This Might Hurt a Bit

by Doogie Horner

  Just as Tommy turns around, Jake throws the book at him like a pitcher whipping a fastball. Tommy is an easy target, a head taller than everyone else and wide as a barn, and the book soars over the crowd and strikes his nose edge-first. There’s a sickening crunch, and a spurt of blood squirts out of his nostrils down the front of his jersey. Tommy screams, “AH SHIT!” and stumbles backward, tripping and toppling into his friends’ arms, a mighty redwood felled by a small ax. It happens so fast that everyone around him is confused.

  “What’s going on? What happened?!” kids yell.

  I spy Mr. Hartman jogging over from the principal’s office to see what the hubbub is, his firm belly shaking up and down.

  Jake tries to push through the crowd toward Tommy and finish the job, but I pull him away. “Mr. Hartman is coming!” I hiss, ducking my head to hide in the commotion. “C’mon, let’s go!”

  I push and prod him away from the growing mob behind us: Tommy yelling in pain, his voice muffled behind his cupped hands, the crackle of Mr. Hartman’s walkie-talkie as he yells, “I have a one-two-three. Possible one-three-seven, over!” and the general hollering of kids.

  “Ah God! My nose!”

  “What happened? What happened?”

  “Did anyone see that?”

  “What happened?!”

  Jake strains against me like a dog pulling on its leash. “Keep moving; keep moving,” I say, pushing him until we’re out of the lobby, into Circle C and around the corner, at which point he calms down and walks forward like nothing happened.

  “What the hell was that?!” I yell.

  “That”—Jake smiles—“was a fastball of righteous justice, that’s what that was.”

  “Dude, you’re going to get us both expelled!”

  “Who cares?” Jake says.

  I throw my hands up, framing my face. “Me! I care!”

  We’re passing classrooms now. A teacher materializes from one and looks at me curiously. My chest tightens. I can’t handle all this shit. I’m going to have a fucking asthma attack.

  “Relax, dude,” Jake says, calm and content now that he got his little fix of violence. He leans into me, waggles his eyebrows, and unsheathes a smile that’s keen as a blade. “People are staring.”

  — — —

  I’m unable to ditch Jake before I get to English class, and I’m afraid we’ll run into Rob outside the classroom, but we don’t, and luckily, Jake doesn’t look in the door when he drops me off. We arrive just as the second bell rings.

  “All right,” Jake says, clapping me on the back so hard I stumble. “I’ll come back here to get you after my class. Lunch is going to be the tough part. All three of those losers are in lunch. There’s no escaping it.” His mouth is practically watering. Escape is the last thing on his mind. Jake is locked on a collision course.

  “How about we skip lunch?” I suggest. “I can ask Ms. Hunt if I can stay late to get some help with something, or you could ask Ms. Torres if we can chill in the art room and draw some fruit? She likes you. . . .”

  “No, no, no,” Jake says, shaking his head. “Uh-uh. We’re gonna show these hillbillies who’s boss.”

  “They are, Jake! They are the boss. I’m an employee. Or, no, I’m an unpaid intern, and they are the CEO of the entire corporation, and I don’t want you to stab anyone, please—”

  But Jake is already walking away, backward against the flow of the circle.

  “Just promise me you won’t kill anyone!” I yell after him.

  He spins around and cocks his fingers at me like they’re guns, grinning as he pulls the triggers.

  “Sure.”

  — — —

  Rob is already in his seat on the far left side of the English room, near the windows, his short legs barely reaching the ground. He smirks when he sees me, then pretends to sneeze and says “Chickenshit!” at the same time. A few kids around him snicker.

  Maybe I should let Jake murder him.

  Everyone is still settling into their seats. Our teacher, Ms. Hunt, is messing with papers at her desk, a flurry of pretty energy: now chewing on a fingernail, now twisting a lock of her wavy chestnut hair, her every move adorable. Everyone loves her, and half the class has a crush on her. Today her hair is wrapped in one of those tight, complicated braids girls wear if they’re riding a horse or doing gymnastics. She pops a pencil into the thick braid as she shuffles through a stack of multicolored three-by-five cards.

  Ms. Hunt briskly taps the note cards on her desk. She’s young compared to other teachers, so young that sometimes new students mistake her for a senior. It’s not just the way she looks, but it’s also her enthusiasm.

  For instance, every time one of us recites a passage from a book we’re reading, she applauds and yells “Bravo!” afterward, like we just put on an entire Broadway show.

  It’s exhausting being around her, but she’s so naive that nobody wants to be the one to rain on her parade. So we try to all behave like the fictional class she thinks we are, perfect students super pumped about school.

  I glance across the room to check on Rob. He’s looking at me, too, whispering something to the kid at the desk behind him, whose name I don’t know. The kid looks at me, shocked, then laughs. It makes me feel rotten. It makes me feel every bit like the new kid that I am.

  The weird kid from my bus, the one with the soup-bowl haircut, is sitting at the desk next to me on my left. I have an urge to talk to someone so I feel slightly less unpopular, and Lord of the Flies is sitting on his desk in front of him. He has a cool copy of the book with a cover I’ve never seen before, a blotchy drawing of dense forest vegetation.

  I point to the book. “That’s a cool cover. Great book, huh?” I’m not just making idle chatter here. I really did like the book. And I have to say, as this fucking insane day continues, I’m starting to relate to the boys on the island more and more.

  Soupbowl swivels the full moon of his face toward me and stares.

  “I really like the pilot, the one who’s stuck up in the trees,” I continue. “I thought that part was spooky.”

  Soupbowl doesn’t say anything.

  “Did you like that part?” I ask.

  He slowly shakes his head from side to side, his eyeballs staying in the same place, an unsettling motion that reminds me of one those cat clocks with the moving eyeballs.

  I look past him at Rob near the windows. Now he’s whispering to the girl in front of him, a pretty girl who is in my swim class. I think her name is Mary. I’ve always wanted to talk to her, but I’ve never found an excuse. She has short, very blond hair and a cute little face like a fox. Whatever Rob is whispering in her ear, it shocks her, because her eyes go wide. She spins her head to look in my direction, and when she sees I’m already looking, she looks away guiltily and bites her lip.

  Oh man. I think I’d rather just get beat up than deal with this psychological warfare. I feel my blood pressure rising, and it reminds me of the last time I flipped out at school. As much as I like poker, I’d rather not be sent to a psychologist again, so I take a deep breath and pull myself together.

  “She has something special planned for us today.”

  It’s Soupbowl. He’s speaking to me.

  “She has something special planned,” he repeats in a slow monotone, never taking his eyes off me as he nods at Ms. Hunt.

  Dude is giving me the creeps. “Uh, yeah. I think it’s probably a pop quiz.”

  “I do not think so,” he says. “I think, whatever she has planned, it will involve those desks.”

  Soupbowl is right; there are three desks lined up at the front of the room, facing the class. On the blackboard behind them Ms. Hunt has written:

  LORD OF THE ISLAND DEBATE!

  THE SOUND OF THE SHELL!

  THEMES:

  • CIVILIZATION • GROUPTHINK • WILL TO POWER • SOCIAL ORDER

  Ms. Hunt finishes organizing her cards and briskly raps the rainbow-colored stack on her desk. She skips to the front o
f the class, next to the three desks, and sings in a champagne-bubbly voice, “Good morning, everyone!”

  We all stop talking and face forward like perfect angels, our hands clasped on our desks and our feet flat on the floor. Soupbowl is the only one a little slow to get with the program, giving me one last ominous look before facing forward as well.

  Ms. Hunt sits down on top of the center desk, briskly crossing her slender legs under a tweed skirt and placing her stack of rainbow-colored cards on the desk next to her.

  “I’m sure you’re all wondering what today’s surprise could be.” She smiles and wrinkles her nose. “Well, I’m sure you all remember at the beginning of the book—chapter one, ‘The Sound of the Shell’—when Ralph blew the conch to gather all the other children onto the beach.”

  She holds an invisible conch shell in her hands and presses it to her lips. “Blap, bla, bla, blaaaaaaaa!” She smiles at everyone, and we all smile back.

  I swear, if you’re pretty, you can get away with anything.

  “The boys held a vote to decide who should be chief, and Ralph won. Well, today in class we’re going to hold our own debate to decide who should be chief of the island. Three of you will pretend to be Ralph, Jack, and Piggy.”

  She spreads her arms across the three desks in front of the class. “The rest of the class will be the boys on the island. We’ll have a debate, and then at the end the class will vote on who should be the new chief. This will help us examine the themes of groupthink and social organization that the book explores. And, most importantly, it will give all of you a little taste, maybe, of what it felt like to be with those boys on the island. Doesn’t that sound fun?! ”

  It does not sound fun; it sounds like three of us will have to speak, unprepared, in front of the entire class. Everyone slumps down in their seats or hides behind their books, willing themselves to become invisible.

  Ms. Hunt doesn’t pick up on our fear as she claps her hands and hops up from the desk. “Now, do we have any volunteers?”

  We each look around like the person next to us just volunteered.

  “C’mon, somebody must want to volunteer! Mary, how about you?”

  The fox-faced girl looks around the room, embarrassed. “Uh, sure,” she says reluctantly.

  Ms. Hunt acts like Mary jumped out of her seat with joy. “That’s the spirit! Now, who else?”

  Mary tucks a short lock of hair behind her ear as she walks to the front of the class and takes her place behind the first desk on the left.

  I’m surprised to see Rob raise his hand next and say, “I’ll be Jack.”

  Of course he’ll be Jack. Jack is the wildest of the wild kids on the island. He leads the hunting parties that are obsessed with killing pigs. It’s a role Rob was born to play, although I’m still a little surprised anyone would want to volunteer for this.

  “Fantastic!” Ms. Hunt does an adorable fist pump. “Now we just need a Piggy. He is a very important character. Remember, Piggy is the most intelligent boy on the island, the voice of reason, and”—she quickly glances at her top note card—“the symbolic upholder of the conventions of society.”

  Yeah, he’s also a fat, asthmatic nerd who gets made fun of the entire novel until one of the boys crushes him with a boulder. Nobody is going to volunteer to—

  From his new seat at the front of the room, Rob points at me. “Kirby wants to be Piggy!”

  Ms. Hunt’s lively eyes focus on me. “Wonderful!” She claps her hands and waves me up like a game-show host. “Come on up, Kirby.”

  “What? No, I don’t—”

  “Then why’d you raise your hand?” Rob asks accusingly. “Ms. Hunt, I saw him raise his hand. I think he’s just shy.”

  What the hell is he doing?

  “There’s no need to be shy,” Ms. Hunt says, beckoning me like I’m a frightened kitten. “It’s okay, Kirby.”

  “I’m not shy. I just didn’t—”

  Rob pounds his fists on the desk and starts chanting, “Kirby, Kirby, Kirby!” A few kids join in the chant, already swept up in the groupthink of the island.

  Ms. Hunt gives me a sharp look and points at the empty desk next to Rob. I’m spoiling her fun. “C’mon, Kirby, get up here. Let’s get started.”

  — — —

  As terrified as I am to be facing the English class, I have to admit that Mary, Rob, and I are perfectly cast for our roles. Mary is similar to the good-natured, likable Ralph. Rob has plenty in common with the violent Jack. And just like Piggy, I have glasses, asthma, and a huge penis.

  Rob gives me a sideways look and winks.

  My stomach drops.

  “All right, everyone!” Ms. Hunt announces. “Welcome to the Lord of the Island Debate!” The class claps, and she smiles, pleased with her cleverness. Ms. Hunt turns to the three of us, arranged in front of the class. “Now remember, candidates, you have to pretend you’re your character from the book. Keeping that in mind, let’s hear your opening remarks. Ralph,” she says, winking at Mary, “why don’t you go first. Class, listen closely to Ralph’s points and decide: Is this the person you think is best suited to lead you on the island?”

  Ms. Hunt sits on the edge of her desk, like cool teachers do on TV.

  Mary stands and takes a deep breath. “Hellooo, my name is, uh . . . Ralph.” She laughs nervously at that, and the class laughs too, which helps her relax a little bit. “My name is Ralph. And you should vote for me because I have the seashell. The, uh . . . the conch.”

  Ms. Hunt glances at her note cards. “And what does the conch symbolize?” she asks, leading Mary on.

  “Well, it symbolizes society, I guess. The sound of the conch is what brings all the boys together at the beginning.” She tucks that rebellious little lock of hair behind her ear again. “The conch is what organizes the boys, and I’m the one who blew the conch, so maybe, if you want to, vote for me?” She shrugs and smiles at the absurdity of this whole theater, and I think, Shit, I’m running, and even I’d vote for her. Everyone applauds politely as she sits down with relief.

  “That was an excellent point you made, Ralph. You were the one who found the conch and first rallied everyone to the beach. A significant contribution to the social order”—she points to the words SOCIAL ORDER on the blackboard—“of the island. Jack, it’s your turn.”

  Rob rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, a weasel in a henhouse. He doesn’t bother to stand up to deliver his opening statement, simply swivels to address Mary at the desk next to him. He touches her lightly on the arm as he says playfully, “Ralph, thank you so much for finding the conch and bringing us all to the beach like this.” Mary smiles, and Rob turns to the class. “I agree that organizing all the boys was an important first step to maintaining order on the island.” He speaks like a politician, poised and confident. “But I think now we have a graver concern than order. . . .” He pauses dramatically. “And that is survival. All due respect to you, Ralph”—he nods to Mary—“I’m in charge of the hunting parties that have been providing us with meat. And without meat, we won’t be able to survive.” He stabs a finger into the desktop and lets this fact sink in, and the class gets so quiet and serious I think they’ve forgotten that we aren’t, in fact, on an island.

  Ms. Hunt claps her hands to her chest in an ecstasy of teacherly rapture. “Wow, Jack,” she says. “Just wow. Great points.” She shuffles her colored cards and shrugs. “I have nothing to add. Piggy?” She looks at me. “It’s your turn.”

  Mary leans down to look at me across the desks, and against my will I feel myself actually giving a shit about this stupid debate. I want to beat Rob. In the book, his character Jack crushes Piggy’s head with a rock. It was Rob’s idea to staple PJ in the bathroom. I want to beat Rob for Piggy, for PJ, for all the kids who are too weak to stand up for themselves.

  No matter how many pigs we kill, that still won’t get us off the island. I stand up and open my mouth to say just that, but before I can say a word, Rob makes a loud snor
ting noise, like a pig.

  “SNORT! SNORT! SNORT!”

  Mary laughs.

  No, the whole class laughs.

  I look to Ms. Hunt for help and am shocked to see that she’s giggling too, although with a reproachful look on her face.

  “Now, now, Jack,” she chides, wagging her finger. “Piggy didn’t interrupt you during your turn, did he?”

  “Thank you,” I say to Ms. Hunt.

  “You’re fat,” Rob whispers.

  “No, I’m not!”

  “Piggy is overweight,” Ms. Hunt offers equitably. “But, Jack, you can’t keep interrupting Piggy. He has the conch.” She addresses the class. “As you can see, the unifying power of the conch is already dissolving. Does that affect which candidate you think might be the best leader?”

  “I’d like to throw into question the entire concept of the conch as a symbol of power,” Rob offers.

  “Okay, okay, let’s keep this organized,” Ms. Hunt says, the hint of a frown creasing her pretty face. “We’ll do rebuttals later. This is still opening statements. Piggy, what’s your opening statement?”

  I haven’t even given my opening statement yet! I look at the classroom of students facing me, still laughing at me a little. I see no sympathy there, just relief that they’re not the ones being embarrassed. I think of Piggy’s head, crushed by a rock, the broken glass from his lenses glinting on the ground next to him. I think of Melanie’s framed picture shattered on green linoleum tiles, the glass as bright and as sharp as the memory.

  “Maybe we don’t deserve to get off the island. Hell, maybe we can’t get off the island, even if we leave. Maybe we brought it with us. God,” I marvel, exhausted right down to my bones. “We’re all fucked.”

  Why is everyone staring at me?

  Oh, I said that out loud.

  My words hang in the quiet room. Nobody is laughing anymore, their mouths perfect Os of surprise.

  Ms. Hunt raises her eyebrows, an expectant look on her face, and after a couple of seconds, when I don’t add anything else, she frowns and shuffles her note cards. “Oookaaaay,” she sings in a tight little voice. “I highly doubt you’ll get elected with that attitude.” She taps her stack of cards against her desk and tries to regain her enthusiasm. “Okay, those were the opening statements. Now let’s begin the questions.”