Grace

by T. Greenwood

  “Bye, Gracy!” he said, but she was still pouting. Still mad.

  Everybody was distracted. Nobody was listening to the teachers. Even Mrs. Cross’s voice from the speakers in the corner of the room barely registered over the excited din of the kids. But by the time third period came around and Trevor had art, everyone seemed to have calmed down a little bit. The novelty of the costumes had worn off. And once he was safe inside the art room, he took off his mask.

  Angie sat down next to him. “What are you supposed to be?” she asked.

  Trevor shrugged. “Nobody.”

  Her hair was in two braids secured at the top of her head with flowers and ribbons, and she had penciled between her eyebrows. “I’m Frida Kahlo,” she said. “Obvi. Is that your mask?” she asked, pointing at his mask, which was sticking out of his backpack. “I guess it’s kind of cool, kind of retro anyway.”

  Mr. Franklin made them spend the entire period sketching a stupid pumpkin he’d brought in. He projected a Winslow Homer painting on the screen, The Pumpkin Patch, but with the lights on, it was hard to even see what they were supposed to be looking at. Mrs. D. would never have done it this way. And about two minutes into class, the projector cut out.

  “I can fix it,” Trevor said. “There’s an extra power supply in the darkroom. That’s all it is usually. There’s a short in that one.”

  “Great,” Mr. Franklin said and sent Trevor to the darkroom to retrieve it.

  Trevor couldn’t stop thinking about the rolls of film. His mother wouldn’t have destroyed them. At least he didn’t think so. But not knowing where they were made him anxious. It was like she had stolen his journal. Inside those plastic canisters was his entire life.

  In the darkroom, he searched for the power cord in a box of other cables. He’d managed to sneak out a whole bunch of stuff since school started, and luckily Mr. Franklin hadn’t noticed that any of it was missing. He had gallons of chemicals now. They were safe in the caboose, but now the weather was starting to turn, he worried about them freezing. He knew he’d have to act quickly, before winter came. He found the cable, tangled like a snake in the other cords and wires, and his eyes fell on the timer. He didn’t have his backpack, though. He’d have to wait until lunch when he was alone.

  Mrs. Cross came over the loudspeaker just as everyone but Trevor was getting ready to go to fourth period. “Good afternoon, boys and girls. Just a reminder that the Halloween parade and costume contest will be starting in five minutes. Participation is mandatory, unless you have a note from home excusing you. When the bell rings, you should line up, and your teachers will take you out to the blacktop. After the parade, you should all go to the cafeteria for lunch. We will announce the winners of the costume contest during lunch period.”

  In the past, the parade had been optional, though almost everybody except Logan Monroe, who was a Jehovah’s Witness, participated. Last year Trevor had spent the hour with Mrs. D.

  Trevor went to Mr. Franklin’s desk. “Can I hang out here during the parade?”

  “Do you have a note from home?”

  Trevor shook his head.

  “Sorry, buddy. There’s nothing I can do for you. You heard Mrs. Cross.”

  Outside it was freezing. Trevor had forgotten his gloves, and so he shoved his hands in the pockets of his coat. He put the Jason mask on, scanning the crowd through the plastic slits. So many masks. Ethan and Mike could be anywhere.

  They marched around the blacktop, parents of the younger kids drinking coffee, taking pictures, and waving like idiots. He could see his mother standing alone near the basketball hoop. With the mask on, he wondered if even she would recognize him. He thought about his film again, and his whole body shivered with anger.

  As the first graders marched past the judges’ table, Trevor looked up and noticed that it was starting to snow. Just a few flakes here and there, but it was definitely snowing. He wished he had his camera. Mrs. D. had shown him a book once about a man from Jericho, Vermont, who was the first person to photograph snowflakes. She even had a print of one of them. It was like seeing the skeleton of a snowflake, its bones.

  The entire crowd seemed to notice the snow all at once, and the little kids squealed, sticking their tongues out to catch the falling snowflakes. By the time it was the eighth graders’ turn to march, the snow was coming down lightly but steadily, and the sky was completely white.

  He recognized Mike right away, in a zombie mask, because of his Patriots jersey, which he hadn’t taken off since football season started. But he couldn’t locate Ethan among the crowd of werewolves and mummies and monsters. He felt like an idiot as they circled the blacktop, and he hated Mrs. Cross for making them do this. He hated the whole school for putting him on parade like this. The parents were laughing, pointing, as they marched and marched and marched, like prisoners sent out to march in the cold.

  By the time they got back into the building, Trevor was numb. The cold had seeped into his marrow, and he could barely feel his body. He felt like he was trapped inside someone else’s skin. He went to the art room when the lunch bell rang and went straight back to the darkroom without even bothering to make sure he was alone. He unplugged the timer and shoved it into his backpack. He was zipping up the pack when he felt someone behind him. He froze and then turned, expecting Mr. Franklin but finding, instead, a kid in a werewolf mask staring back at him.

  “Hey, faggot!”

  And then the zombie in the Patriots jersey was behind him. “So is this where you and your new boyfriend come to do it?” Mike laughed.

  “What are you talking about?” Trevor said, feeling the words scraping his throat. Trevor could feel himself transforming. Changing. He was not Trevor anymore, but Jason. He was Jason Voorhees, in his hockey mask and ragged coat.

  “Mr. Franklin,” Ethan sang. “Everybody knows he sucks cock.”

  Trevor could feel his whole body splintering. Splitting. Part of him fled, just rose up like smoke from his body, while the other part of him grew, expanded. He could feel his chest ballooning, his shoulders broadening. He could feel his legs and arms and fists thickening.

  “Whatcha got in your bag this time, Trevor?” Ethan said, grabbing his backpack.

  But just as he was about to reach in, Trevor’s entire body flooded with that quicksilver flush, his blood a river of mercury. He felt their hands on him, pushing and pressing and hitting. And suddenly, every bit of restraint he’d had rushed away in the silver current. He pushed Mike off him, sending him backward into a metal locker, the noise like a gunshot. And then he wrestled Ethan, who was thrashing around underneath him, almost as strong as he was. But he was stronger, and soon Ethan went still beneath him.

  “What are you gonna do, Baby Huey?” Ethan said.

  Trevor felt the gears in his jaw cranking, the quick, sharp silver of his teeth. Click, click. And then his mouth filled with metal as well. Liquid and hot. Salty.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Ethan screamed, clutching his ear.

  Elsbeth was already at the school when Kurt got there, pacing up and down the hallway outside the principal’s office. Now, sitting on the other side of Principal Cross’s desk, it felt as though they were the ones in trouble. Mrs. Cross looked smug, as usual, her lips pursed together tightly, the muscles in her neck taut.

  “Mr. Kennedy,” she said, shaking her head.

  Kurt pressed his palms against his thighs and tried to quiet them, and then reached for Elsbeth’s hand, which was clenched into a fist on her lap. His own hands were trembling.

  Kurt didn’t know where Trevor was, where they put kids who did things like this. He just wanted to get him and go home, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be that easy.

  “I’m sure you understand my dilemma,” Mrs. Cross started, continuing to shake her blond head, scolding. Kurt had noticed the last few times she’d spoken to them that it was as though she were talking to one of her kindergarten students instead of two grown adults.

  “Trevor�
��s behavior is simply unacceptable. My instinct is to expel him. For the safety of the other children in this school.”

  “But what are we supposed to do?” Elsbeth spoke up, surprising Kurt. Usually she left all of the talking to him in these situations. “I have to work. We have to work.”

  Kurt thought about work. About the scent of gasoline. About the acres of debris at the yard. And the endless hours they each spent working, working, working.

  “Mrs. Kennedy,” Mrs. Cross said condescendingly. “This is not a day-care facility. It is a school. It is a place where children come to learn.”

  Elsbeth’s face flushed red, and Kurt felt his heart ache for her.

  “We know that,” he said.

  “I know that. I’m just ... upset,” Elsbeth said, her eyes filling with tears. “Do you have to expel him, though? The school year just started. He’s been trying so hard.”

  It was taking everything Kurt had not to stand up and move. His legs felt like he’d been stung by a thousand wasps.

  “You do understand,” Mrs. Cross continued. “The police were called. This was an assault. You should consider yourselves lucky the Sweeneys aren’t pressing charges.” Principal Cross leaned toward them, as if she were going to tell them a secret. “Trevor’s anger is not normal. He is a child, filled with ... rage.”

  Kurt flinched. “He must have been provoked. He would never do anything like this without being provoked. You have to know how he’s treated here, by the other kids. It’s got to be somewhere in his file. He’s constantly bullied. Constantly teased.” Kurt’s voice thundered, and he could feel the blood rushing to his face, hot and liquid. He pressed his fists against his angry legs.

  “Mr. Kennedy, if you could please calm down. I do understand that circumstances may have aggravated the situation.”

  “That Sweeney kid aggravated the situation. He’s just as much to blame for this. I guarantee it. I bet even his own parents know it. Otherwise they’d be pressing charges.” Kurt threw his hands up in disbelief and then rubbed his face, his callused fingers pushing hard against his temples.

  “Unfortunately, the reasons behind his behavior are secondary. This is considered major misconduct by the school, an extreme infraction of the school’s policies. And there really are only two options at this point. The first, as I said before, is expulsion. You should be aware, though, that if we expel him, unless he attends another school, he’ll need to be held back to repeat the eighth grade next year. This is where my hands are tied. As you know, there are no other public middle schools in Two Rivers. He would need to commute, or you would need to find a private school for him.”

  “Do we look like the kind of people who can afford private school?” Elsbeth said, her voice high and tight. Her cheeks were red.

  “El,” Kurt said, reaching for her hand, but she yanked it away from him, and he felt his chest tighten.

  “Seriously,” she said, looking from Mrs. Cross to Kurt. “Even if we could afford it, which we can’t, I’m sure he’d just find a way to get kicked out of there too.”

  “Your son is troubled,” Mrs. Cross said, frowning. “He needs help. Have you looked into any of the public assistance programs available?”

  “We don’t need welfare,” Kurt said, his legs aching now.

  “There are some state programs that offer free mental-health counseling for adolescents. I can put you in touch with the Department for Children and Families.”

  “My son does not have a mental illness,” Kurt said, the words bitter in his throat. “He’s a victim. If I had to put up with half the shit he’s put up with at this school, I’d have fought back a long time ago. It’s not insanity. It’s fucking self-defense.”

  “If you can please watch your language, Mr. Kennedy,” Mrs. Cross said, reaching up to the top button of her clean white blouse, fiddling with it nervously.

  Suddenly Kurt knew something had shifted. She looked afraid of him. And he imagined this was what Trevor felt like when he finally fought back against those asshole bullies.

  “As I said before, expulsion is our first option. The second is for him to be enrolled, on a trial basis, in the pull-out program we have.”

  “What is that?” Elsbeth asked.

  “It’s our special-education program,” she started.

  “Special ed?” Kurt’s throat constricted with the thought of the special-ed kids at school when he was Trevor’s age. The drooling, head-banging, thrashing retarded kids who met in the room near the cafeteria.

  “We would assign a team to work with Trevor. If he’s classified as special needs, he’ll have access to professionals, educators who work exclusively with children with behavioral issues.”

  Kurt’s legs felt like he’d walked into an electric fence. The current would not leave his body.

  “I am willing to try this on a trial basis,” she said, smiling, as though she were doing them some sort of favor. “But if there is one more incident, one more act of violence, expulsion would be our only option. And I also feel that a temporary suspension is appropriate before he is moved into the pull-out program. Perhaps he can use that time to consider the consequences of his actions. It will also give us time to prepare an IEP. He could return to school after the Thanksgiving holiday.”

  “That’s a whole month from now!” Elsbeth said, squeezing Kurt’s arm.

  “Where is he?” Kurt demanded.

  “He’s been detained in the guidance office. The police are completing their report.”

  “And the other child?” Elsbeth asked, the crimson flush having drained from her face. “Is he okay?”

  “Ma’am. Trevor attacked him; he nearly bit his ear off. Luckily, another boy pulled him off before he was able to sever the earlobe. He’s been taken to the hospital for stitches.”

  Elsbeth’s eyes spilled the tears they’d been holding, which she wiped away hard with her thumb. She looked at Kurt, like this was his fault. Like he could somehow have prevented this. Like he had the power to fix it.

  Kurt stood up. “I’d like to see my son now.”

  His mother went back to work, and his father drove him home. When they pulled into the driveway, Trevor got out of the truck and almost headed to the shed, figuring it would be best to just get it over with, but his dad stayed in the cab, rolled down the window, and said, “I’ve got to go back to work. You okay till your mom gets home?” He wasn’t looking at Trevor but past him, through him. Like Trevor was nothing but air. And for a second, Trevor almost wished for the sting of leather against his bare skin.

  “Sure,” he said and slung his backpack over his shoulder. His dad rolled the window back up and backed out onto the road, gravel crushing like old bones under his tires.

  Luckily, Mrs. Cross hadn’t opened his backpack. She was too stupid to look inside and see all of the things he’d stolen; she’d just returned it to him after they finally let him go. As he made his way to the woods, he opened the pack to confirm that the stuff was still inside. It wasn’t everything he needed, but at least he had the timer. He’d have to figure out the rest later. Luckily, now it seemed there would be plenty of time.

  He wasn’t sure what would happen next. He knew he was suspended for a month. That meant a whole month he wouldn’t have to be at school. And after that would be Christmas break. It seemed like biting off Ethan’s ear was one of the smartest things he’d done lately.

  In the caboose he went through all of the supplies. Almost giddy. A whole month, but still, he needed to get to work.

  After dinner, while his mom gave Gracy a bath, Trevor’s father motioned for him to follow him outside. Trevor had known it was only a matter of time before he had to go to the shed. His dad had probably just been waiting until Gracy was occupied so she wouldn’t ask where they were going.

  Silently, Trevor pulled on his barn coat in the mudroom and followed behind his dad, closing the door quietly behind them. The moon was out tonight, like somebody had shot a hole through the sky. Trevor concentrated
on the back of his father’s head as they made their way to the shed.

  His father didn’t say anything; he never did. Usually, he’d ease his belt out through the loops of his pants and then lower his head while Trevor undid his own belt, as if he were ashamed to see Trevor’s naked backside. Then Trevor would lean his head into his crossed arms against the weathered shingles of the shed, inhaling the rotten cedar smell. It would be over in just a couple of quick cracks, and then Trevor would scramble to pick up his pants. Usually Kurt would leave him alone, return to the house by himself, giving Trevor a few minutes to collect himself, to cry if he needed to. But tonight, instead of pulling his belt out, his dad just stood there, head hung low.

  “You really screwed up this time,” he said. “You can’t just go attacking people. No matter what they do to you. You’ve gotta be civilized. You gotta play by their rules. It’s a school. People are there to learn.”

  Trevor shook his head; these words belonged to Mrs. Cross, not his father.

  “I need to know what those boys did to you, Trevor.”

  Trevor squeezed his eyes shut. Anger and shame pulsed in his temples as he thought about their jeering, sneering laughter. Faggot, freak. He thought about the way he felt like he was always, always on the verge of being attacked. Like a soldier at war, never knowing exactly when the enemy might strike. Tears swelled hot and impatient as he remembered the hot smell of his own excrement, their disgust. The taste of Ethan’s ear in his mouth. Cocksucker. He shook his head. He couldn’t tell him. He didn’t have the words.

  “They’re putting you in special ed, son. And there’s nothing your mother or I can do about it.”

  “What?” he said. The shock of his words felt like the crack of leather against his skin. Trevor thought about the classroom near the cafeteria. The kids in there were the ones who screamed and thrashed and threw tantrums. The ones who couldn’t read. The blind children, the deaf children. The broken kids. The kids nobody cared about.