Homeroom Headhunters

by Clay McLeod Chapman

  “But…how? You know they don’t actually exist.”

  “Then write about a tribe that does.”

  • • •

  I took the long way to Mr. Rorshuck’s class. What was the rush? I ended up wandering the empty halls wondering what I was going to write about for Witherspoon.

  With each class I passed, I could hear the disembodied voice of the teacher inside droning on about math.

  Science

  History

  English

  A dozen decrepit subjects bleeding into the hall.

  “Spencer…”

  Is it just me—or did someone whisper my name? I didn’t want to know.

  “Spencer!”

  There it was again.

  I looked up—and sure enough, there was Peashooter, looking down at me from an opening in the ceiling. He whispered down. “Meet us in the gym tonight.”

  “I can’t,” I said, trying to keep my voice low. “I’m grounded.”

  “Did it sound like I was asking?”

  Before I could respond, the familiar rattle of keys echoed through the hall. Mr. Simms was coming. I lowered my head as we passed each other.

  “Who’re you talking to?”

  “Just myself.”

  “Sounds like you’re giving yourself a pretty hard time.”

  “Nothing I can’t handle,” I said, turning just in time to collide with—“Mr. Rorshuck!”

  “There you are, Mr. Pendleton. We were beginning to worry about you.”

  Simms would have to mop the sarcasm off the floor if Rorshuck kept this up.

  “Tell me why you’re not in my classroom right now?” he continued. “If I’m not mistaken, the bell rang twenty minutes ago.…”

  “I was just talking with Mrs. Wither—”

  “Do you have a hall pass?”

  “No…”

  “Wandering through the halls without a pass is a punishable offense.”

  “But I was talking to a teacher!”

  “See me after school today, Mr. Pendleton. You and I can continue our conversation during detention.”

  I glared at Mr. Simms, hoping he’d throw me a lifeline. No such luck.

  “But that’s not fair—”

  Rorshuck cut me off. “Two days of detention. Now get to my class before I make it three!”

  It was official: Worst Day Ever.

  I peered up to see if Peashooter was still there, listening in. The ceiling panel had been pushed back into place.

  God—what I wouldn’t give to be up there with the rest of the Tribe right now. I’d throw it all away just to be done with these teachers and their status quo.

  I’d leave all this crap behind in a heartbeat.

  No more me.

  The end of Spence.

  That got me thinking.…

  Whoever Peashooter had been before forming the Tribe, that kid didn’t exist anymore. None of them did.

  As far as they were concerned, their former selves were dead to the world.

  Nothing but ghosts now.

  Then it hit me: Every ghost deserves a good story.

  GHOST STORY NUMBER ONE: PEASHOOTER

  Chosen Name: Peashooter

  Given Name: Unknown

  Area of Study: English

  Weapon of Choice: Bic dart gun

  Last seen: Unknown

  Notes: Ringleader. Well read.

  (The following segments are personal exchanges between individual Tribe members and the author. These interviews occurred in the field without the aid of a recording device, for fear of apprehension, scribbled down by the author as soon as humanly possible in hopes of retaining their accuracy.)

  PEASHOOTER FIELD NOTES ENTRY #1:

  LOCATION: BOILER ROOM

  TIME: 10:00 P.M.

  Peashooter possesses the strongest set of lungs of anyone I’ve ever met. One quick inhale is enough to power up his weapon of choice: a hollowed-out ballpoint pen.

  To discharge his weapon, he grips the barrel of his Bic in his palm so that the nose is barely exposed, then brings his fist up to his mouth and simulates a cough. Before his victim has time to blink, he can fire off as many as five hand-made darts.

  PEASHOOTER: Whenever Mr. Rorshuck turned his back, I’d fire off a quick spitball. SMACK! I’d hit him right in the neck. I was an academic assassin.

  ME: Ever get caught?

  PEASHOOTER: Once. Some sixth grader ratted me out.… Riley Callahan.

  Peashooter pulls the paper-clip piercing from his septum and unfolds it in front of me. In seconds, he’s holding a slender dart, ready for loading.

  PEASHOOTER: Anyone who rats on the Tribe gets one of these in their eyeball.

  I believed him.

  Notice the threat subtext: Join us and we’ll be the best friends you’ve ever had. Defy us and we’ll be your worst nightmare.

  Friends for life or foes forever…

  PEASHOOTER FIELD NOTES ENTRY #2:

  LOCATION: AFTER-SCHOOL DETENTION—DAY 8

  TIME: 3:00 P.M.

  As a student, Peashooter practically lived in detention. He was there so much his parents stopped expecting him home in the afternoons.

  PEASHOOTER: I liked having the classroom all to myself. After school, when most kids had already left and nobody else was around—this place felt like it was all mine.

  That’s where Peashooter created his reading list:

  Lord of the Flies, by William Golding.

  White Fang, by Jack London.

  The Call of the Wild, by London, too.

  The Outsiders, by S. E. Hinton.

  Watership Down, by Richard Adams.

  The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain.

  The Art of War, by Sun Tzu.

  Johnny Tremain, by Esther Forbes.

  The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane.

  “Reading” is putting it mildly. Peashooter ate these books up. As soon as he finished flipping through a book, he’d start over again.

  And again.

  He memorized passages. He underlined sections. He dog-eared pages.

  PEASHOOTER: It felt like these books were written just for me. Like each author wanted to have a direct conversation with me and me only.

  Peashooter thought he knew these books better than anyone else. Even his teachers. He felt he understood their true meaning.

  Whenever he raised his hand in English class, Mrs. Royer would take a deep breath, bracing herself for a hearty dose of devil’s advocacy.

  PEASHOOTER: I’d question her on everything. No matter what the book, I’d always dispute her: How do you know that’s true? How can you be so sure that’s what Jack London was writing about? Even if I knew she was right, I’d still call her on it. Just for the challenge. Truth is, I was the only one in class who actually read the books, anyway.…

  Peashooter was Royer’s best student. Even if he was a pain in her butt.

  PEASHOOTER FIELD NOTES ENTRY #3:

  LOCATION: AFTER-SCHOOL DETENTION—DAY 10

  TIME: 4:00 P.M.

  For Peashooter, class was in session during detention. Not the other way around.

  After a while, he couldn’t help but feel bored by his regular school day. All six periods became speed bumps between him and his own personal lesson plan.

  According to Peashooter, his teachers didn’t teach middle school.

  They taught day care.

  PEASHOOTER: I couldn’t wait for detention to start. All I wanted was to sit and read by myself.

  ME: Why not just read at your house, then? If all you wanted was a little peace and quiet, couldn’t you get that at home?

  PEASHOOTER: Don’t ever ask me about my home again. Got it?

  The look in his eyes made his message loud and clear.

  PEASHOOTER FIELD NOTES ENTRY #4:

  LOCATION: AFTER-SCHOOL DETENTION—DAY 13

  TIME: 3:00 P.M.

  As soon as one sentence ran out, Peashooter made sure to wreak enough havoc to land him righ
t back in detention.

  PEASHOOTER: I’d spitball the principal if it got me an extra week. Solitary confinement was just what the doctor ordered.

  It was on one of these quiet and confined afternoons that Peashooter considered the fiberglass panels over his head.

  PEASHOOTER: It felt like the ceiling was calling me.…

  He waited until the teacher on guard detail slipped out for a bathroom break. Alone, he stacked a bunch of encyclopedias on his desk, climbed up, pried apart the paneling, and peered in.

  On the other side, he found three feet of crawl space between the classroom ceiling and the roof, a cobwebbed hollow full of air-conditioning ducts and electrical wiring. The lower ceiling was nothing more than an aluminum grid held in place by a series of wires suspended from the upper ceiling. Each square grid held its own fiberglass tile.

  The next day, when the teacher left the room, Peashooter actually climbed inside. He crawled around for a bit, testing his weight, making his way from one end of the classroom and back without falling through.

  PEASHOOTER: The panels aren’t strong, so it’s best to crawl across the aluminum frame surrounding the tile. The trick is to evenly distribute your weight. You don’t want to place all your heft on one portion of your body. You’ll fall right through the ceiling. Crawl on your hands and knees.

  On the third day, Peashooter climbed up and never came back. He slid the paneling back in place, sealing him in and officially cutting off his ties with the world down below.

  PEASHOOTER: All I wanted were my books. It was the only part of my old life that mattered, so I took them with me. Everything else, I left behind.

  ME: That teacher must’ve been surprised to return to an empty classroom.

  PEASHOOTER: Whatever. I bet he was happy to be rid of me once and for all. I bet the whole school was.

  ME: Ever think you’ll go back?

  PEASHOOTER: Go back where? Out there? With the rest of—who? You? Them? The Art of War says, “Know thy self, know thy enemy.”

  It should be noted that whenever Peashooter talks, it’s a mash-up of books, most of which I’d never read. I imagine Peashooter hovering above everyone’s head, reading to himself or listening to whatever lesson is happening below, soaking it in.

  Talk about academic cannibalism.

  PEASHOOTER: I don’t belong out there anymore. None of us do.

  ME: But it’s just middle school.…

  PEASHOOTER: It’s a jungle.

  ere at Greenfield there will neither be peace nor rest.” Peashooter’s voice echoed through the empty hallways. “Nor a moment’s safety!”

  I had no idea why I had been summoned.

  All I knew was that I had snuck out of my house—just to sneak back into school.

  Now, that was a first.

  Having spent the majority of my middle school existence attempting to break out of school, never in a million years would I have imagined wanting to break in.

  Mom was keeping a pretty close eye on me that night. She had already peeked her head into my bedroom three times, to make sure I wasn’t up to anything.

  “How’s your homework coming?”

  “Just reading.”

  “Oh yeah?” She perked up. This was the most we’d said to each other all day. “What’re you reading?”

  “A story called ‘The Most Dangerous Game.’”

  “What’s it about?”

  “This one guy hunts another guy in the jungle.”

  “Sounds interesting. Any good?”

  “It’s okay, I guess.… I’m only halfway through it.”

  “Anything exciting happen at school?”

  If I’d told her I’d served yet another detention, she would have flayed me alive. “Nothing really. Hung out with some friends.”

  “Really?” She seemed pleased. “When can I meet these friends?”

  “I’m on a trial basis with them right now. They want to see if I’m a good fit.”

  “Well…good luck, I guess. Is that the right thing to say?”

  “Works for me.”

  “Don’t stay up too late reading, Spence,” she said as she closed the door. Through the paneling, I just barely heard her say, “Love you.”

  I had to wait until I was sure that she was asleep before I tiptoed down the stairs and slipped through the kitchen window. Then I hoofed the two miles back to Greenfield.

  While I walked, I did a quick supply check:

  Flashlight? Check.

  My Little Friend? Check.

  Cojones? Well…I might’ve left those at home.

  I circled around the building twice before discovering a window in the industrial arts workshop that had been left open. I shimmied through, landing in a pile of sawdust.

  Great. I stood up, coughing and completely covered in wood shavings.

  Dusting myself, I heard faint rumblings farther off.

  Voices.

  Someone was shouting. I stepped into the hallway, and sure enough, it was Peashooter. I’d recognize his rally cry anywhere. It sounded like his voice was coming from the gym.

  “You are savages! You know no law but the law of claw and fang!”

  Someone else—Sporkboy, I bet—called back: “To the law of claw and fang!”

  Slipping into the gym, I found the Tribe sitting within the center circle of the court. Each member had a javelin.

  Peashooter stood above the rest—chest puffed, chin lifted—marching around the others in some fervent version of Duck Duck Goose.

  “This is your introduction to the reign of primitive law,” he bellowed. “The law of claw and fang!”

  Sporkboy raised his fist into the air. Yardstick and Compass, too. Each one of them, save for Sully, had scribbled CLAW across the knuckles of their left hand and FANG over their right.

  They roared—“Claw and fang!”

  “Claw and fang!”

  “Claw and fang!”

  “Silence!” Peashooter had spotted me. “Look who finally made it.”

  Sully looked over first.

  “Sorry I’m late.… What did I miss?”

  “We’ve brought in new blood to strengthen our tribal line,” Peashooter continued. “But first—the lamb must prove he’s worthy of our ranks. He must earn his place among us, as we all did.”

  Just what is Peashooter getting at here?

  “Ready for your first pop quiz, Spencer?”

  “Uh…pop quiz?”

  “Tonight we put your survival skills to the test.”

  “Survival skills? What’s there to survive?”

  “Life is for the strong,” Peashooter thundered, “to be lived by the strong, and, if need be, taken by the strong. The weak of the world were put here to give the strong pleasure. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not?”

  I recognized this.

  “The Most Dangerous Game.” He was quoting “The Most Dangerous Game”!

  I’d just read that. I quoted right along with him: “…I hunt the scum of the earth.”

  Peashooter flashed me his patented grin. “Guess somebody did their homework after all. Sure hope you took notes.”

  “So…what am I supposed to do?”

  “You’ve got to find a way out of the building—or your head will end up mounted to the boiler room wall.”

  Peashooter nodded to Sully.

  “Thirty…twenty-nine…twenty-eight,” her voice intoned. The Tribe all stood, one after the other, picking their javelins up from the floor.

  Hold on a sec, I thought, kicking myself for not finishing my assignment. How exactly did “The Most Dangerous Game” end?

  “Twenty-seven…twenty-six…”

  And why is everybody else armed with track-and-field equipment?

  “Twenty-five…twenty-four…”

  This doesn’t feel right, Spencer. Something’s really wrong here.…

  “Twenty-three…”

  Run, Spence!

  “Twenty-two…”r />
  Now!

  I booked it out of the gym and into the hallway. I could hear the numbers as they slipped away: “Twenty-one…twenty…nineteen…”

  I kept the countdown going for myself, maintaining Sully’s metronome pace just under my breath. “Eighteen…seventeen…sixteen…”

  I had barely made it to the end of the hall before I’d reached the single digits—“Nineeightsevensixfivefourthreetwoone…”

  A shrill cacophony of gym whistles pierced my ears.

  The hunt was on.

  • • •

  Let me take this opportunity to briefly explain the layout of Greenfield Middle School.

  Picture an enormous bat.

  Beginning with the two fanged flagpoles on the front lawn, Greenfield was designed to suck the very marrow from its students.

  The administrative offices serve as its head. Once kids walk through the gaping maw of the main entrance, they are plunged into the central hallway. All of the administrative offices funnel through the gullet, from Pritchard’s lair, to attendance, guidance, and the school nurse. From there, you reach the expansive quarters—spaces like the gymnasium, cafeteria, and library—all connected together at the building’s core. Think of this area as the bat’s torso.

  The cafeteria is fittingly positioned around the stomach.

  The library is the heart.

  The gym? Let’s consider that the part of the bat’s anatomy where the sun doesn’t shine.

  But what Greenfield has most in common with the bloodthirsty Desmodus rotundus is the fact that—this building has wings.

  Vast, academically segmented wings.

  Outstretched at either side of the school’s torso is an annex of twenty classrooms. Crescent-shaped, they curve inward as if in mid flap, ready to pluck up some poor unsuspecting student with their claws and fly away.

  Math and sciences, along with several of our elective courses like industrial arts and home ec, are found within the left wing—while English and history, plus the auditorium and the orchestra room, are found on the right.

  Whoever designed this building probably didn’t take into account that this fat bat turns into a death trap at night. The school was cavernous enough during the day when the lights were on, but in the dark, without any windows, the halls felt more like century-old catacombs. And the lockers clustered together could have been tombs, for all I knew, each one containing the mummified remains of some sixth grader.