This Might Hurt a Bit

by Doogie Horner

  She perks back up as she focuses on Mary. “Ralph, how will you get the boys rescued?”

  Mary gives me a concerned glance as she stands, and then her face screws up with concentration as she tries to remember the book. “Well . . . I would . . .” She remembers with visible relief. “Make a fire! I would make a fire, and then planes or ships could see the fire and we’d get rescued. Also, if I’m allowed to offer methods not described in the book, I suppose I’d also suggest using Piggy’s glasses as a reflection device.” Mary looks at me again.

  “Great idea,” Rob says.

  Ms. Hunt agrees. “Those are both good ideas, Ralph. Class, notice that Ralph has a concrete plan to rescue the boys and return you to civilization.” She points at the word on the blackboard. “And, Jack, how would you get us rescued?”

  “Personally, I agree with Piggy,” Rob says, smiling at me. “Bollocks rescue!” he says in a surprisingly good English accent. He’s really getting into character. He stands up—not increasing his height by much—and his high voice rises to a savage squeal as he pounds the desk with his little fist. “Kill the pig! Drink its blood! It’s meat that we want. Who cares if a ship sees our fire if we all die of starvation before then?”

  Ms. Hunt looks worried about the direction the debate is taking and shuffles through her note cards nervously. “Uh, that’s an excellent point, Jack. A strong demonstration of the will to power and the importance of survival over social order.” She turns to me with a this is your last chance look. “Piggy,” she says slowly and clearly, like Hans Gruber telling Karl to Shoot. The. Glass. “Do you have any thoughts on that?”

  Rob smiles at me, and I can imagine chicken feathers stuck between his pointy little teeth. I know he’s trying to embarrass me, and I’ve got to pull it together fast. “Well,” I say, adjusting my glasses and clearing my throat. “Obviously a fire is the best way for us to be seen by passing ships. And while I agree with Jack that food is important, I don’t think that sending out hunting parties would prevent us from—”

  “Shut up, you fat slug,” Rob says to me, impressively recalling a line from the book.

  Ms. Hunt shakes her finger at Rob and says, “Rob, this is your last warning.” But her rebuke is drowned out by the class’s laughter. I look to see if Mary is laughing and, thank goodness, she’s not. In fact, she actually looks a little sorry for me, and for some reason that pity is what tips me over the edge.

  I can’t believe I have to put up with this shit today of all days, and I can’t believe it’s actually bothering me. How dare I care about something so petty? It’s an insult to Melanie that I should give a shit about anything other than her, and suddenly I’m not mad at Rob or the class. I’m mad at myself. Furious.

  I stand up, and the room spins. My face is so hot, it must be red as a stove. I try one last time to swallow my anger, but it won’t go down. It sticks in my throat, and an animal growl comes out of my mouth as I grab the edge of my desk and flip it over. The metal desk lands on its top with a loud clang, then slides and slams into the front row of seats, which shocks everyone into silence.

  Until a moment later, when they erupt into laughter again, even louder this time and backed by a deep chorus of “ooooooohs!”

  Welcome to the party, pal!

  Ms. Hunt falls off her desk, spilling note cards all over the floor in a cascade of bright colors. “Stop right there!” She tries to grab my arm, but Mary and Rob are between us, Mary staring at me in shock, Rob leaning back with his arms crossed. “Kirby! Stop it!”

  I point an accusing finger at the class. “Go ahead and vote for Jack! You animals deserve him!”

  Someone yells, “Get ’em, Kirb!”

  Ms. Hunt dings the brass bell on her desk furiously. “Calm down, everyone! End of debate! Calm down!”

  “You’re animals!” I repeat, shaking my finger at them.

  “Tell it like it is, fatso!” someone yells.

  Rob surveys the havoc with satisfaction, until I turn to him and his smug smile drops. He sees that he’s pushed me too far.

  I raise my hands toward his neck and he shrinks away, but before I can choke the life out of him, there’s a knock on the door, and a deep voice booms, “Ms. Hunt! Is everything all right in here?”

  A guilty silence drops as we look over and see Mr. Hartman’s imposing polyester frame standing in the doorway. His eyes dart around the room behind his tinted aviator glasses, assessing potential threats. He plants a meaty fist on his hip and looks at Ms. Hunt like he’s ready to arrest all of us if she says the word. “Is everything all right in here?”

  “Oh, uh, yes,” she says like someone waking from a troubled dream. She shuffles an invisible deck of cards before realizing her hands are empty and looks down at the cards all over the ground. She straightens the pleats in her skirt instead. “Yes, we were just having a little . . . debate.”

  Mr. Hartman must get tired of people constantly lying to him, but this time at least he doesn’t seem to care. Whatever’s going on, it’s not his problem. “I see,” he says. “Well, I don’t want to interrupt. I just came to borrow one of your students.” His eyes lock on me, frozen in mid-lunge at Rob, my fingers splayed like a killer in an Italian horror film, and holds my German book out, a smear of blood on its spine.

  “I think this belongs to you, Mr. Burns.”

  Komm Mit!

  The room seems to spin again.

  Rob reaches out and shakes one of my extended hands. “Good debate!”

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  IT’S BETWEEN PERIODS, SO THE hall is empty as Mr. Hartman and I walk to the principal’s office together. Well, I walk; he lumbers, breathing through his mouth like a grizzly bear with a hiker’s boot stuck in his throat.

  He doesn’t try to talk to me, and I’m glad, because if he did I’d probably start screaming. All these emotions are blowing through me, and I have to get a hold on them or I’m going to fly away like a kite. I can feel it.

  I picture the beach.

  The waves crashing on the shore.

  The roar as they land foaming white and the sigh as they retreat serenely blue.

  Far out, beyond the breaking waves, a familiar silhouette bobs up and down and waves for me to join her.

  The wind in my head dies down and I remember, Oh, right. I’m in big trouble.

  This will be my first visit to the principal’s office at Upshuck High, although I have met the principal before. Mom and I went to Mr. Braun’s office on the first day of school, and he talked to us for a while, welcomed me to the school. He’s very friendly. A cuddly grandpa with white puffy hair and an easy smile. He looked at me kindly and said, “I think you’ll be very happy here at Upper Shuckburgh High, Kirby.” He seemed genuinely nice, but still, that doesn’t mean I won’t get in trouble.

  I hope I don’t get expelled. Oh man.

  The worst part about getting in trouble is the disappointed looks Mom and Dad will give me after school, the long sanctimonious lecture. Although if I’m going to get in trouble, I suppose today is the perfect day to do it, since I’m already scheduled for a big long shitty heart-to-heart after school. Might as well double down. Maybe if I fuck up bad enough, they’ll send me back to the psychologist and I can learn to play pinochle.

  I follow Mr. Hartman around the hallway of Circle C and we pass through the double doors into the stairwell, the same stairwell where Tommy threw me up against the wall and Mr. Hartman helped me retrieve my books only an hour or so ago. I guess the memory jogs something in Mr. Hartman’s mind, because he slows down and stops on the landing. He looks at me in a searching way, an unusual note of compassion in his gravelly voice.

  “Is there anything you’d like to tell me, Kirby?”

  He’s giving me a chance to come clean.

  The problem is, I don’t want it. Jake has gotten in trouble so many times at school, if I tell on him now, he’ll get expelled. A couple of days ago he got in trouble for carving his initials into o
ne of the biology tables with a dissection knife. “Well, that’s strike two,” he said as I walked him to the library for after-school detention.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean one more and I’m out.”

  “What do you mean, out? Like, for good?” I was surprised he wasn’t more concerned. To me getting expelled seemed pretty serious.

  “Probably,” he said. “Whatever. I don’t care. I’ll just move to California and live with my mom and sister if that happens. I’m sick of this shit hole anyhow.”

  If I lie and tell Mr. Hartman that I threw the German book, I’ll get in way less trouble than Jake would. Maybe I could even say it was an accident? I’m pretty sure nobody actually saw Jake throw the book. It all happened so fast—

  “Hello?” Mr. Hartman leans down and looks into my eyes. He shakes Komm Mit! in front of my nose. “I don’t think you’re the type of kid who would throw a book at someone. Am I wrong?”

  I try to keep my talking to a minimum, afraid the quiver in my voice will betray me. “Well, uh, no . . .”

  “No? No, you didn’t throw this book? Your name is on the inside cover. Did someone take your book?”

  “Well, no. I mean no. I, uh . . .”

  “I’ve seen you hanging around with Jake Grivas.”  The compassion leaves his eyes. “He’s a bad kid. Are you a bad kid?” He says it like I’m actually a dog.

  “No,” I say. “No, I’m not.” I’m a good boy. If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it.

  Mr. Hartman is getting frustrated. He’s almost out of words. “Well, then,” he says, standing up and judging me from his great height. “Why are you lying to me?”

  I shrug.

  He sighs like a steam engine pulling out of the station as he shoves me toward the stairs.

  “C’mon.”

  He unclips his walkie-talkie and pushes the red button to talk. The speaker crackles, a burst of static so loud it makes me wince. “Hartman, coming down C. I’ve got Burns with me. Over.” Another crackle and a beep as he releases the button. Who the hell is he talking to?

  As we walk through the lobby I hear the janitor, Mr. Reali, coming. He has a bristling key ring strapped to his belt, and the million keys jingle like sleigh bells. Everyone calls him Luigi because he’s a skinny Italian guy with a mustache and he always wears a green baseball cap. He waves a pair of industrial-size bolt cutters at Mr. Hartman.

  “You need these anymore, Frank?”

  “No thanks, Mike. Thanks, though.”

  “You find anything?”

  Mr. Hartman frowns and stops walking, hooking a finger in the back of my collar to stop me, too. “Nope,” he says sourly.

  “Ah. Well, that’s good, right?”

  “Yeah,” he says like he’s saying no. “Yeah, it is.”

  “Oh, say,” Mr. Reali says, lowering his voice. “That other thing. I’m sorry, but I can’t do that thing. I told Mr. Braun and I’m telling you now too. I got a fear of heights.”

  Mr. Hartman rubs his face, pushing his gold-rimmed aviators up as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You said.”

  “And besides,” Mr. Reali continues nervously, “that ain’t even inside the school, technically, so it ain’t even my jury’s diction, as they say.”

  Mr. Hartman nudges me to start walking again. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I know. It’s fine.”

  As we walk away the janitor calls after us, waving the bolt cutters. “I’m sorry, Frank. It just ain’t even my jury’s diction!”

  — — —

  Mr. Hartman marches me into the principal’s office. The waiting room is small, with a glass wall on the front that looks out onto the lobby and front doors. There’s a high counter on the left-hand side for the secretary to sign in visitors, some nice framed photos of covered bridges, and a short row of chairs facing the windows. Tommy’s already there, slumped in a chair that’s way too small for him, his elbows jutting into the seats on either side of him. When Mr. Hartman and I walk in, he looks up, and the back of his huge head bumps a framed photo on the wall behind him.

  Tommy doesn’t look good.

  His nose is puffy and lumpy, like a half-mashed potato. His nostrils bulge out, packed with cotton balls. There’s a thin line of blood down the front of his jersey that’s dried brown. Also, there’s a look in his eyes, a fear and pain that seems disproportionate to the amount of trouble we’re in.

  “Sit,” Mr. Hartman says to me, pointing to a chair next to Tommy before passing through the door into Mr. Braun’s office. I sit down and think, Good boy.

  I sit one chair away from Tommy. I’d sit farther away if I could, but I can’t. There are only a few seats in the waiting room, all in a row, so this is as far away as I can get.

  The secretary, Mrs. Tews, is hidden behind the tall counter on the far side of the room, working on an old computer. After a couple of minutes of clacking loudly on the keyboard with her fake nails, she stands up and goes into a back room. I hear the copier running, but aside from that and the thin whistle of Tommy’s breathing, the waiting room is eerily quiet.

  I wish I could sit farther away from Tommy. I’m afraid he’s going to grab me right here and start punching me. But when I finally work up the courage to glance over at him, he’s ignoring me, staring gloomily at the floor, long telephone-pole legs stretched out.

  Then he leans forward and puts his head down into his hands and his shoulders start shaking, and I’m shocked to realize that he’s crying. He’s trying to cry quietly, but I can hear his sobs echoing inside the meat cave his massive hands form around his face.

  I’d be less surprised if he jumped onto the coffee table and started tap-dancing. I reach over and pat him on his broad shoulder, as much out of embarrassment as compassion. I know Tommy wants to kill me, but I never thought he’d try to do it by embarrassing us both to death.

  “Hey, look, I’m sorry Jake hit you—I mean, I’m sorry your nose . . . got hit,” I offer lamely, already trying to rewrite the narrative.

  Tommy shrugs me off. He talks into his hands, voice muffled, nose all stuffed up.

  “Fuck you. I don’t care about my stupid nose or your psycho friend.”

  He sniffs a couple of times, then takes a shaky breath and collects himself. He lifts his puffy face from his hands, wet with tears, and looks at me.

  “I guess you’re gonna tell on me for beatin’ on you in the stairwell, huh?”

  Oh right! That didn’t even occur to me! I can tell on him! Awesome! But then what about the book? I mean, him hitting me in the stairwell doesn’t cancel out the book throwing, but still, it’s gotta help.

  Tommy mistakes my silence for agreement and nods. “Yup. I thought so.” His voice trembles as he whispers, “My dad is going to kill me.”

  Your dad is going to kill you? You mean, like you tried to kill me today? I’m unable to muster much sympathy for Tommy.

  “Well, if you don’t want to get in trouble at school, maybe you shouldn’t be throwing people against walls and shit.”

  Tommy cocks his head like he must have heard me wrong. Nobody talks to the Richter Scale like that.

  His disbelief stokes my anger. “You push people around all the time,” I continue. “Maybe you deserve to get pushed back, see how you like it.”

  Tommy stares at me for so long that I mistake it for confusion, but when he finally responds, his voice is intelligent and clear. “I should see how I like it? I don’t. I don’t like it at all.”

  He stretches out his left arm and turns it over, palm-side-up, then carefully rolls up the sleeve of his football jersey, revealing an ugly round scar, like a cigarette burn, on the inside of his forearm. The scar looks new, angry pink flesh puckered on his pale skin. He looks at the scar and then back at me angrily, like I’m the one who did it. “Caught me drinking in the woods,” he says, pointing at it.

  Like a magician performing a grisly trick, he rolls his sleeve up farther, revealing another scar and another .
. . and then another. He points to each scar like a tour guide and tells me what he got it for : “Talking back . . . drinking again . . . skipped school . . . can’t remember what this one was for . . .” He stops rolling his sleeve up at the elbow, and I count six scars in all. Most of them are old, but a few look newer.

  I guess now I know why Tommy wears his long-sleeved football jersey every day.

  He yanks the sleeve back down, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t glare at me angrily again or say anything else, but instead stretches his legs out, leans back against the wall, and closes his eyes.

  I try to summon remorse for yelling at Tommy and am ashamed to discover that I can’t. Instead, I feel cheated, robbed of my right to hate him. It’s like if someone cuts you off in traffic and you want to honk at them, but then on their rear window you spot one of those pink ribbons that means they’re a breast cancer survivor.

  I hear snoring and am surprised to see that Tommy is, miraculously, asleep. He snores like a wet kazoo because of his busted nose. Why does everyone keep falling asleep today? Are Mr. Hartman and the janitor sneaking opioids into the water fountains?

  I can hear muffled arguing behind Mr. Braun’s door. I wonder what’s going on in the office. Why haven’t Tommy and I been called in yet? I squeeze my eyes shut and try to follow Tommy’s example. But I can’t. The phlegm snoring and muffled argument combine in a very unpleasant way, and I’m about to get up and walk out of the waiting room, maybe keep walking out the front doors and not stop—but then I get an idea. A better solution.

  I nudge Tommy and he starts awake with an alarmed snort, his huge head bumping the picture frame behind him again. He looks at me like he’s not totally awake yet.

  “You don’t want to get in trouble with your dad, right?”

  Tommy responds slowly, still waking up. “What?”

  “You don’t want to get in trouble with your dad, right?” I repeat.