by Tim Green
“Let’s see. First, I got English. You got math. . . .”
Landon dared to look around. Half the kids were busy with their schedules. The other half he caught gawking at him like a zoo animal. He wasn’t sure if it was because of Brett’s warm welcome, the internet site, or his cochlear implants, but their eyes scattered when they saw him looking at them.
“. . . Fourth, you got earth science. I got . . . social studies. Darn.” Brett frowned and glanced at Landon. “Lunch? Nope. Hey, wait, we got gym together! That’s a good thing.”
Landon felt a ray of thankfulness. Gym was always a nightmare: being picked last, no one wanting to be his partner, getting beaned as the easiest target the game of dodgeball had ever known.
“No for eight. No nine either.” Brett frowned and looked up. “Well, it’s homeroom and gym, but you’ll have some of the other guys on the team in your classes. You’ll be okay.”
Both of them knew that wasn’t true, but Landon kept up appearances, even when Mrs. Rigling arrived at his desk to deliver printed announcements with a secret smile. He knew this came from his mother. She’d made calls and emails to Mr. Sanders because he hadn’t a prayer of understanding most of what was said on a loudspeaker. Still, he hated being singled out like that. When the announcements were over, Mrs. Rigling rapped a ruler lightly on her desk, stood, and went through the disciplinary code and the policy on late arrivals to homeroom, often looking straight at Landon.
“Also,” she said, “I’ll have some of you for math class, and any of you—whether you’re in my math class or Mr. Mazella’s—are welcome to ask me questions during homeroom period. I love math, and helping you learn it is why I’m here.”
When Mrs. Rigling sat down, Landon leaned close to Brett. “See you in gym.”
“You got it, my man.”
They bumped fists. The bell rang, and Landon took a deep breath as the day began.
53
The seat that was most helpful for Landon to sit in—front row, middle—was empty. He kept his eyes on the teacher, Mr. Mazella, from the moment he sat down. Math was his favorite class. Numbers were always straightforward. There wouldn’t be hidden meanings in a comment made offhandedly. But once Mr. Mazella got started, he often spoke with his back to the class, making it hard for Landon to keep up.
When the bell rang, Landon thought of saying something, but there was no time. Instead, he went directly to his second-period class, English, which was on the opposite end of the school. The halls were crowded, but Landon just kept his head down and plowed along. He focused on people’s feet. He liked the shocking orange, blue, and strawberry-colored sneakers with fluorescent green or yellow laces. His own sneakers were electric blue with laces that were school bus yellow.
If anyone did say anything to him, it was lost in the noise. Hearing in a crowd was nearly impossible unless he was looking hard and closely at a person’s lips.
When he entered the classroom for English, he froze.
Megan Nickell was in the front row, head hung down and hands folded in her lap. Her face hid behind a curtain of hair, and she seemed to be shaking. Landon walked up to her and tapped her shoulder. She looked up with wet, red eyes and sniffed. “Oh. Landon.”
“Are you . . . can I sit here?” Landon pointed to the desk next to hers.
She shrugged. “Sure. Okay.”
Landon sat down and took out his things. He was about to say something when he saw the teacher, Mr. Edwards, at his desk with an open book, making notes. Landon wanted to look at Megan. He wanted to do something—anything—to make her feel better. Still, all he could do was stare straight ahead feeling embarrassed.
The bell rang and Mr. Edwards climbed up onto his desk, looking down at them all with an impish smile from his corner of the room. His bright blue eyes flashed from behind gold wire-rimmed glasses. In his hand was a book.
“The Count of Monte Cristo. Who’s read it?” Mr. Edwards raised a single eyebrow, reminding Landon of his father. “What? No one? Ladies and gentlemen, you’re in for a treat. Alexandre Dumas is famous for this book, as well as The Man in the Iron Mask.”
Landon’s hand shot up, but he spoke without waiting to be called on. “And The Three Musketeers.”
The classroom erupted with laughter. Landon looked around. Megan looked embarrassed for him, and Landon realized they were laughing at him, either because of the garbled sound of his voice or the enthusiasm of his words for something most of them couldn’t give a hoot about. Landon didn’t mind, though, because he felt like he had a connection with Mr. Edwards, and that was all that mattered to him. His heart was racing at the thought of learning more about books like the one he already loved.
Mr. Edwards’s blue eyes sparkled. “Yes, that too; and can you tell me why Alexandre Dumas was such a successful writer?”
“He makes you care?” The words simply escaped from Landon’s mouth.
“Yes!”
Mr. Edwards looked around at the class with a wild expression. Landon took a glance and soaked up the empty stares and the smirks held back by bitten lips.
Mr. Edwards either didn’t see them or chose not to notice. He plunged ahead, taking Landon with him. He told them all about Dumas’s life and then read quotes from the book about vengeance. Halfway through the period, he thumped a box down on his desk and began passing out paperback copies. He was waving his arms and talking about General Dumas (the writer’s father) being betrayed by Napoleon when the bell rang, and everyone but Landon popped out of the seats.
“Chapters one through five for tomorrow!” Mr. Edwards shouted. “You will be quizzed.”
A collective groan went up from the departing students.
Landon couldn’t wait to read it, though. He checked his schedule to see where he had to go next and then tucked the book away in his backpack. The room had nearly emptied out, and he fell in behind Megan at the door.
“Good stuff, huh?”
She turned and gave him a worried look. “Yes. Everyone talks about Mr. Edwards. Whether they love him or hate him, everyone talks about him.”
“Hate him?” Landon said as they entered the fray of the hallway. “Why would anyone hate him?” He was intent on Megan’s face, so he knew by her expression that something was wrong. Before he could learn what, he was suddenly shoved backward into the lockers. His head slammed against the metal with a crash.
Megan shrieked.
Landon regained his senses, and the hateful face in front of him came into focus.
“Skip?”
54
The freckles seemed to jump off Skip’s burning, snarling face.
Landon wanted to say that they were teammates.
He wanted to say that he hadn’t done anything wrong.
But he couldn’t get a single word out before Skip hammered him again. Landon covered his head with both arms, and the blows struck his chest and shoulders before Mr. Edwards yelled, “Stop! Immediately!” He yelled at another teacher to get Mr. Sanders.
Megan had dropped her books, and she stood crying as Landon slid his spine down the lockers and took a seat on the floor, covering his head again with his arms and resting it between his knees. One of his battery packs hung loose, and he slipped it back behind his ear.
He glanced up to see Skip scowling as the principal raced toward them.
Megan touched his arm. “Are you okay, Landon?”
Landon almost smiled to see her. “Yes. I’m fine. I don’t know why . . .”
Megan looked over at Skip, who was now being marched down the hall by Mr. Sanders. “We . . . I . . . broke up. I told him, and everyone, to leave you alone.”
Landon’s heart swelled.
Mr. Edwards leaned down. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Landon said, hoping Genevieve wasn’t among the hundred-or-so gawking students.
“Come on.” Mr. Edwards helped Landon to his feet. “Let’s get you to the nurse.”
Landon felt a bolt of panic. He wanted thi
s to end, and he shook himself free. “No, I’m fine, Mr. Edwards. Please. Nothing happened.”
“You were taking a beating when I got out here.” Mr. Edwards took hold of Landon’s arm again. “Come on. Nurse. Then Mr. Sanders. This isn’t the Wild West. We need to fix this thing.”
As Landon marched through the open-mouthed crowd toward the nurse’s office, he knew that no matter how good Mr. Edwards’s intentions were, some things just couldn’t be fixed.
55
Landon blushed, humiliated to be slumped there on the exam table without his shirt, rolls of blubber quivering like Jell-O. He hugged himself to cover up as much as he could while the nurse probed Landon’s bruised shoulders and chest. Speaking in a loud voice, she told Mr. Edwards, “Students today are trouble, and the parents can be worse. Mr. Sanders isn’t going to want the Dreyfuses on his case.”
“How could they complain? It’s their son who gave Landon these bruises.” Mr. Edwards’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
“You said the boys were teammates, Dalton. Football?”
“They are.”
Landon looked back and forth between them, thinking that it was strange to hear Mr. Edwards called by his first name, Dalton.
“Right.” She gave a nod and whisked her hands together with some Purell before turning to make some notes at her desk. “Football. Bruises. That’s consistent, Dalton.”
“Skip Dreyfus was using him as a punching bag,” Mr. Edwards said.
“I believe you, but the Dreyfuses are apt to suggest these came from football.” The nurse clucked her tongue. “Luckily these bruises aren’t serious, but I know Mr. Sanders is going to have to deal with this. You can put your shirt on, Landon.”
Landon wiggled into his shirt and followed Mr. Edwards to the principal’s office. “I’m really okay, sir.” His mom would go ballistic if she heard he’d been attacked. “The nurse is right, I might have gotten these bruises in football, or jumping in the pool. We had a cannonball contest Saturday.”
Mr. Edwards looked at Landon and sighed. He seemed both disappointed and flustered. “I get it, Landon. You don’t want more trouble. But sometimes trouble’s what it takes.”
They reached the office. “Okay, wait here.”
Landon took the seat outside the principal’s office and sat for quite a while before Mr. Sanders’s door opened and the principal signaled him to come in.
To Landon’s complete surprise, Skip was still there, shoulders hunched, head angled down, looking angry. Mr. Sanders pointed at the chair next to Skip. Landon hesitated, but Mr. Sanders gave him an impatient nod, so he sat down.
Mr. Sanders laced his fingers together and laid his locked-up hands on the desk in front of him. “Boys . . . things happen, and sometimes the best thing is to resolve them quietly and move on.”
Landon nodded because he was on board with whatever. If there was a way to avoid bringing his mother in on all this, he was game.
“I don’t know how things worked in . . .”—Mr. Sanders searched an open file before him on the desk—“. . . Cleveland, Landon, but in Bronxville we like to resolve our differences and move on. Now, I know you two got into a kind of shoving match in the hall. . . .”
Mr. Sanders looked closely at Landon. Landon was briefly confused because a shoving match wasn’t anything like what had happened.
“I . . . uh, yes.” Landon nodded and looked at Skip, who still appeared furious behind his clenched teeth.
“Right!” Mr. Sanders banged his hands to bring home the point. “And when shoving matches occur, we talk to the offenders and give them a stern warning and send them on their way. But . . .”
Mr. Sanders now raised a single finger and looked back and forth between them. “This cannot happen again.”
Landon shook his head no. Skip tightened his grip on the armrests of his chair.
“Mr. Dreyfus? Are we clear on this?”
Skip didn’t move his mouth when he spoke, but Landon was pretty sure he said, “Yes.”
“Mr. Dorch?”
Although Landon was confused, since he’d done nothing wrong, he knew he had to agree and make all this go away. So he said, “Yes, sir.” With a nod of his head, Landon prepared to rise.
“Because next time there will be detention and possibly suspension, for you both.”
Landon kept nodding and rising, and Mr. Sanders said, “Now shake hands before you go.”
Landon searched Skip’s face and saw a flicker of relief before he smiled a phony smile and stretched out his hand for the shake.
Mr. Sanders said, “Good. Now go.”
Landon left without bothering to look back at Skip. He could only assume the redheaded quarterback was right behind him, and with the halls empty now halfway through fourth period, Landon hustled along at nearly a jog because he was seriously unsure whether or not Skip would obey the principal. Landon didn’t stop until he reached Room 117 and his earth science class with Mrs. Lewis. He looked in through the window and saw everyone staring at the short, round teacher. Landon turned the knob slowly, trying to be quiet, but when he looked over his shoulder and saw Skip trudging toward him, he fumbled with the knob, sprung it open, and spilled inside, tripping and dumping himself and his backpack onto the floor.
The whole class burst into laughter.
Horrified, Landon looked up to see what Mrs. Lewis was saying to him because he could hear the drone of the teacher’s voice.
“What?” Landon asked as he gathered himself and his backpack.
“What?” Mrs. Lewis said. “Are you making fun of me with that tone of voice?”
“No.” Landon shook his head fiercely. “I didn’t hear what you said. I was just asking what you said.”
She studied Landon for a moment before relaxing the smallest bit. “I said, ‘Fighting and clowning around is no way to begin your career as a Bronxville student,’ Mr. Dorch. And you, Mr. Dreyfus, don’t think you fool me with that smile. Take a seat.”
Landon wedged himself into an empty seat, front row, middle, and the teacher looked past him. “Magma from deep in the earth’s core . . .”
Landon tried to take his things out as quietly and smoothly as possible. By the time he had a blank notebook page and a pencil in his hand, he’d missed at least one, if not three, important points. He glanced around and saw the others writing furiously.
Landon knew he should raise his hand and ask the teacher to explain again. He knew that’s what his mother would urge him—demand him, even—to do.
She’d said it a thousand times if she’d said it once. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease, Landon, and no child of mine is going to worry about making a little noise. Bang the drums! Crash the cymbals, Landon!”
Landon heard her words, and his brain steamed like a teakettle.
Several times his hand crept up the front of his shirt, fingers extended, ready to rise up, but he just couldn’t do it. So, he sat and spiraled down into an ever-greater state of confusion.
56
Earth science finally ended, and Landon headed for lunch.
It didn’t surprise him that Genevieve appeared from nowhere and blocked his path.
“What happened?” Her face was red with fury.
“Nothing. Leave it alone.” Landon looked around, grabbed his sister, and pulled her into an alcove outside the auditorium so that they could talk up close and personal. He grabbed both of her arms. “Stop it, Genevieve.”
She swiped his hands away. “What happened?”
“Lower your voice.” Landon felt desperate. “Just . . . just listen. It’s all going to be fine. Megan broke up with Skip, did you know that?”
“Yes, of course I knew that.” She glowered.
“So, he’s upset, but Mr. Sanders said everything was going to be fine, not a big deal, but we cannot fight again.” Landon made a cutting motion with one hand. “If it happens we’ll be suspended, and I’m sure Skip Dreyfus doesn’t want to be suspended any more than I do. So, it’s over.”
>
“Landon, seriously? How can you be okay with this? Skip is a jerk. I can’t just let this go,” she said.
“Right now this is off the radar. It’s over. Can’t we just keep it that way?” Landon was begging now, because he knew it went against everything Genevieve was about. “I don’t want people on the football team mad at me because Skip gets suspended and misses a game or something . . .”
“Those jerks? Why do you care? They don’t even respect you!”
“People appreciate me, Genevieve.” Landon clasped his hands. “They do. Not all of them, but a lot. They say thanks to me for what I do. I’m on the team. That’s all that matters. After lunch I’ve got study hall, then gym class with Brett and he’s so cool, and I’ve got Megan in my English class and . . . I mean, we could even end up doing some projects together. Things are not that bad. I’m begging you, Genevieve.”
“Landon.” She sighed. “What period do you have lunch?”
“Now.”
“Shoot. Let me see your schedule.”
“Genevieve, you’re not supposed to swear.” Landon fished the schedule out of his backpack and handed it over.
“I’ve got lunch next period. I won’t be with you.”
“That’s okay.” Landon gave her shoulder a light punch.
“Well, we have social studies and Spanish together for the last two classes of the day, and Megan’s with us too.”
“Nice. She’s great,” Landon said.
“What do you mean?” Genevieve wore a stunned look.
Landon shrugged. “Just that she’s great.”
“Yeah, but you said it like . . .” Genevieve shook her head. “No, Landon. Not like that. She likes you as a friend, so do not ruin it, okay?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The first bell rang.
“Yeah, Landon. I think you do know what I’m talking about.” Genevieve bore her eyes into his. “Don’t. That’s all I can say, just don’t.”