Homeroom Headhunters

by Clay McLeod Chapman

  “The worst part was never knowing where she was,” he eventually said. “Whether she was alive or dead. But it was only after I had accepted the fact that now she was with her mother that she came back to me. Sully’s finally come home.…”

  He thought she was dead.

  “She’s everywhere in this house,” he continued. “I’ll pass her room and hear her giggling behind the door. I’ll walk by the bathroom and hear her turn off the faucet. I’ll even hear her walking along the hallway upstairs while I’m down here.…”

  Mr. Tulliver wasn’t haunted by the ghost of Sully.

  He was being haunted by the memory of her.

  He nodded to me. “If we wait here long enough, she’ll come back again. We just have to be patient. You’ll see.”

  The clock in my chest started chiming off a series of steady heart attacks: Ding! Ding! Ding!

  I bolted up from my chair. “I’m really sorry to have bothered you, sir—”

  “What did Sully say to you?”

  “I really should be going,” I said, rushing for the front door.

  “Please, please—just do me one favor.”

  I stopped.

  “Tell her…tell her that I’m sorry.”

  never thought I’d feel this way, but I really needed to get back to school.

  There was some unfinished business to attend to.

  Peashooter had gone too far. He was taking quotes from his favorite books and warping the words to fit what he wanted to say. He had convinced the rest of the Tribe to believe in him, that his way was the right way, the only way—but now that I’d seen the familial aftershocks of his manipulation firsthand, tearing these parents apart, I knew I had to stop him.

  I just had to figure out how.

  How can one kid stand up to a nose-pierced Napoleon?

  I had two days left on my suspension to come up with a plan.

  I was in my bedroom holding the copy of The Catcher in the Rye Pritchard had given me. Calling it a book was misleading. The plain white cover was holding on for dear life, and the spine had given out long ago. The only thing keeping the pages together was a rubber band.

  Since I was on lockdown, I wasn’t leaving my room—so I decided to see what Pritchard had been talking about all this time.

  A passage around page 188 struck a nerve:

  “The mark of an immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of a mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.”

  I reread the sentence again, out loud this time.

  I looked at Sully’s photocopied MISSING flyer thumbtacked to my wall.

  ME: What do you think Salinger’s getting at?

  SULLY: Heck if I know. You’re reading the book, not me. I’m just a voice in your head.

  ME: You’re a big help, Sully. Thanks a lot.

  SULLY: Maybe he’s saying that an immature man wants to die in the line of fire because that will get him all the attention—but what then? He’s dead. A lot of good that does for the cause. But a mature man realizes that the true sign of strength is to live and fight for what you believe in every day, day after day. The cause is greater than the man.…

  ME: Oh. Yeah—that’s what I was going to say too.

  SULLY: Sure you were, Spencer,…sure you were.

  What was Pritchard up to? Did he want me to see something of myself in this Caulfield character?

  By the time Mom knocked on my door, I had nearly finished reading the whole book. “Didn’t you hear me calling?”

  “Just got wrapped up in my reading, I guess.…”

  “Dinner’s getting cold.”

  • • •

  That night, I made a list of all the books and short stories and plays Peashooter was fond of using on the rest of the Tribe:

  Lord of the Flies. White Fang. The Call of the Wild. The Outsiders. “The Most Dangerous Game.” The Art of War. All’s Well that Ends Well. “The Pit and the Pendulum.” The Red Badge of Courage.

  I had some brushing up to do.

  And less than two days to do it.

  When I returned to school, I knew Peashooter would be waiting for me. Bic guns a-blazing. He would come at me with everything the Tribe had.

  There was no way he’d let this go. Not with what I knew—like the location of their hideout and their true identities.

  I was the Student Who Knew Too Much.

  But I wasn’t going down without a fight. If Peashooter wanted a war, fine.

  To the law of claw and fang!

  om drove me to school for my first day back. No kiss on the forehead this time.

  “Remember your inhaler?”

  “Forgot it,” I said. “Don’t worry—I’ve got a spare in my locker.”

  I looked out the window toward Greenfield. The building had been given a yuletide face-lift since I’d left. It was completely covered in tinsel and Christmas colors.

  There was no telling what was waiting for me inside.

  “Any words of wisdom for me? Sure could use some right about now.”

  “Don’t rock the boat, Spencer. Ever again.”

  “No more boat-rocking from me, Mom.”

  I’m sinking this ship.

  • • •

  Time for the final showdown.

  Pushing through Greenfield’s front doors, I felt like a cowboy ready to square off in a duel.

  Cue the harmonica sound track.

  Cue tumbleweeds.

  It felt like all eyes were on me the second I entered. As soon as I stared back, catching any one of these werekids by the eyeball, they’d bow their head and step aside.

  Who knew what I might do next? As far as my classmates were concerned, I was Public (Education) Enemy #1. There was no telling what I was capable of.

  Everybody cleared a path as I ambled through the hall. I heard a few whispers—the newbie’s back, what’s he up to?—but I kept rambling.

  There was only one person under this school’s roof that I was looking for.

  But first—a little detour to my locker.

  I needed to reload.

  When I popped open the plastic cap and brought My Little Friend up to my lips, I glanced down just in time to see segmented legs crawling out of the mouthpiece.

  There was a spider hiding inside my inhaler.

  A spider. Inside. My inhaler.

  And not just any kind of spider, either:

  A black widow.

  Another inch and that arachnid would’ve gone right down my windpipe.

  Sully was the etymologist, but this had Peashooter’s dirty fingerprints all over it.

  I flung my third lung to the floor and—SQUISH.

  Instant black jam.

  You’re going down, Peashooter. I don’t care if I have to take the rest of the school down with me, but this ends today.…

  Now, where was he?

  • • •

  The boiler room was empty.

  No trace of the Tribe.

  Every last book, every last weapon from their arsenal of modified school supplies, every last bit of tribal graffiti on the walls—all gone.

  They must’ve known I’d come looking for evidence. Something, anything, that could prove their existence.

  Somebody must have cleaned up after them.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  I spun around to discover Pritchard standing behind me, arms crossed at his chest.

  “You’re tailing me?” I asked.

  “Considering it’s your first day back, I figured I should keep an eye on you.”

  “No need to roll out the welcome wagon for me, sir.”

  “In my office. Now.”

  • • •

  Apparently, somebody had checked out over two dozen books under my name, then ripped out every page and flushed them down the toilets in the boys’ bathroom.

  What is Peashooter up to?

  “I haven’t even set foot in the library.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Pritch
ard said, in his office. “I know it couldn’t have been you.”

  “Finally! Somebody believes me.”

  “But I know you know who the culprit is.” Pritchard’s voice dropped an octave. “Tell me who they are, and you’ll be absolved.”

  Deep breath. “That’s okay, sir.”

  “Spencer…I can understand how you might think protecting them is the right thing to do—but trust me, it’s not.”

  I could end all this right now. Here’s my chance.…

  “Think I’m fine handling this on my own, but thanks, Jim.”

  “Please. Stop calling me Jim.”

  “After all we’ve been through together?”

  “Just get back to class. And don’t let me catch you nosing around the basement again.”

  Pritchard escorted me out of his office. Passing the front desk, a microphone caught my eye.

  The school’s PA system.

  This is where Pritchard sits and makes his announcements every day, his voice reaching into each classroom.

  There were only three steps between me and the mic.

  Now or never.

  Before Pritchard knew what I was up to, I bolted for the PA system and flipped the switch. A peel of feedback screeched over the intercom.

  “Hey—Peashooter!” I heard myself say, my voice echoing throughout the entire school. “I know you can hear me. I’m coming for you. Why don’t you stop hiding and face me like a real—”

  Pritchard killed the switch before I could finish. The rumble of my voice halted.

  “Spencer!”

  I booked it out of the office.

  “Sorry, sir!”

  Pritchard chased after me, but once I was in the hallway, I could hear his voice fade. “Spencer, get back here.…”

  No turning back now.

  I’d gone rogue.

  • • •

  Simms didn’t hear me enter the boys’ room. He was too busy extracting paper from the toilet.

  “Thought I’d find you here,” I said.

  Simms glanced over his shoulder, acting not all too surprised to find me standing behind him. He reached his gloved hand in and pulled out a soggy clump of paper.

  “Somebody’s really got it out for you today.”

  “What are they up to?” I asked.

  “Who?”

  “You know who. What is Peashooter going to do?”

  Mr. Simms held up a page torn out from some book. He read: “The facts of life took on a fiercer aspect; and while he faced that aspect uncowed, he faced it with all the latent cunning of his nature aroused.”

  “That’s from The Call of the Wild,” I said.

  Simms smiled.

  “This is one of my favorite books. I remember reading it way back when.” He closed his eyes and recited, “…the blood lust, the joy to kill—all this was Buck’s.…”

  When he said “this,” he held out his hands and motioned to the walls surrounding him. For a second, listening to Simms, it sure sounded like he was referring to school.

  Our school.

  I recited along with him. “…to kill with his own teeth and wash his muzzle to the eyes in warm blood!”

  Just then, all the fiberglass panels shattered over our heads.

  Peashooter, Yardstick, Compass, and Sporkboy dropped down from the ceiling. They were wearing matching brown sweatshirts with the hoods pulled over their heads.

  An incognito assault during school hours.

  No Sully, though.

  Where is she?

  “Mr. Simms!” I tried warning him. “Watch out! They’re—”

  I cut myself off.

  Nobody moved. Nobody even breathed.

  All this time I’d thought Peashooter was the leader of the pack.

  Turns out I was wrong.

  “You’re…one of them, aren’t you?”

  Simms nodded.

  “Turn around,” he said. “It’s probably best if you didn’t see this.…”

  I took an arachnid-free gasp of air from My Little Friend and turned toward the bathroom mirror.

  “See you around, Spence,” Peashooter said.

  I caught Sporkboy’s reflection as he brought a corn dog down on top of my head. The blunt thud of a half-frozen nunchuck knocked me out cold.

  he smell of ammonia woke me. Coming to, I found myself in a small room surrounded by shelves filled with industrial-size bottles of cleaning agents.

  The janitor’s closet.

  There was a cot in the corner. Blankets. Yellowed yearbooks. Brittle pictures of kids from decades ago. Somebody had obviously been living in here.

  Mr. Simms. His life intermingled with cleaning supplies.

  I struggled up to my feet. Looking down at myself, I realized I was wearing a brown hoodie. The hood was already pulled over my head. I performed a quick pat down of the cowl, discovering a pair of antlers sewn on top.

  Antlers?

  “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

  I spun around to find Simms holding a yearbook in his hand.

  “How long was I out?”

  “Not that long.”

  I took a step back. “Are you going to kill me now?”

  Simms shook his head, laughing. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

  “Tell that to Peashooter.”

  “Here,” he said. “I want to show you something.…”

  The yearbook hadn’t been opened in so long, a nest of book lice had settled in its spine. I cracked the cover and watched them shower out from between the pages.

  The photographs had yellowed. The faded faces of each student looked like jaundiced zombies.

  But there he was, hidden on page 37.

  “I ended up running away from home shortly after that picture was taken,” he told me. “That’s the last photo of me ever.”

  Timothy Simms.

  Sixth grade.

  “I was the kind of kid who always got in trouble,” he continued. “One day I just decided I wanted to get in trouble somewhere other than school. Spent the next few years of my life on the road, wandering around. Only, when I finally came home, there wasn’t anything left. No family. No friends. All gone.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  “Started looking around for familiar things,” he said. “Anything that reminded me of who I used to be.”

  That’s how he found his way back to Greenfield.

  “I remembered school. So I wondered if school would remember me.”

  Turns out it didn’t.

  The faces were different. The teachers he knew were all gone. Nothing felt familiar to him anymore.

  “The school needed to bulk up its custodial staff,” he said. “I asked if they were hiring, and the very next day, I had myself a job mopping up these halls.”

  Everyone called him Mr. Simms, if they called him anything at all. And the only reason anyone ever called on him was if something needed cleaning.

  Nobody paid attention to him.

  Not the students.

  Not the administration.

  Not the teachers.

  Not unless there was a mess.

  He was a ghost to these people. A living, breathing ghost. He haunted the halls of Greenfield Middle during school hours, in broad daylight.

  “I’d end up spending the night sometimes,” he said. “Had a cot set up in the back room here, out of everybody’s way. I’d sleep for a few hours, then start my day up again before anybody else even set foot in the building.”

  The cafeteria ladies would slip him a sandwich after the students had their lunch. He would sift through the lost-and-found for clothes.

  Weeks would go by and he would barely step outside the building.

  “Nobody knew I was living here,” he said. “I didn’t even know I was living here.”

  Years later, Mr. Simms was setting up his cot in the janitor’s closet one night—when, from over his head, he heard a shifting sound. He pulled back the fiberglass paneling and discovered a pai
r of tennis shoes scuttling away from him.

  “I grabbed an ankle and dragged this boy out. He struggled, but I held onto him.”

  Peashooter. He saw Mr. Simms’s domestic spread. Junk from the lost-and-found accumulating in piles. Books nobody wanted to read. Clothes people had thrown out.

  Mr. Simms had created a home for himself—and Peashooter was his first houseguest.

  “The boy asked me if he was in trouble,” he said. “Funny thing was, I was gonna ask him the same question about me!”

  Mr. Simms didn’t say anything about Peashooter’s exploration of the building, and Peashooter didn’t say anything about Mr. Simms’s home away from no-home.

  Then, one day, Peashooter brought a friend along: Compass.

  “Sorta just started out like that,” Mr. Simms said. “There were three of us. Then four. Looking after them was no big deal, no matter how rambunctious they get. Boys will be boys.…”

  Whether he knew it or not, he had been the first.

  The original member.

  The chief.

  “Sure felt like family to me.” He smiled. “Hadn’t had one of them for a long time.”

  Listening to Simms, a thought popped into my head: You don’t get to pick your family—but sometimes, your family picks you.

  I really missed my real family just then.

  Sully, too.

  “It’s a shame,” Simms said. “I know they all really liked you. Even Peashooter.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “We all saw the potential in you. Me, most of all. I was the one who suggested that they let you join. Too bad it didn’t work out.”

  “So…what happens now?”

  “Just sit tight until after the assembly.”

  “Assembly? What assembly?”

  “The holiday concert. We can’t have you crashing the party, now, can we?”

  Mr. Simms slipped through the closet door. I heard a click from the other side before I could rush. Locked.

  No getting out the easy way.

  I did a drum solo with my fists against the door.

  “Hey! Is anyone out there? Heeeeeeelp!”

  Whatever the Tribe was up to, I knew it wasn’t going to be good. Peashooter needed me out of the picture long enough to set me up. Simms would let me out of this broom closet only after the damage was done, leaving me to take the fall for them.