And then something miraculous happened. Somehow the rest of the band seemed to fall into place, finding their spots on the page. The drum section got the tempo right, pulling the rhythm together. The trumpets let loose with a fanfare that was completely in sync. One of the clarinets, Tara Spangler, stood up and joined in on Bryan’s solo, making it a duet. Mr. Thorntonberry cried out in ecstasy. “Yes! Yes! Bring it! BA-RING IT!”
And it actually started to sound . . . good. Or at least not horrible. It was like watching a train wreck in reverse, the jackknifed cars suddenly righting themselves on the track, pulling back into line, the smoke and fire from the wreckage disappearing as they recoupled themselves, forming an orderly procession, till everything was back in motion, moving backward, gaining speed. Bryan did an elaborate run of high notes, somehow hitting every single one in succession, holding the last for a full ten seconds as the words KILLER SOLO danced across his page. He sucked in a deep breath.
That’s when Mr. Thorntonberry tore his sequined vest off, Incredible Hulk style, and threw it in the direction of Weston Roland, the oboe player, who caught it with his flushed-pink face. Bryan’s hands trembled. The lights continued to flicker. He didn’t even bother to sit down, just blew even louder into his horn. The whole thing crescendoed, a surf of notes cresting, colliding, but for once, in perfect harmony. Mr. Thorntonberry’s eyes were wild, his lips trembling. “Yes! Staccato! Percussion! Flutes! Hold it! Hold it! Hooooold it and . . . skabam!”
The bandleader threw his arms up in triumph as the music came to an abrupt halt. He was panting. Everyone was panting. Bryan was exhausted. From somewhere, seemingly from everywhere, he heard the roar of applause, though nobody in the room was actually clapping. Then, just above Thorntonberry’s head, Bryan saw the words.
+100 XP.
That’s when he realized he was still standing. Just he and Mr. Thorntonberry. The restless bandleader turned and bowed with a flourish of his hands. “We are the music-makers,” he said breathlessly, looking right at Bryan. “And we are the dreamers of dreams.” Bryan felt a rush as all eyes turned to him, felt himself swell up inside. The applause was real now. Beside him, Mikey let out a piercing whistle.
Then the applause vanished.
Mr. Vincent, the assistant principal, stood at the door, clearing his throat.
“Mr. Biggins,” he said, looking toward the saxophone section, where Bryan was still standing. “Principal Petrowski would like a word with you.”
From the back of the room Archie Goldman blurted out a bruh-bruh-brummm on his tuba.
Nobody laughed.
2:49 p.m.
The Boss
The reception area to the principal’s office looked inviting enough to the random parent passing through. There were posters plastered all along the walls. Some were student works. Others were pictures of jets in flight or giant sequoias or too-happy tweens reading books, imploring anyone who cared to “achieve,” to “grow,” and to “learn.” The secretary’s desk had a jar full of chocolate kisses left over from last Christmas, and the door to Principal Petrowski’s office was actually decorated with a rainbow pouring out of a beaming circle of sunshine. It all had the effect of making Bryan want to throw up. Of course, he’d been feeling that way for most of the day.
Mr. Vincent motioned for Bryan to have a seat facing the rainbow, then whispered something to the secretary before leaving. She turned and gave Bryan a sympathetic smile. Save for the clacking of the secretary’s press-on nails against the keyboard, there was hardly any sound in the waiting area. Bryan looked up at the clock. In about an hour he was supposed to meet Wattly behind the school, where, he assumed, Tank would simply roll over him with the treads of his boots, leaving behind the imprint of Bryan’s broken body as a memorial for Oz and Myra to lay flowers on. It was a dreadful prospect, but the more Bryan watched the rainbow door, the more he wondered if there were worse things than being clobbered by Chris Wattly.
He had never been to the principal’s office before.
The secretary’s intercom buzzed to life. “Ms. Mardel—if Mr. Biggins is out there, please send him in.” The secretary motioned Bryan toward the office.
Bryan stood up and walked, slowly, like someone trudging through three feet of wet snow, passing through the rainbow door. Principal Petrowski was hunched over his desk, which was messier than Bryan’s room at home. He had his head in his hands, dark-brown hair, smooth as an oil slick, brushed backward to cover a peeking crown. He wore a suit, like always; dark gray, like always.
The students had a nickname for Petrowski. They called him the Boss, partly because he was the principal, but mostly because he always wore the same thing to school. Gray suit. White shirt. Black shoes. Even on Show Your Spirit Day, when the other teachers wore sweatshirts with Mount Comfort’s golden-maned mascot on them. On those days he wore a charcoal suit with a yellow tie.
Today his tie was bloodred, like a gash had opened up down the middle of his chest. On his desk was a coffee mug sporting a quote—“Obedience to the law is demanded as a right; not asked as a favor,” which explained one thing, at least—and a letter opener that looked more like a sacrificial dagger. On his walls hung a variety of diplomas and awards. The whole room smelled of coffee and the sweat of tortured kids.
“Please. Have a seat,” Petrowski said, motioning to the uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs across from him. Bryan sat, trying to scrunch up, making himself as small a target as possible. He was afraid to look in the man’s eyes, but even more afraid to look away. Looking away, he knew, was an admission of guilt, and Bryan wasn’t sure what, exactly, he was in here for.
It could be so very many things.
The Boss smiled broadly, showcasing a silver-capped tooth, then shuffled through some of the papers on his desk. “You know what I hate most about this job, Biggins?” he asked as he shuffled. “It’s all the paper. So much paper. Eight rain forests’ worth. Every day I come in and there are at least a hundred pieces of paper sitting on my desk. And most of it is pointless. Absolute junk. Requisitions and policy changes and addendums to some stupid law I’ve never even heard of. Notes from parents. Notes from the secretary. Flyers for fund-raisers. I just don’t have time for it. I hate paper, Biggins. Just despise it. But here I am. Surrounded by it.”
Principal Petrowski continued to sort through the slush, finally finding the single sheet of paper that interested him. “Here we go. Bryan Biggins.” He grunted. “You, sir, have had a busy day.”
Bryan almost laughed. “Busy” was one word for it. He folded his hands in his lap. Unfolded them. Folded them. He didn’t say anything. The Boss trailed his finger down a series of handwritten comments, which Bryan strained to read. “Says here you’ve been wandering the halls without a pass?”
Of course. The Eye of Krug. She’d ratted him out. He should have guessed. She and the Boss even wore matching outfits. He probably let her drink out of the quotable mug. Bryan swallowed and licked his lips. “I ran some errands for teachers today,” he squeaked out.
The Boss nodded. “And it also says that you took a snack from the teachers’ lounge.”
“A Twinkie, sir. Out of the vending machine. I paid for it, though.” Bryan shifted from one cheek to the other, trying to get comfortable and failing.
Principal Petrowski set the sheet of paper down on top of the pile. Bryan could see that it was covered in red. His eyes fixated on the Boss’s tie. “You understand why we call it the teachers’ lounge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s a lounge. For teachers.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Teachers’. Lounge.”
“Yes, sir.” Bryan wondered how many times he had to say “yes, sir.”
“And the vending machine inside the teachers’ lounge. Also for teachers.”
“But I—”
“And the snacks inside the vending machine. Also for teachers.” Bryan kept his mouth shut. Petrowski took up the paper again. “So you wandered the ha
lls without permission and took food from the teachers’ lounge during third period. Then, during sixth period, you broke one of Mr. McKellen’s brooms. Is that correct?”
“That’s on there too?” Bryan craned his neck to get a look at the sheet. “I fell on it trying to capture Mr. Mouskerson,” he said, then realized just how ridiculous that sounded. “I mean, I was on a quest, uh, mission. . . . I was doing something for Mr. Tomlins . . . sir.”
“And was that before or after you tackled Amy Krug in the hallway?” the Boss wanted to know.
“Tackled her? She tackled me!”
Or at least she’d tried to. Bryan guessed they’d ended up kind of tackling each other, if such a thing was possible. He still felt bad for leaving her there on the floor. Though he was feeling a lot less bad about it now that she’d turned him in.
Principal Petrowski was staring at him, tapping one knuckle against his desk.
Bryan lowered his voice. “Sorry, sir. You’re right. I shouldn’t have been out in the halls without a pass. And I shouldn’t have gone into the teachers’ lounge. I’m just having a really off day.”
Principal Petrowski nodded, his normally rigid features softening for a moment. “I can appreciate that,” he said. “We all have those days.”
“Not like this,” Bryan blurted out, then shrank even farther down into his seat. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But the Boss didn’t argue. Instead he turned and looked out the only window in his office, hands folded in his lap.
“Here’s what I should do,” he said, his back still to Bryan. “I should call your parents. I should write this up and put it in your file. But you know what that would mean, don’t you?”
Bryan thought about it for a second. “More paper?” he ventured.
“Precisely. Even more paper. So here’s what we are going to do instead. We are going to settle this. Like men.” The Boss twisted back around in his chair, and Bryan saw he was making a fist with his right hand.
A fist. Bryan was about to get punched. By the principal. Forget Wattly. Principal Petrowski weighed almost two hundred pounds, and he was about to throw down right in the middle of the office. All those rules about no physical contact and the laws against corporal punishment, yet Bryan was about to have his teeth knocked out by the Boss. He put his hands up in protest. He started to say something about it being illegal to break students’ noses, when Principal Petrowski opened his left palm and put his right fist on top of it.
“Rock, paper, scissors,” he said.
“What?” Bryan shook his head, confused.
“Rock, paper, scissors. Come on. You kids play it all the time. I’ve seen you. You win and I let you walk out of here and we forget this whole day ever happened. I win and you call your parents and tell them you are suspended for violating school policy.”
Bryan just stared at the principal’s fist poised above his other hand. He was serious. He was going to settle this with a game of RPS. As if they were back on the playground in the third grade trying to decide who had to be “it” first. At least, he looked serious. Then again, he always looked serious. That’s why they called him the Boss.
“Really? I win and I just walk out of here?” Bryan asked. He would have laughed at how ludicrous it all was if it weren’t his school record on the line. Though in some ways that just made it even more ridiculous.
“Son,” Petrowski said with a sigh. “People like to pretend that life is complicated and full of drama and major decisions and whatnot, but it’s really not. It’s just one big game. Win or lose, you got no choice—you just keep playing. Now, are we going to do this or should I just hand you the phone and have you call home?”
Bryan opened his left hand and made a fist with his right. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He and Principal Petrowski both raised their fists. Then drove them down three times, chanting in unison. “Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.”
When he shot, Bryan shut his eyes. He wasn’t sure why. Instinct, maybe. Or just afraid to look. He felt his sweaty fist slamming into his even sweatier palm and held it there, fingers closed but his whole arm quivering. He cracked one eye open. Then the other.
Sure enough, Principal Petrowski sat across the desk, making a pair of scissors with his right hand.
“You win,” he said, shrugging. “Congratulations.” He didn’t seem at all unhappy about it. In fact, he seemed to be a little relieved. Bryan saw the flash of blue above the principal’s head.
+50 XP.
“You hate paper,” Bryan said.
Petrowski nodded. “And you can say you beat the Boss. Except you’re not allowed. Can’t let anyone know that I let you off the hook. I’d get a reputation for being soft. So you keep this just between you and me, and hopefully we never have to make that phone call to your folks. Understood?”
Bryan nodded. As he did, the final bell rang above them. School was over. He’d made it.
But not really. Not yet.
“It’s Friday. The weekend. Go on. Get out of here,” the principal said, shooing Bryan out of the chair with a hand that was now shaped like paper. “I really don’t want to see your face in my office again.”
Bryan stood up and grabbed his backpack, and for a moment he considered telling Petrowski about everything, the whole day, or maybe just the thing about Wattly. After all, if anyone had the power to step in and put an end to it, surely it was the Boss. He could have Wattly called down. Give him a talking to. Maybe call his parents. It would stop the fight, at least.
Then again, that might only make it worse.
Bryan opened the door and was met by the poster of the sequoia tree telling him to grow. The Boss called out his name from behind. “And, Biggins . . .”
Bryan turned around, priming himself for the last words of wisdom, the parting shot from the head honcho that would put everything in perspective and would give him some clue as to how to deal with his chaotic, upside-down, and totally insane life.
“Stay out of the teachers’ lounge, will ya?” the Boss said.
Then he started restacking his papers.
3:15 p.m.
Crossing the Line
The halls erupted, a hullabaloo of fleeing students, banged lockers, sharp whistles, and barbaric yawps. The foolish teachers stood in their doorways and begged kids not to turn into an unruly mob; the smart ones dashed to their cars to get out before the buses.
As he waded through the steady stream of bodies, Bryan couldn’t help but notice the sudden hush that followed him, almost as if he were walking underwater. Every conversation stopped, just for the one second it took to pass him, and then started up again, his mere presence silencing anyone in range. Quietly he made it to his locker, looking desperately for Oz, but the Wizard of Elmhurst Park had vanished.
It didn’t make sense. He should have been there. Even though Bryan biked home and Oz took the bus, they always walked out together. Bryan stood by his locker, pretending to be invisible, scanning the hall, looking for a friendly face. It didn’t have to be Oz, really. Myra, Rajesh, Juan—anyone would be fine, just so long as he wasn’t alone. He waited as long as he dared—two, three minutes—then grabbed his phone and sent Oz a text.
Where R U?
Bryan waited fifteen seconds. No reply.
Maybe he was already outside. He knew Bryan had gone to see the Boss. Everyone in band had watched Bryan walk the concrete mile. Maybe Oz was counting on him being late. Bryan shouldered his backpack and merged with the herd, keeping his nose to the ground, headed for the door. No sign of Oz. No sign of Wattly, either, though.
He stepped outside and looked up. The rain had stopped, finally, the clouds shifting from gunmetal gray to sun-brightened platinum. Everything was still soaked through—lake-size puddles saddled the curbs, and students had to be careful to avoid the waterfalls from the broken gutters. The whole world felt heavy, sagging, ready to collapse. Let it, Bryan thought. I’ve saved it once already.
Oz rode bus 22, which looked almost fu
ll, though Bryan didn’t see his best friend’s profile in the windows. He checked his phone again. Still no messages. Where did that boy run off to? The engines purred. The first bus in the line was already starting to pull away. Bryan took one last look around.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. He hoped it was Oz. He feared it was Wattly. He was afraid to find out.
“Long day?”
Bryan felt a shudder of relief followed immediately by a whole new wave of nervousness. It was Jess. She stood right next to him, close enough that he instinctively took a step back, her hands on the straps of her pack, bottom lip tucked under her top teeth. Her mud-puddle eyes held him steady.
Bryan shoved his hands into his pockets, as if he were afraid of what they might do if left to roam free. In the past it had sometimes taken him a full minute to summon the courage and composure just to say “hi” to Jess, but this afternoon the words seemed to come a little easier.
“So you heard about my day?” he asked.
He hoped she hadn’t heard everything. He had done quite a few things today that he wasn’t exactly proud of. And maybe a few that he was. Hiding in the girls’ bathroom wasn’t a high point, for example, and was just the kind of thing he hoped hadn’t been picked up on Jess’s radar.
“I heard you tackled Amy Krug,” she said.
That was probably another low point. Bryan itched with embarrassment, freeing one hand long enough to scratch the back of his neck. He could tell Jess was trying hard not to laugh. He sort of wished she would stop trying. It would be worth hearing the sound of her laughter, even if it was at his expense. “Tackled is such a strong word. I kind of just fell on top of her.”
Bryan frowned, regretting how that sounded, but Jess was still grinning.
“Well, is it true, at least, that you wrestled a giant rat in the janitors’ closet?”
Mr. Mouskerson hardly counted as a giant rat, and flinging the little beast out of his pant leg hardly counted as wrestling, but it was nice to hear his legend spreading.
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