Homeroom Headhunters

by Clay McLeod Chapman

Quick. Think fast.

  Should I make a Molotov cocktail out of a bottle of bleach and burn my way out?

  Bleach doesn’t burn.

  I looked up to the ceiling. Toward the fiberglass panels just above my head. The acoustic tiles were about six inches out of reach from the top of the closet’s shelf.

  Okay. I can do this.

  I think I can do this.

  I hope I can do this.

  There are heroes—and then there are men. Men get called to action because their fellow classmates need help. Heroes you see on TV, with capes and bulletproof bodies. They aren’t real. Men never have cameras trained on them when they save the day. They don’t get the fawning admiration of the masses or hot groupies. Not at all.

  Time to man up, Spencer.…

  I climbed up the nearest shelving unit until it began to buckle under my weight.

  Take it slow. Steady, Spencer.…

  Soon there was only one shelf left. Bottles of cleaning agents wobbled. The shelves’ center of gravity was thrown out of whack, thanks to all my King Kong-ing.

  Stop. Hold still. Get your balance.

  I reached my arm up, my fingers just barely grazing the fiberglass. There was no more leverage.

  Just a few more millimeters…

  A bottle of bleach rolled off the top shelf and burst open on the floor. Then a bottle of ammonia.

  The fumes filled up the room in seconds. My eyes began to burn and I started to feel light-headed.

  This is bad. This is all very, very bad.

  I reached my arm up over my head. The shelf began to tip. More bottles of ammonia were suddenly dive-bombing their way down to the floor, turning the janitor’s closet into one big gas chamber. I could feel my chest filling up with noxious toxins.

  My Little Friend to the rescue!

  I fished my inhaler from my sweatshirt and slipped the mouthpiece between my teeth. I took a deep puff.

  I lunged for the ceiling, sending the shelving unit smashing against the ground. The panel popped open, leaving me dangling, legs kicking.

  It took all my strength just to lift myself into the ceiling.

  Made it! I’m in.

  I took another puff off My Little Friend and caught my breath.

  Steady now. Take it slow. Balance your weight. No fast movements.

  As I crawled, I tried to take my mind off the fact that any infinitesimal shift could send me crashing into a classroom below.

  I am light as a feather.…

  I am a leaf on the breeze.…

  I am the wings of a butterfly.…

  How far had I gone? I had to have been halfway across the school by now. It was so dark up there, I couldn’t tell.

  Something softened underneath my belly. I heard a crackle.

  I am light as a feather.…

  I am a leaf on the breeze.…

  I am the wings of a butterfly.…

  That’s when the ceiling collapsed under me.

  Again.

  landed in the cafeteria just as Assistant Principal Pritchard’s voice crackled over the intercom, inviting students to the gym for our ChristmasKwanzaHanukahLasPosadas holiday concert.

  Classrooms emptied into the hallway as all five hundred and thirty-six students attending Greenfield Middle were corralled in the gymnasium.

  Remember: Five hundred and thirty-six students.

  There will be a quiz later.

  One location. Tight confinements. The entire student body all gathered together.

  This can’t be good.

  The seventh-grade choristers were crooning “Here Comes Santa Claus” when I burst into the gym: “Bells are ringing, children singing, all is merry and bright, so hang your stockings and say your prayers…”

  …because you’re all about to get attacked by a wild pack of middle-school dropouts.

  It felt like I had entered a winter-wonder wilderness. Silver Mylar icicles dangled overhead. Vines of Christmas-colored crepe paper overwhelmed the basketball nets. Strings of Christmas-tree lights crept along the walls, blinking like radioactive berries.

  Pritchard, decked out in full-blown Santa wear, was ho-ho-ho-ing through the gym atop a sled mounted on wheels, pulled by a batch of students dressed in the exact same hoodies that I was wearing, complete with sewn-on antlers.

  Our cheerleading squad pranced across the basketball court, done up like Santa’s little helpers, with pointy ears and red and green tights bedazzled with jingle bells.

  Every step sounded like a million tiny dinner bells.

  And leading the whole procession, rather than Rudolph the Red-Nosed mascot, was our very own trusted Griz the Grizzly.

  That’s it!

  Sporkboy was in the costume again, with a Peashooter-Donner, Yardstick-Blitzen, and Compass-Comet close behind.

  No time to second guess myself. Time to act. And fast.

  I rushed the basketball court, shouting at the top of my lungs, “Don’t go near the reindeer! Don’t go near the reindeer!”

  The music halted. The singing stopped. All of the students, all of Santa’s little cheerleaders, even the reindeer themselves turned toward me as I yelled my head off.

  “It’s a setup! Get away from Griz! Get away from Griz!”

  Leaping through the air, I tackled our school’s mascot.

  The two of us tumbled to the ground, rolling over each other in front of the entire wolf pack of werekids.

  “Get off of me!” the muffled voice from inside the grizzly snarled. “Get off!”

  “Let’s see you ruin Christmas now, Sporkboy!”

  Griz swatted his clawed paws at my face. “What are you doing?!”

  I grabbed hold and tore the bear’s fuzzy head clear off his shoulders, and raised his mask above my head in a gesture of victorious stuffed-animal decapitation. “Ah-ha!”

  I looked down to see Martin Mendleson between my knees.

  Whoops.

  “What is wrong with you?” he yelled. “Have you gone completely mental?!”

  Each reindeer pulled back their horned hoodies, revealing not Peashooter, not Yardstick, not Compass, but three wide-eyed sixth graders, looking at me like I was some kind of rabid holiday-party crasher about to attack them next.

  Well…this is a little embarrassing.

  “But you’re not…”

  I wanted to pull the drawstrings on my sweatshirt and hide under my hoodie.

  “But…”

  Like the saying goes: When you assume…

  So what was the Tribe’s plan?

  Their real plan?

  “Mr. Pendleton,” Assistant Principal Pritchard growled from beneath his white beard, his cheeks burning cranberry-sauce red, “get to my office this instant!”

  Before I could respond, the overhead lights snuffed out. The murmur of students flitted through the pitch blackness.

  “Here was a gorgeous triumph.” Peashooter’s voice beckoned over the gymnasium speakers: “They were missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account; tears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and remorse were being indulged; and best of all, the departed were the talk of the whole school.…”

  I’m pretty sure Mark Twain originally said “town” rather than “school.”

  I totally remember reading that chapter from The Adventures of Tom Sawyer—how he and Huck had staged their deaths and attended their own funerals.

  Rough translation:

  It wasn’t until we disappeared that people even realized we existed. Now that we’re gone, our classmates might realize just how cruel they’d been to us when we were still around. Better not forget us. Who we are.

  So here was a little something to remember them by.…

  A spotlight burst through the gymnasium, hitting Yardstick, who was standing at center court wearing his sweatshirt. The hood was pulled over his head, hiding the upper half of his face from the audience. All you could see was his smile. He stoo
d with the poise of a master magician about to bowl the crowd over.

  “For my first trick,” he called out, “I’ll need a volunteer from the audience.…”

  Up went Yardstick’s arms, holding them out at his shoulders.

  “How about…everybody?”

  What looked like a dozen corn dogs were suddenly launched from Yardstick’s sleeves. He conducted the flow of processed-meat projectiles. “Ta-da!”

  The entire gymnasium was immediately overwhelmed by a blitz of breaded missiles that streaked through the air before bursting over the audience.

  I looked around and spotted a reindeer hiding beside the bleachers, lighting wicks and sending even more corn-dog rockets hissing into the air. I think it was Sporkboy. The Tribe was starting to blur together. I was beginning to understand that this was precisely the point. With no lights, and Tribe members wearing similar-looking sweatshirts, nobody would be able to tell for sure who was who.

  One might even mistake them all for one person.

  Me.

  Just what Peashooter had wanted. Now, that’s some real sleight-of-hand magic.

  Somebody grabbed my shoulder.

  Spinning around, I discovered Sully. She was wearing the same hoodie as the rest.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

  “Think I have.”

  Sully took my hand and brought it up to her face, pressing it to her cheek.

  “No ghosts here,” she said. “Come with me.”

  “Where are we going? What’s going on?”

  “Trust me—you won’t want to be here when it happens.”

  • • •

  We snuck under the bleachers, maneuvering through the bubble-gum-studded framework.

  “Where have you been?” I asked. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “In the lost-and-found, I guess.”

  “Good thing I found you!”

  She wasn’t smiling. “We’re leaving.”

  “Leaving? Where?”

  “I can’t say. I’m not even supposed to be here right now.”

  “But—”

  “Sully!” Peashooter poked his hoodied-head through the bleacher seats. “What’s going on? What’re you doing with him?”

  I grabbed Sully’s shoulders. “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t leave.”

  Peashooter climbed down and took Sully by the arm. “We’ve got to go—now!”

  Ignoring him, I said to Sully, “I met your dad.”

  Her face went whiter than white.

  “My…dad?”

  “He told me about your mother.”

  “You ratted us out—to a parent?” Peashooter hissed, the paper clip piercing his nose twitching like the metallic whiskers on a robotic rabbit. “I told you he was a traitor!”

  “Don’t listen to him,” I said.

  “All the world will be your enemy, Sully,” Peashooter said. “Whenever they catch you, they will kill you.”

  Cheap shot, but two can play that game.

  “Don’t think I don’t know you just mangled Watership Down!” I went ahead and finished the quote before Peashooter could—“But first, they have to catch you—digger, listener, runner, Sully with the swift warning!”

  Peashooter’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, then quickly closed.

  “What?” I asked. “You didn’t think I’d bone up on my tribal required reading list? Want me to keep going? I can. Be cunning and full of tricks, and your people will never be destroyed!”

  Fire with fire.

  Books with books.

  “This isn’t over between you and me,” Peashooter shouted. “Not by a long shot! You’re dead, Spencer! Dead!”

  Maybe I had simply hit my boiling point. Maybe I was flustered from trying to prove myself over and over again.

  Maybe sometimes words aren’t enough.

  Whatever it was, before I even knew what I was doing, my hand sprung up from my side and pinched Peashooter by his piercing. With one swift tug, my hand came back down—with a paper clip between my fingers.

  Did I just do that?

  Peashooter cupped his nose and howled. He fell to his knees.

  Sully looked at me with a mixture of happiness and sadness, anger and confusion.

  “Your father misses you.” I couldn’t bring myself to tell her how haunted he was. “It’s not too late to come home.”

  “The Tribe needs me. They are my home.”

  “Sully—”

  She grabbed the bleeding Peashooter by the arm and yanked him up from the floor, dragging him away.

  “Sully—wait.”

  I could feel my throat constricting. My chest was getting heavy, another asthma attack brewing in my lungs. I pulled out My Little Friend and took a quick gust off that medicated crap, bringing my breathing back.

  As soon as I pulled it from my lips, there was Sully, pressing hers against mine.

  We were kissing. It definitely constituted kissing.

  There was a vague taste of ChapStick on Sully’s lips, a ghost flavor of strawberries haunting her mouth.

  “I’m sorry.…”

  She took one step away from me, then two. Then twenty.

  Then a million.

  It felt like the bleachers had begun to shut on their own while I was standing beneath them, slamming closed on my chest.

  My ribs.

  My heart.

  I wanted the risers to seal me in like a coffin, bury me below the student body of Greenfield.

  Sully was gone.

  • • •

  I crawled out from the bleachers and watched the last of the fried fire-porks display. The bottle-dogs kept exploding in a sparkling yellow mist of gunpowdered cornmeal, showering across the crowd.

  Rather than run, the students oohed and aahed like this was all part of the show.

  Seemed like everybody was actually having some fun at an assembly for once.

  Yardstick conducted one more round into the air.

  Suddenly it all made sense.

  This was Yardstick’s talent show.

  This was Sporkboy’s lunch.

  This was Peashooter’s official last laugh.

  So what about Compass? Was this his long-lost science fair project?

  As the last bits of cornmeal dissipated into the air, I realized Yardstick had vanished. So had Sporkboy.

  Pritchard and his reindeer were all that was left on the basketball court.

  The only hoodied hoodlum in the court was…

  Me.

  I started to wonder: What if the corn-rockets are nothing but a distraction? A ruse used to keep everybody in their seats?

  Distraction from what?

  What happened next was the real main attraction.

  Pity poor Riley Callahan.

  Sitting three rows back, twelve students in, he buckled over and clutched at his stomach.

  “Something doesn’t feel right.…”

  All this time, I thought the attack would happen during the Christmas concert.

  Turns out the attack had already taken place.

  Good thing I’d missed lunch today.

  The cafeteria ladies had gotten into the holiday spirit and served a meal of mashed potatoes, tissue-thin turkey slices, and a golf ball of stuffing, slathering it all up with a fine film of lukewarm gravy.

  A quick science lesson for everybody: food poisoning happens in schools all the time. Eat a bit of, say, contaminated cranberry sauce, it’ll incubate in your belly until it’s off to the hospital for you. Symptoms include abdominal cramping, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea.

  Nobody knew that better than Compass.

  What could infect an entire school’s worth of students all at once?

  Mushrooms.

  Just like the kind Compass had asked me to pick for him from the soccer field.

  What had he called them? Amanita mascara-something-or-other. He said the fungus was highly psycho-hyper-active. Whatever that meant.

  Oh boy.
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  The interval between lunch and the concert was all the time everybody’s stomach needed to get this party started. And in case the gestation period varied from tummy to tummy, Compass had come up with a catalyst to kick-start a school-wide heave-ho:

  The overwhelmingly meaty aroma of burned corn dogs.

  Riley abruptly trumpeted a low C from below, his inverted burp heralding the prelude to a flatulent symphony.

  I heard another whistle, shriller than Riley’s, like a piccolo squeaking through the air from a few rows farther back.

  And another.

  Before long, an entire cluster of kids became the broken-wind section for a methane-fueled orchestra, performing a full-blown acoustical salute to air pollution.

  I swore I heard a backside bassoon.

  A colonic clarinet.

  A farting flute.

  The rumblings of the most odoriferous earthquake were passing through the gym, hitting a 7.9 on the Richter scale. You would’ve sworn a gas main had broken beneath the bleachers, belching out a cloud of noxious fumes and turning our gym into one big airborne toxic event.

  At first, everybody thought it was funny to listen to this sliding scale of backdoor bagpiping. Students were hitting every note imaginable from behind—and for those who hadn’t begun, they were cracking up. But the quickest way to quit snickering over your neighbor’s uncontrollable tailwind was to commence letting ’em rip yourself.

  And as every student of musical (de)composition knows, What begins with the woodwinds, must eventually move on to the brass.

  Pity poor Sarah Haversand.

  “I don’t feel so…”

  Before she could finish, she puked directly on the student sitting in front of her. That student just so happened to be none other than Riley Callahan.

  A blossom of vomit spread over Riley’s unsuspecting head. Little dribbles of cranberry sauce trickled down his temples. He had just started to grow his hair back, and now it was buried beneath a soup of partially digested Christmas-ized cafeteria food.

  Riley responded with his stomach suddenly pumping out its contents, vomiting onto the cloned Cro-Magnon crony sitting just next to him.

  And then that Cro-Magnon barfed on the boy just next to him.

  And he puked on her and she puked on him and he puked on her and…

  You get the idea.

  In the spirit of “the show must go on,” our school’s choral group attempted to warble through “White Christmas.”