A Semester in the Life of a Garbage Bag

by Gordon Korman

  “It’s only my ankle!” Raymond cried. “It’s not that bad! I don’t mind! I like it!” But it was too late. Mr. Hyatt was already looking at him with undisguised loathing.

  Quisenberry folded his arms across his chest. “I refuse to participate in this madness!”

  There was a roar of discontent from the crowd. A portable microphone was thrust under his nose. “What are you afraid of that you refuse to let Gunhold go ahead with this test?” demanded a local news reporter.

  “Yeah!” Suddenly two more microphones appeared.

  Quisenberry surveyed the situation. He was the center of attention, with cameras, microphones and faces all turned to him. Pens were poised above notepads, ready to copy down his every word. What could he say? “All right, go ahead. SACGEN has nothing to hide.”

  “Terrific,” said Gramp. “And in the spirit of cooperation, we invite you to sit down and shut up. Okay, Sean. Tell your people to turn on the school. This is a normal day, and Engineers Sopwith and Johnson are manning the windmill.”

  There was a great cheer of victory. As Howard and his crew raced all through the school halls, flicking light switches and turning on equipment, Ten-Ton Tomlinson led the eleven bewildered extra engineers into the gym, escorted by a contingent of media people. The test was on.

  There was a rush for the school pay phones as reporters hurried to alert their superiors as to what was going on at DeWitt.

  “Splendid,” said Gramp. “Now, would anyone care to hear a little poetry?”

  As he began to read and discuss the poems, Ashley found Sean in the wings. “I don’t get it,” she said. “What’s Gavin doing?”

  “He was really upset about Raymond’s ankle,” Sean replied glibly, “and he vowed to get the windmill.”

  Ashley looked confused. “But Raymond just came backstage to tell me how mad he is.”

  “It’s more important than just what one person thinks,” said Sean evasively. “Mr. Gunhold’s helping us out in our moral fight against being pushed around just because we’re teenagers.”

  “Oh, wow!” said Ashley. She paused to listen to the audience reaction as Gramp read “Fruit Fly.” “He’s a great man.”

  “He sure is,” said Sean, and had never meant it more in his life. He went to look for Raymond, and found him slumped in Gramp’s backstage chair, staring up at the ceiling.

  “Raymond …”

  Agonizingly slowly, Raymond turned, as though the effort took every ounce of energy in his body. “There he is — the man who killed Jardine. Doesn’t it figure that, after all I’ve been through, all the terrible luck I’ve endured, all the obstacles I’ve made it past, the crushing blow is dealt by my best friend!”

  “I did it for you,” Sean barely whispered. “Your ankle —”

  “If you’re waiting for me to say thanks, don’t hold your breath. If you really wanted to do me a favor, why didn’t you just cut my throat? It would have been nicer than to pluck me off a beautiful beach in the Aegean and drop me in Secaucus.”

  “It won’t be that way, Raymond. I’ll take the blame. I’ll tell Q-Dave it was all my idea.”

  Raymond shook his head. “I already told him that. He doesn’t believe me. This is it, Delancey, and it’s all your fault! I’m not too thrilled with your grandfather, either!”

  Onstage, Gramp had finished his poetry, and was warming up for a little yo-yo demonstration, while chatting engagingly with the audience.

  “While we’re all here, anybody got any use for some extra engineers? Maybe a little wiring around the house?” It got a big laugh. Quisenberry glared at him.

  Howard and his group were standing in front of the control room entrance.

  “This is too cool!” Howard crowed gleefully. “The windmill’s as good as gone!”

  “Orb me radioactive, baby!” Leland agreed.

  “I don’t know,” said Randy nervously. “The lights look perfect. I hope we didn’t pick the one night when the windmill’s actually going to work.”

  Sean, too, was paying close attention to the lights, waiting for that first flicker that would indicate a breakdown was on the way. He checked his watch anxiously. The time was dragging.

  Gramp had been on for almost forty-five minutes, and there was still no sign of windmill failure. Sean caught a ferocious look from Q. David Hyatt, smoldering in his seat in the front row, and swallowed hard. The only positive sign so far was that Gramp seemed to be ready to go on for hours, and his audience showed no indication of tiring.

  Howard came up behind him. “Sean, you want to see something that’s going to make you smile?” He led the way to the control room, grabbing a few nearby reporters and counseling them to come along. “There,” he said blissfully. “Isn’t that just poetry in motion?”

  Inside the glassed-in control room, Sopwith and Johnson were racing around like rats in a maze, pressing buttons, flicking switches, and turning dials as red lights appeared all over the numerous monitoring boards.

  “What is it?” asked the Daily News reporter.

  “The beginning of the end,” said Howard smugly.

  “Two men can’t run the windmill,” Sean explained. “Every one of those red lights is something going wrong. During a normal school day, they just shut it down for a while, or let it break down, and then fix it. Tonight they’ve got to keep it going at all costs, because you people are here.”

  Sean ran to convey this news to Gramp, who interrupted his yo-yo display for the announcement. “You fellows from the press might want to take a look at the SACGEN control room down the hall. I’m told the monitor boards are lit up like a Christmas tree, and there’s more running and jumping around in there than in the NBA championship.”

  Quisenberry squirmed uncomfortably as reporters and camera crews all rushed for the door.

  Those who stayed for the rest of the yo-yo action all agreed that this was Gavin Gunhold’s classic performance. But the sweat and action on the stage was nothing in comparison to the frantic running around going on in SACGEN Control Central, where Sopwith and Johnson were fighting a losing battle against the red lights on their panels as the press looked on, fascinated. Every now and then, a few sparks would fly from a board, and one of the engineers would be on it, twisting, rigging, and slapping it back into place until the next time.

  “I didn’t know those two idiots were this good,” commented Randy in reluctant admiration. “Look at the mess they’ve got, and the lights are still perfect.”

  “It can’t last,” said Howard confidently. “This is the happiest night of my life.”

  At last, Engineer Johnson was grudgingly granted permission to go to the bathroom. He took off like a jackal, doubled back, and shot into the auditorium, ending up at the feet of Senior Engineer Quisenberry.

  “Sir, we’re going to have to shut her down, or let the power flow drop, or something!” he rasped, breathless.

  “No way!” Quisenberry whispered back. “Keep it going!”

  Johnson shook his head. “We could have a disaster on our hands!”

  Quisenberry grimaced. “Just buy us a little more time,” he whispered. “We’ll figure something out.”

  Suddenly, Johnson felt an iron grip on his shoulder, and wheeled to find himself staring into the extremely large face of Ten-Ton Tomlinson.

  “No cheating,” warned the football star, hustling Johnson back to the control room.

  Quisenberry and Mr. Hyatt left the gym soon after.

  “I guess they just don’t appreciate poetry,” said Gavin Gunhold, who was winding down the presentation into a friendly question and answer period.

  The sparks were flying in the control room, but the lights remained steady as Sopwith and Johnson continued their frantic scramble to keep SACGEN going.

  “He’s crazy!” exclaimed Sopwith, beating out a small fire with his coat. “He’s putting the whole unit in danger!”

  Sean was looking at the lights nervously. Sure, the reporters could all see what was going
on in the control room, but it would take a real blackout to put the icing on the cake. Come on, SACGEN, quit!

  The fire doors at the end of the hall burst open, and in marched Quisenberry, at the head of a long line of uniformed policemen.

  “This building is to be cleared in two minutes, by order of the Department of Energy!” shouted the senior engineer.

  Microphones appeared from all directions. “Is it true that you’re stopping the test because SACGEN is about to break down?” called a reporter.

  “SACGEN has passed any test! As of now, you people are all trespassing!”

  Quisenberry led the officers down the corridor and into the gym. Sean ran in through the back entrance to try to reach Gramp first. He ran onto the stage just in time to hear his grandfather announce, “Under arrest? Don’t you like poetry either?”

  Cries of protest went up from the crowd as two policemen jumped onto the stage and grabbed Gramp by each arm.

  Nikki, who had been in the wings consoling Raymond, caught a glimpse of Gramp being hustled out of the gym in the arms of the law, followed by a large group of angry spectators. She took off like a shot. Bewildered, Raymond went after her, propelling himself laboriously on his crutches.

  “Please, officers!” Sean was saying. “Leave him alone! It’s all my fault! Honest! Arrest me!”

  Howard took one look at Gramp on the way to the door, and shouted, “Hey! You can’t leave now! The windmill isn’t dead yet!”

  Gramp seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. “Do I get one last cigar before the firing squad?”

  “Cover-up! Cover-up!” shouted a newsman who was being ejected, camera and all, from the building.

  “Yeah! Cover-up! Nuke the windmill!” This from Howard Newman.

  The students began to take up the chant. “Nuke the windmill! Nuke the windmill!”

  Nikki burst onto the scene, grabbed Gramp’s arm, and tried to pull him away from the officers. “Let him go!”

  Ashley rushed up, frantic with worry. “Gavin! Gavin, why are they doing this to you?”

  Gramp shook his head. “Everybody’s a critic!”

  Mrs. Fenster grabbed her son. “Leland, I want to know exactly what’s going on here, and I want to know now!”

  Leland was in a state of emotional upset. “This is a negative vub —”

  Mrs. Fenster blew her stack. “Vub! Vub! I’m sick to death of hearing about vub! Speak English!”

  The front doors of the school were flung open, and the police ushered everyone — students, guests, and media people alike — out into the cold night air. The last thing Sean saw before a purple-faced Q. David Hyatt slammed and locked the heavy doors was Quisenberry and his eleven extra engineers swarming like ants into the turbulent SACGEN control room.

  The driveway was lined with police cars. The two officers flanking Gramp pushed him into the lead car, and Nikki with him, since she refused to let go of his arm. Sean tried to climb in after them, but he was gruffly shoved away and placed in the second car.

  “Sean, where do you think you’re going?” bellowed Howard. “We’re not finished yet!”

  “Gavin! Gavin!” Ashley burst onto the scene. “What have you done with him?” she bawled, right in the face of the officer in charge. He responded by stuffing her into the car with Sean.

  “Ashley!” Steve Semenski barreled heroically forward to protect his girlfriend. But unfortunately at that moment, Raymond, thump-swinging at top speed, smashed through the line of spectators. The two met head-on with a resounding crunch, and a flailing crutch bonked the officer in charge right over the head.

  “Hey!” Raymond and Steve ended up in the third car, watched over by a very angry policeman.

  As the three cruisers pulled away down the driveway, an hysterical Leland Fenster took off after them in a full sprint. “Wait, babies!” He ran right up until the third car turned out into the street. Then he wheeled, and shook his fist in frustration.

  “Zung!”

  ***

  Dan and Tina Delancey couldn’t remember having enjoyed a party this much in years. Manhattan people were so up-to-date on technology. The conversation had gone from Techno-Living magazine in general to argon-neon lasers in particular when the daughter of the house, a girl of Nikki’s age, came running out of her room.

  “Mrs. Delancey, come quick! There’s a riot in DeWitt! At the high school!”

  “Oh, Dan, the children are there!” The Delanceys rushed to the TV set just in time to see Gramp, in the custody of two burly police officers, holding up the two-finger V-for-victory sign to the cameras.

  “Oh, my God! It’s Pop!”

  “Oh, Dan! Look who’s with him! Nikki! My little girl is being arrested!”

  “The poet, apparently, was conspiring with some students to discredit the SACGEN project,” crackled the audio. “Exactly who besides Gunhold is involved is not clear, but it is believed that this boy” — there was a close-up on a face looking miserably out the window of another police car — “had a major role.”

  “Sean!” chorused the Delanceys.

  In a matter of minutes, they had found their coats, made their excuses, and were on their way back out to Long Island, more specifically, the DeWitt police station, and the three other members of their family.

  ***

  They weren’t jail cells, exactly. They were just three locked rooms where the DeWitt offenders had been placed. Gramp and Nikki were in Room A, Gramp looking smug and self-satisfied, Nikki nervous, but not frantic.

  “How about this, Nik?” the old man said, slapping his knee. “Who says older people can’t do interesting and exciting things?”

  “Certainly not you, Gramp,” said Nikki. “But we’re in jail!”

  Gramp shrugged. “A minor detail. Besides, we’ll be out of here in no time.”

  Nikki looked worried. “I hope so.”

  In Room B, Raymond was collapsed on a small wooden chair, staring up at the ceiling while Steve paced the floor, slapping his fist into his palm.

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Ray. When they put us in with the criminals, I’ll see to it that nothing happens to you. I’ll say, ‘If anyone does anything to my friend Ray, I’m going to bust his face into a million pieces.’ That’s what I’ll say.”

  “Oh, shut up, Cementhead.”

  “Cementhead?” A delighted smile spread over Steve’s face. “Oh, I get it. My name is Semenski, and that sounds like Cementhead. What a great nickname! I like it!”

  Raymond looked up at the ceiling. “He likes it.”

  “Knowing you has taught me a lot about friendship,” Steve went on philosophically. “When I saw you hobbling on your crutches to rescue Ashley, it brought tears to my eyes.”

  “Mine, too. But that was because I’d just taken a cement block in the face.”

  “Seriously, Ray. You and me, we’ve seen the best together; we’ve seen the worst. We’re going to be friends for life!”

  Raymond just groaned.

  In Room C, Sean was totally downcast. His great plan, which had exposed Gramp, cost Raymond Theamelpos, and landed family, friends, and himself in jail, had all come to nothing. The windmill had suffered mightily, but had persevered. Sure, the media had seen the control room panic, but that wasn’t enough. The breakdown, the sure thing, hadn’t come. The one and only time that Sean Delancey made a decision more important than whether to shoot or pass had turned into the biggest mess of all time.

  Ashley spoke up. “Well, I sure wish I knew what was going on.”

  He looked at her, his beautiful Ashley, thrown in the slammer because of his pigheaded stupidity. And then he was spilling his guts, confessing everything, because she had a right to the truth. He told her how the real Gavin Gunhold was dead, and how he and Raymond had been writing the poetry. He told her about Raymond and Theamelpos, and the importance of the poetry assignment. And he told her about Gramp, and how they had planned all along to go after SACGEN tonight.

  “So that’s the story
, Ashley,” he concluded, shamefaced. “I don’t blame you if you hate me.” He turned to face the wall, and waited for her to condemn him as a liar, a conniver, and a fraud.

  It didn’t happen. Instead, she said, “I could never hate you, Sean.”

  And from then on, Sean was unclear on the actual order of events, because his memory went a little gray. But somehow, in the seconds that followed, Sean Delancey wound up kissing Ashley Bach, both in custody in this romantic place, jail. He felt like he’d just scored fifty points — he could almost hear the cheering of the crowd.

  Suddenly, Ashley looked deeply disturbed. “Oh, Sean, I — but what about Steve? — oh, I’m so confused!”

  “Don’t be,” said Sean in his deepest voice. “You and Steve are great for each other. Really. This was just one of those things.” Then he thought about what he’d said, and could have cut his tongue out and eaten it. He’d just given up a chance with the girl of his dreams. He hadn’t done anything this stupid since deciding to go head to head with the windmill.

  “Sean, you’re the most wonderful person in the world,” said Ashley honestly. “I’ll never forget this.”

  Oh, well, easy come, easy go. He felt a great rush of elation. Well, Cementhead, that horseshoe’s still up there working for you. She’s all yours. Sean Delancey has given her to you. Why? Because he’s something much more important than just the best player on the varsity basketball team. He did it because he’s a nice guy. So let’s call it even on the Karen Whitehead’s underwear thing, okay?

  When Raymond found out about this, he’d say, “That’s right. Give Jardine a friend with cole slaw for brains.” Well, he wouldn’t tell Raymond. This was his own private secret.

  ***

  The Bachs arrived first to pick up their daughter, followed a few minutes later by the Semenskis. The Jardines were out, so when the Delanceys turned up just after midnight, they collected the balance of the prisoners.

  Mrs. Delancey didn’t even wait until they got out to the car before the lecture began. It was loud and long, easy on Nikki (“the innocent child”) and on Raymond (“You’re not mine, thank God”) but extremely hard on poet Gavin Gunhold. “Pop, I can’t believe what you’ve done! You, who are lucky enough to be in a position to live your golden years in peace with people who love you — to get mixed up in such scandal with your no-good grandson! And as for him …” Then the real roast began. Sean soon memorized every single scuff and mark on his sneakers as his mother flayed him alive with words that would have offended an axe-murderer. When his father tried to intercede on his behalf, he was told, “You have nothing to say, Daniel Delancey! This is our fault, too! Our son has obviously lost direction, and we didn’t even notice! Sean, I want you to admit right now, for good and all, that there is nothing wrong with the Department of Energy project in your school! SACGEN works perfectly!”