to make you doubt yourself. I’ll somehow salvage this and work it out.”
File that under I’m An Idiot.
Subcategory of Common Knowledge.
After I did a jaunt along the school’s interior, I ended up crashing on the bleachers in the gym. I’d made two new acquaintances. One guy told me his girlfriend dumped him for the fifth time; another asked if I’d like to ditch school altogether and run away with him. He wasn’t half bad looking—I considered it for three point five seconds until I realized he had massive BO.
Total mood kill.
Finding Eminem’s and Rhianna’s “Monster” on my iPhone, I shoved an earbud in one ear while I explained my situation to the school’s basketball coach. Seriously, I didn’t have a leg to stand on, but the thought of more “good student” rhetoric made me want to cry…or puke…depending on the person delivering the lecture.
I sighed, “I had a shift in schedule.”
“A shift in schedule,” he repeated frowning.
“I sorta got kicked out of class.”
“Himmel?” he gruffed.
I preferred the anti-Christ, but properly identified him. “Doctor Himmel. Evidently, he doesn’t appreciate my style.”
“Aw, Walker,” he groaned. “Perhaps you should try.”
“I do try. His expectations are merely outside of my comfort zone.”
“That’s the spirit,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “Whatever the specifics, Himmel needs to be fired. Follow me. I’ve got some time.” It was no secret that the staff didn’t like Mr. Himmel. I’m guessing kids like me were a common occurrence.
Coach Munk Wallace skimmed a little over six feet with a solid, oak tree kind of build and paunch in his gut. Don’t let anyone ever tell you gym teachers are in shape. Sometimes they had too much time on their hands making laps to the vending machine. With balding ginger-colored hair, he didn’t embrace his balding status either. He tossed and teased so much it accounted for a two-inch lift. He also rocked the same look, regardless of the weather. It consisted of athletic shorts, golf shirts or hoodies, and dirty glasses.
Coach led us to a small office tucked away in the corner, practically in another zip code. It didn’t even have a door. I took stock of my surroundings. Two students, one guy and one girl, gave small waves as we walked inside. They did homework at desks—he looked familiar, she didn’t. A silver metal desk sat against the back wall with state championship trophies on shelves behind it. A coat tree anchored the left corner, weighed down with at least four different coats. Cardboard boxes had been stacked atop one another by the desks, holding empty pizza boxes from LaRosa’s. Add a computer from the Dinosaur Age, and you just might have the next episode of Hoarders. But lo and behold, a Mr. Coffee coffeepot percolated on a credenza behind the desk.
My day just got better.
Black folding chairs sat in the middle of the floor. I parked myself in one while Coach pushed his body behind his desk, collapsing into a worn black, leather high-back. You can call me a lot of things but a fool wasn’t one of them. I had a captive audience here, and by God, I was going to make the best of it.
I pulled the photograph Tito faxed Rookie out of my purse (I’d made a copy), sliding it across the desk. “Do you know this guy?”
Coach Wallace gave it half a look. “Weird dude, but no,” he muttered. That didn’t mean anything. As far as we knew this photograph could be last year’s look. Tito didn’t divulge if it was up-to-date, and I hate to admit I wasn’t firing on all cylinders at the hour or wise enough to ask.
“Are you sure?” I pushed.
Apparently teachers—or Coach, at least—kept files on the criminals of tomorrow. The ones probably truant and delinquent on homework who courted trouble in and outside these four walls. Bracing his left hand on the desk, he pulled open a right-side drawer and removed a thin manila file, flipping it open. Stopping to blow the gunk from its surface, a cloud of dust mites invaded the space, and I immediately sneezed.
As I grabbed a tissue from the corner of his desk, he took a harder look at the photograph, comparing it to a quick thumb-through of his folder’s contents. He lifted one out and shoved it beside my photo for comparison, shook his head, and then riffled through a few more. Once again, he said he’d never met my guy, not even asking why I cared. With a weary sigh, he closed the file and slid it to the side. God willing, I’d get my hands on the file before I blew this joint.
Something was wrong with Coach, despite the fact he harbored me (and two others) who couldn’t get with the program. I pulled a two-year stint in counseling (you know, childhood trauma), and if I’d learned anything, it wasn’t wise to leave people in a desperate state.
The coffee pot burbled, and I took it upon myself to pour us both a drink. Stained dirt-brown, the pitcher probably hadn’t seen a wash in months, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and I was deficient on caffeine.
I filled two Styrofoam cups with a liquid resembling swamp water. “What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to get my psychobabble on.
Immediately, he thought I’d referred to the file. He blew into his cup as I slid back i
nto my seat. “Bad childhoods for the most part. Some make it out with a good support system. Others wind up liking the constant rollercoaster. All I know is I have them over and over in the school’s detention program. Maybe that’s all they know.”
If I had the time, I’d think about that rollercoaster and myself, but Coach turned and looked at an itty-bitty photograph on the side of his desk, stealing my attention. It was displayed inside one of those clear plastic frames with no border. So you not only saw the front, but the back. A quick look showed a hand-written caption on the rear: Jacinda Olivia Jemima Opal and me. One heck of a long name.
My nose started itching. “Who is she?”
He glanced up with a deep inhale, exhale. “Ex-wife.” First of all, if someone were my “ex,” the last thing I’d want would be a daily reminder in my face. But consider Rookie and Red; their relationship was so dysfunctional I couldn’t even term it.
Emotions slashed across his face. And even though he appeared troubled, he handed me the photograph as if it was a priceless heirloom. I drew the photograph up to my eyes. He was his usual “coachy” looking self, but she had that ditzy bimbo look about her. Big, bleached-blonde hair with too much makeup.
I gave him my spill-it face.
“Divorce was final in June,” was all I got.
June was six months ago, so why the extra pain? Anniversary, the upcoming holidays, a torch he couldn’t extinguish? I pulled my shrink back on, but the mood was broken by someone loudly clearing his throat.
I heard the funeral march in my head.
A grin painted on Coach’s face, but soon enough, he acted like someone had him by the happies (er, testicles) and squeezed. “Taylor?” he sort of coughed.
The guy and girl doing homework coughed too.
Dylan’s voice murmured, “I’m here to chat with my colossally idiotic best friend.” My hands gripped the desk, my right leg motoring like Jagger Cane’s libido. I should’ve known he’d find me, but I was never prepared for the way his presence made me feel. I was practically fibrillating. “What can I do to fix this, sweetheart?” he asked.