Alibi Junior High

by Greg Logsted

  “So what does that make you?”

  “I guess it makes me late, Coach. Sorry, I’ll change fast.”

  He shakes his head in disgust. “Stop talking and start changing.”

  I quickly move toward my locker. Just when I’m beginning to think the coach is going to let this drop, I hear him open the door leading into the gym and bellow, “Seems like Teacup and Frankfurter both arrived late today. So you all can thank them for the extra two laps you’ll be taking.”

  I hear a loud collective groan as I round the corner to my locker. Frank’s locker is next to mine and he’s standing there half dressed. He turns his back to me in an effort to hide the rolls of fat draped around his body.

  I start spinning my lock combo. “Coach seems to be in a bad mood again.”

  Frank snorts. “He’s always in a bad mood. Get used to it. Now the whole class is going to be mad at us for making them take two more laps.”

  “We’re not making them take two laps, Coach is.”

  “Yeah, try telling that to the class. They’ll blame us. They always do.”

  I open my locker and quickly pull out its contents, and I’m overwhelmed by a strong, sweet smell.

  Frank notices it too. “Whoa, what’s that smell? Perfume?”

  I lift the uniform to my nose. “Oh yeah, it’s perfume. Someone sprayed a ton of it into my locker.”

  As he struggles to slip his excessively large shirt over his head, Frank grumbles, “Isn’t school great? Don’t you just love it? It’s just one humiliating moment after another.”

  I stand there wondering what to do. I could quickly wash everything in the sink and dry it with the hand dryer, but I don’t have enough time.

  I could disappear, suddenly get sick, steal someone else’s clothes, or call in a bomb threat. Any one of those ideas would work but I’m betting they’d create more problems than solutions.

  It looks like my only option is wearing the stinking uniform.

  Frank finally gets his shirt on. I pat him on the back. “Listen, my whole locker smells. Could I squeeze my street clothes into your locker?”

  “Sure, no problem, if you can find the room. Are you really going to wear that thing?”

  “Looks like I’ve got no choice.”

  “Coach is going to have a field day.”

  I slip the shirt over my head. I can’t believe how bad it smells. This is one gym class I’ll definitely be taking a shower after.

  Sometimes you can get yourself all worked up about something and it turns out to be nothing. Other times it turns out your fears were completely justified.

  Gym class—which, for me, consists largely of just running lap after lap with breaks in between for Coach to shout and call me names—is even worse than I feared it would be.

  The overpowering cloud of perfume that hangs around me makes me the most tempting target of ridicule to ever step upon a gym floor. Teacup becomes Little Miss Teacup and it isn’t just Coach doing the name-calling, it’s the whole class. Frank’s the only one who doesn’t feel compelled to insult me.

  Billy Foster, the tall guy that Coach has a habit of calling Pogo Stick, seems to be the main ringleader, and I strongly suspect that he had something to do with my locker taking on its sudden, overpowering stench.

  After class I take a scorching-hot shower and cover myself from head to toe with soap in an effort to wash away the foul odor. I think I managed to scrub most of it off, but I’m not sure. I’ve become immune to the overpowering scent. My success or failure will be judged by whoever has to sit next to me for the rest of the day.

  I dry off, slip into my shorts, and head for my locker. When I round the corner I find Frank, dressed only in his underwear, surrounded by Pogo Stick and five of his friends. They’re pushing him back and forth from one side of the circle to the other, laughing and chanting, “Frankfurter, Frankfurter, Frankfurter,” over and over.

  Frank appears to be on the verge of crying, which seems to only increase their sadistic pleasure. He’s folding his arms across his flabby chest in a futile attempt to cover his exposed flesh. There’s a desperate, pleading look to his eyes.

  I glance over at the coach’s office. It’s empty. Normally he can be seen behind the large glass window that looks into our locker room. It figures that when he’s truly needed he’s nowhere to be found.

  I approach the group. “Hey, knock it off!”

  They stop pushing Frank and shift toward me. They flow around me and I soon find myself by Frank’s side in the center of the circle.

  Pogo Stick grins. “Look what we’ve got here, Little Miss Teacup running to his girlfriend’s defense.”

  I look him in the eye. “Stop this now before someone gets hurt.”

  A voice behind me mockingly calls out, “Oooh, is Little Miss Teacup scared he’s gonna get huuuuurt?”

  The others start to laugh.

  Someone pushes me toward Frank. I stop a few inches short of running into him.

  “I’m warning all of you. Leave us alone and nobody will get hurt.”

  The guy to the left of Pogo Stick snorts. “Oooh, I’m scared. Little Miss Teacup says he’s gonna hurt us.”

  The big kid, with the pimply face and long greasy hair, suddenly shoves Frank into me. The two of us painfully collide and almost crash to the floor. We briefly hold each other to avoid falling.

  Pogo Stick winks at us. “Look, they’re dancing. Aren’t they a cute couple?”

  I glare at him, pucker my lips, and kiss the air. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll save the last dance for you.”

  Both his temper and his fist are quicker than I thought they’d be. I don’t have time to block his punch. I snap my head back but he still manages to graze my forehead. Someone kicks me in the back.

  I let the tiger out of his cage.

  It only takes a few seconds. Legs. My eyes pick the targets and my body follows their lead. Knees. It happens fast, too fast for my mind to even register what’s happening. Feet. It’s simply instinct and countless hours of training taking over. Elbows. The switch got switched. Hands. They might as well have been trying to stop a moving train with a pillow.

  Frank and I stand together, surveying the fallen, groaning bodies around us. He turns to me. There’s an expression of shock and confusion stretched tightly across his face.

  “What happened?”

  I don’t know what to say. I just stand there.

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  I look at the bodies lying around us. Something about the way they’re scattered on the floor reminds me of the café bombing. I can almost smell the explosives, the charred flesh, and the fear and desperation that hung in the air that morning.

  If only the waitress hadn’t winked at me. It’s the memory of that last sweet act that keeps constantly slicing its way into my head. It’s so unbelievably sharp. I’m powerless to stop it when it chooses to pierce its way into the present.

  Frank shakes my shoulder; panic in his voice as he asks, “Should I get the nurse?”

  I glance around. “No.”

  “I think you might have really hurt someone.”

  I turn to Frank. Even though he didn’t do anything wrong I can hear the anger creeping into my voice. “Nobody’s hurt badly. They’re just stunned. If I wanted to really hurt someone I would have.”

  He takes a few steps backward; I see the fear in his eyes. “What are you?”

  I watch Frank. He moves until his back is against the lockers.

  What am I?

  What, not who—maybe that’s a question I should be asking myself, too. What am I?

  THE MACHINE

  I can feel the steady march of impending doom. That sensation that everything’s about to change drastically for the worse and you’re completely powerless to prevent it. Like when you bump the edge of a table and you can’t do anything except watch as the expensive vase at the other end tumbles to the floor.

  Mrs. Richardson is mangling Spanish again. What else is
new? I can’t even concentrate enough to criticize her. I can feel the wheels of the discipline machine moving, building up speed, and heading in my direction. I know it will come. How it will come is the question.

  The loudspeaker crackles to life and Mrs. Owens’s shrill, slightly hysterical voice can be heard angrily shouting throughout the whole school. “If Cody Saron is in the building, have him report to my office immediately! And I mean immediately!”

  The machine has arrived.

  Everyone in the class falls silent and turns their attention to me. It’s obvious nobody’s ever been called to the office quite like this before. I’ve suddenly become the most interesting student to ever walk through the front door.

  Mrs. Richardson looks at me over her glasses and addresses me in an overly calm and composed manner. “Cody, I think Mrs. Owens would like to see you in her office.”

  There’s a slight smile tugging at her lips.

  I slowly rise to my feet, slip my books into my backpack, and ignore the snickers around me. A new battle begins.

  The kids around me start whispering, “What did you do?” and “Oooh…you’re in so much trouble,” and other such garbage. I ignore them.

  I’m just about out of the classroom when the door opens and in marches Steroid Steve, with his attitude, self-inflated chest, and ego. “I’m supposed to escort Cody Saron to the office.”

  Figures. They don’t even trust me to find my own way to the office.

  Steroid Steve and I walk together in the long, empty hall. His rubber-soled shoes squeak loudly on the tile floor. I feel like I’m walking with a cartoon character. If I weren’t so worried about what was going to happen to me, I’d laugh.

  The few people we encounter stare at me like I’m a rock star…or an ax-murderer. I’ve never been either, so I’m not sure.

  Steve stops abruptly and glares at me. He lifts his chin. “You know something? I knew you were trouble the very first moment I saw you. Now I hear you hurt six kids. Punks like you should be kept in cages, not schools.”

  I meet his eyes and glare right back at him. I could have saved myself a whole lot of aggravation if I had just laid him out on the floor that first day of school. It’s almost as if he reads my mind; something in his eyes changes and he takes a step backward.

  At first I’m surprised, then I shake my head in disgust. I realize what I had always suspected: he’s nothing but a paper tiger. I hope the school never has to truly depend upon him for protection.

  We walk the remainder of the way to the office in silence. He opens the door for me and when I pass him he mutters, “I hope they kick your butt outta school.”

  Mrs. Owens is waiting for me. Her face looks calm but it’s clear there’s a dangerous current flowing just below its serene surface. I guess she’s regained her composure after that bizarre loudspeaker rant.

  She nods at me. “Mr. Saron.”

  I nod back. “Mrs. Owens.”

  “Please step into my office.”

  I follow her into the main engine of the machine, with its full bookshelves, drawn blinds, and comfortable leather chairs. I close the door behind me, glance at the Yankees pennant, and sink into my now-familiar seat; it once again hisses my arrival. Today, instead of a defective whoopee cushion, the hissing reminds me of an angry snake. I can practically feel it wrapping its long, thick body around me.

  Mrs. Owens sits behind her highly polished desk; her manicured hands folded together on its shiny surface. She holds me in an icy stare that reveals little beyond contempt. We sit in a thick silence as I wait for her to say something.

  She clears her throat. “Mr. Saron, upon our first meeting I thought I made our school’s zero-tolerance for violence policy quite clear. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You do understand what zero means, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why don’t you tell me what zero means.”

  “It means nothing at all.”

  “That’s right. So if we have a policy of zero tolerance when it comes to acts of violence, what do you suppose that means?”

  “It means what it means.”

  She doesn’t say anything. We slip back into that thick fog of silence. I become aware of a clock ticking somewhere in the room. In the outer office, I hear the muffled voices of people talking and laughing.

  Finally she says, “I want to hear your definition of zero tolerance.”

  I peer at her across the desk. It’s like studying a statue. She doesn’t move; she rarely blinks. I keep my hands on the arms of my chair, my chin up, my gaze holding hers. I let the moment stretch on like a piano key held down until the note fades away into silence.

  When the silence feels thicker than cement I say, “I think we both know what zero tolerance means.”

  She continues to stare at me and starts tapping her fingernails on the desk.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  Tap, tap, tap.

  It’s like her nails are dancing with the ticking of the clock. They merge and spin off into an eternal waltz.

  She stops tapping. “Tell me what zero tolerance means.”

  I take a deep breath. “Mrs. Owens, is there a reason why you’re talking to me like I’m an imbecile?”

  She doesn’t move or flinch; she just continues to stare at me. I’m beginning to feel like a goldfish. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened in gym today.”

  I lean forward. “I’m glad you brought that up, because I’ve been thinking about filing a complaint. For some reason gym largely consists of me running laps. I have no idea why Coach Dinatelli has singled me out for this abuse. I think it may have something to do with me having lived in England. He also insists upon calling me Teacup. I’m worried about the psychological scars his cruelty may leave upon me.”

  “Stop it!”

  Mrs. Owens is suddenly standing behind her desk. That dangerous undercurrent I detected before has finally risen to the surface.

  “Mr. Saron, I have had enough of your shenanigans.”

  “What exactly does ‘shenanigans’ mean? It sounds like an Irish pub.”

  She’s quickly around her desk and for the briefest of moments it looks like she’s about to hit me. Which would be just about perfect, assaulted for violating a zero-tolerance violence policy.

  Instead she storms past me, opens her door, and barks, “Follow me!”

  We march together through the main office. All activity freezes, conversations cease, everyone watches us. The room seems to fall into a collective coma. When we pass through the door into the hall I hear the room slowly coming back to life behind us.

  Mrs. Owens is walking quickly. I have to lengthen my stride just to keep up with her. If she were moving any faster I’d have to break into something between speed walking and a jog.

  I follow her into the nurse’s office. Mrs. Casey, the school nurse, quickly stands up. It’s obvious that Mrs. Owens intimidates her; you can tell by the nervous look in her eye, the quick, flighty movements of her hands, and the way she keeps rocking back and forth in her shoes.

  “Mrs. Casey.”

  She timidly runs her hand through her hair. “Yes?”

  “How are the boys doing?”

  I look around the office. Pogo Stick and his friends are all lying on cots. They seem to be sluggish but are basically doing well. They’re all somewhat bandaged; Pogo has a broken nose and the big kid’s arm is in a sling. Frank’s sitting in the corner in a chair; I didn’t expect to see him here.

  “Ah, they seem okay. Nothing broken…oh, except for Billy’s nose, which I taped tight; there’s not much more I can do for it here. I’ve notified their parents and strongly suggested they all visit the hospital for more thorough examinations.”

  Mrs. Owens lets out a long sigh and we enter into another one of her prolonged bouts of silence. I can tell she’s making everyone, including Mrs. Casey, very anxious and I find myself beginning to admire
her interrogation technique. I can see how it would be effective.

  She turns to me. “Mr. Saron, do you have something you would like to say to your friends?”

  I look over at Frank, and raise my eyebrow slightly. He gives me a quick shake of his head. Does that mean they didn’t tell her what happened? It’s worth a try. I offer Pogo Stick my best innocent look and say, “What happened to you guys?”

  Mrs. Owens snaps, “Oh, please. We all know what’s going on here! Mr. Dinatelli informs me that you did this to them.”

  “Did what to them?”

  “You need to just stop this.”

  I hold up my hands. “Stop what?”

  She glares at me. “This innocent routine.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about how you brutally assaulted these students.”

  I point at my chest. “You think I did this?” I glance around the room like I’m counting. “You think I beat up seven guys?”

  “I think you did and so does Mr. Dinatelli.”

  I point at my face. “Do I look like I just fought with seven guys? That’s almost a baseball team. Look, there’s not a scratch on me.”

  “Mr. Dinatelli said he heard fighting in the locker room. When he went inside to investigate he found these guys on the floor and you walking out the door.”

  “All that proves is that I walked out of the gym. I could have told you that.”

  She looks at me, shakes her head, then walks over to Pogo Stick. She softens her voice. The sudden transformation is jarring, like downshifting on the highway. “How are you feeling?”

  “Been better.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you need anything, Billy?”

  “No, I’ll be all right.”

  She smiles, or should I say she tries to smile. You can tell it’s not something she’s used to doing. “Listen, Billy, I want you to tell me what happened today in the locker room. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He looks over at me. We make eye contact. There’s something there. It’s not fear, guilt, or hate; it’s something else. I can’t get a read on it.

  “Well, it’s like this: John and I were standing on the bench seeing who could push who off first, then it kinda turned into which group could push the other group off the bench. Next thing I know, we’re all crashing to the hard tile floor together.”