by Rob Buyea
I turned around just in time to see Mark topple onto Trevor. Somehow Trevor’s sneaker got tied to the leg of his bus seat.
“Ha ha ha!” I laughed, and pointed. “Have a nice trip. See you next fall.”
“Get going,” Gavin hissed, pushing me forward. “Don’t egg them on.”
Natalie and Randi stepped over the Mark-and-Trevor pile and came down the aisle behind us.
“What happened?” I asked them as soon as we got off the bus.
“We don’t know,” Natalie said, handing me my hat.
“Hey, thanks.”
She nudged me along, but we didn’t get away fast enough. Trevor and Mark had managed to get themselves untangled and came bounding after us. Trevor marched right up to Natalie. “You think you’re funny?” he said.
“No, I think it’s time you and Mark stopped being bullies,” she said, not giving an inch.
Why were they acting like this? I didn’t like it.
“We’re not bullies,” Trevor countered. “We’re just joking around with our friends. Having some fun. You’re the bully, tying my shoelace to the seat like that.”
“Yeah,” Mark agreed. “You’re the bully.”
That was the first time I ever saw Natalie not know what to say. “Stop it!” I yelled. “Stop it. I don’t like it when my friends fight.”
“Scott’s right,” Randi said, getting in between them. “Everyone just cool it.” She got Trevor and Mark to take a step back, and then she pulled Natalie away. Gavin was already storming off in the other direction. I stood there.
“Hey, Scott,” Trevor said. “You know Mark and me were just having fun with ya, right? We were going to give you your hat back. We’re not bullies.”
“I know,” I said, “but neither is Natalie.”
“Cool. See you tomorrow,” Trevor said.
“See you tomorrow.”
I put my hat on and beelined it for the art room. I grabbed my stuff and told Mrs. Magenta thank you, then hurried back outside. Mom was curious and Mickey was excited when I got in the car with my bag of wet clothes and my new outfit.
“Scott girl!” Mickey hollered. “Funny girl!”
Mom gave me her raised-eyebrow look.
“Why girl? Why Scott girl?”
“Yes, please enlighten us so your brother can stop yelling,” Mom said.
I told them the story. When I got done, Mickey wanted to know if I had any more cookies. Mom only shook her head and smiled.
“Eleanor got the juice out of my pants and shirt,” I said.
“That’s good. I’ll dry your things at Grandpa’s so you can put them back on. You don’t want to get Eleanor’s nightgown all dirty.”
That was smart thinking. Sometimes Mom could come up with good ideas, like me.
“What in the Sam Hill are you wearing?!” Grandpa cried when I walked in. It didn’t take long for him to snap out of his trance today.
“Scott girl! Funny girl!”
Grandpa’s and Mickey’s yelling scared the bejeepers out of Smoky. The cat jumped from Grandpa’s lap and ran for cover.
“My after-school group went to the senior center today,” I told Grandpa. “I tripped and spilled juice all over my clothes, so Eleanor washed them for me and gave me this to wear in the meantime.”
“They must have some good-looking gals over there if they’re parading around in those sorts of outfits.”
“Dad!” Mom said.
“You’d like it there, Grandpa. Everyone is really nice.”
“That might be so, but Smoky and I have our place right here. I’ll leave the wild-women chasing to you young fellas. Just be sure to tell me about it.”
“Dad!” Mom cried again. “You’re too much. I’ll leave you two alone to talk your foolishness.”
“Good,” Grandpa said. “This here is man talk.”
Mom huffed and marched off with my bag of wet clothes, but I knew she was smiling.
I pulled the chess table over, and Grandpa and I settled in for our afternoon match. Either I was getting better or Grandpa was still thinking about wild women, because after a few minutes I had the upper hand, and I’d never beaten him before.
“Scott, your clothes are ready,” Mom called from the other room.
I was about to checkmate Grandpa for the first time ever. I reached out to make my killer move, but before I got the chance, Smoky made his. Out of nowhere he jumped onto our board, knocking pieces everywhere.
“No!” I cried.
“Don’t you dare tell me no!” Mom yelled. “Get in here now!”
“Good boy,” Grandpa whispered, patting Smoky on the head.
I pointed at the cat. “You owe me one,” I told him. Then I turned and went to get my clothes before Mom got really upset.
After changing, I took time to find something for Grandpa’s memory string. I decided to take two of my favorite pictures of Grandma and Grandpa. I slid them into my backpack with my usual stack of junk mail. No, picture frames couldn’t go on my string, but I’d decided Grandpa might as well have a memory box to go with his string of objects.
I wouldn’t know how terrific that idea was until later.
I got right in Natalie’s face, and she tried giving me some line about bullying. Like that was going to work on me. I told her she was the bully, and that shut her up fast. Miss Perfect suddenly realized she wasn’t so perfect after all. The truth can hurt. Who did she think she was, throwing bullying in my face? She didn’t know about that stuff like I did. Nobody did. She wasn’t going to make me feel bad or feel sorry for anyone. The heck with that. Nobody was feeling sorry for me. People like Natalie had no idea.
Once someone gave her a noogie that made her skull hurt and her hair fall out, she could talk to me about bullying. After she got nailed with charley horses that turned into big purple bruises up and down her arms and legs, she could talk to me. When she suffered through a wedgie that left her picking at her crack for a week, she could talk to me. But not until then. And these things weren’t even that bad, not compared to choke-outs and some of the other garbage I’d been through. But even I hadn’t seen the worst of it. Not yet. That didn’t happen until a couple days after this fight with Natalie went down. It got real bad.
We had this new four-player video game, so my brother and his goons let me play with them. Sometimes they were cool like that. But then my brother announced, “I’m going to sit on the throne.”
Brian didn’t just call the toilet his throne. He really treated it that way, and by that I mean he could sit there for over an hour. When he left, I started sifting through our old games to see if there was something different the three of us could play while we waited for him to return. I wasn’t paying attention to Chris or Garrett, and that was my mistake. All of a sudden I realized how quiet it was. I thought they had ditched me, but when I turned around, I saw how wrong I was. They grabbed me. I was able to put up a decent fight, but I still had more bicep curls to go before I could outwrestle two of them. Chris pinned me down, and Garrett took my brother’s athletic tape and went to work. First, one strip across my mouth so I couldn’t scream. Next, they wrapped my wrists together behind my back. Then it was my ankles. And last, just to be funny, they stuck tape on my eyebrows.
Satisfied, Chris and Garrett sat down and started playing video games again. I wasn’t getting free, not this time. Not until they got bored and let me go or someone saved me.
“Hey, Trev. Get me a soda,” Chris said. He looked at me and laughed. I closed my eyes so I didn’t have to see him. I closed my eyes to keep my tears inside.
I was stuck like that until we heard the toilet flush. Then Chris ripped the tape off my eyebrows and mouth. As soon as my wrists and ankles were freed, I jumped to my feet and shoved him into his chair. I stood over him, fists clenched at my side.
“Easy, killer,” he said, holding his hands up. “We’re just messing with ya. Having some fun. You know that. Don’t get all huffy mad.”
My chest heaved. I was seeing red
. I didn’t care if he was bigger than me.
“What’s going on?” Brian asked, returning from his bathroom kingdom.
I stormed out of there, knocking into my loser brother on my way out.
“Hey! Watch it!” he said.
I didn’t stop. I hurried to my room and collapsed on my bed. I buried my face in my pillow and cried. I couldn’t help it this time. I cried and cried.
“You okay?” It was Mark. “Trev?”
I rubbed my eyes dry and got up. “I’m fine,” I said. I grabbed the dumbbells and started my set.
“You okay?” he asked me again. “What happened?”
“I said I was fine.” I shoved the dumbbells at him.
He started his set but kept looking at me.
“Why do you come over every afternoon?” I said.
He stopped lifting. The weights hung at his side. “What do you mean? Because you’re my friend.”
“Yeah, but you know these guys are here, and sometimes they pick on you, too. And you still come back. Why? If I could get away, I would.”
“I’m bored at home by myself.” His gaze dropped to the floor. He couldn’t look at me and say this next part. “But I also come to make sure you’re okay.”
Normally I would’ve punched him in the arm and told him not to be all sappy, but I didn’t do that this time. It felt good to hear him say that. It felt good to know I wasn’t all alone and that he had my back. I took the dumbbells from him and started my next set.
“I can’t wait till next year, when we have practice every day after school and we don’t have to deal with these idiots anymore.”
“Yeah,” Mark said. “Me too.”
But he wasn’t looking at me when he said that, either.
NATALIE KURTSMAN
ASPIRING LAWYER
Kurtsman Law Offices
BRIEF #19
February: Not Meant for Our Ears
I was having a difficult time thinking about anything but Trevor and Mark’s absurd accusation. Was I a bully? The question wouldn’t leave me alone. Here I was, supposed to be focused on Mr. Proctor’s all-important practice test, but I was struggling to concentrate. The CSAs were a breeze—I could be half asleep and still ace them—but this particular section was giving me a headache. I was reading about survival of the fittest and couldn’t help but wonder if there were bullies in the animal kingdom. Seriously, wasn’t I merely protecting one of the members of my pack? Did that make me a bully?
I set my pencil down. Then I leaned back, closed my eyes, and massaged my temples. After this brief pause I sat up and looked around. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d had enough of this test, because Mrs. Woods was nowhere to be found. Since Mr. Proctor was here, policing his exam, she must’ve seen this as her opportunity to step out and take a break.
Poor Mrs. Woods had been battling laryngitis for weeks. It was getting better now, but she was still using a wireless microphone in our classroom. From a fashion standpoint, the microphone was not that cumbersome or gaudy. Mrs. Woods simply slipped it around her neck and wore it as a pendant. The device was synched to our classroom speakers, and once her weak voice was projected through the sound system, we were able to hear her—even when she was elsewhere in the building.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Woods. Is your class at specials?”
That was Mr. Allen’s voice, which could only mean one thing: Mrs. Woods had forgotten to turn her microphone off.
“No, Mr. Allen, as a matter of fact my students are busy taking another one of those ridiculous practice tests,” Mrs. Woods snapped. “I hope you realize this CSA business is doing more harm than good.”
Instantly I sat up straight, as did my classmates. After picking his jaw up off the floor, Mr. Proctor came to. “Don’t listen to that,” he ordered. “Eyes on your tests.”
I give him credit for trying, but he didn’t stand a chance.
“This is the way of the world nowadays, Mrs. Woods.”
“That may be so, Mr. Allen, but that doesn’t mean it’s right.”
Whoa! Mrs. Woods had better be careful. Insubordination was grounds for termination.
“Mrs. Woods, you were hired to be a teacher, and I expect you will do your job.”
“I was doing my job until you people made all these changes and stuck those test goobers in my classroom. Being a teacher used to mean much more than producing test-taking robots.”
At this juncture Mr. Proctor was standing on a chair, fiddling with one of our speakers, desperately trying to disconnect it. I’m quite certain he didn’t appreciate being called a test goober, though that description fit him much better than his shirt did. His belly was showing now.
“The tests themselves are not all bad, Mr. Allen, but what we’ve become as a school because of these tests is despicable. We’re not keeping our students’ best interests in mind or at heart. And the pressure you’re putting on everyone—students and teachers alike—it’s enough to make someone hate what they once loved. Trust me when I tell you, these children hate school, Mr. Allen, and that is our biggest failure. If you can’t enjoy what you’re doing, you’ll never want to work hard at it.”
I watched Randi’s body deflate when those words were spoken. Her mother needed to hear this speech as much as Mr. Allen, if not more.
“Mrs. Woods, if you want things back to the way they were, then I suggest you get your students ready to perform on the CSAs. Plain and simple. I don’t like this test craze any more than you do, but our only chance to change it is with results. Results speak.”
We waited for more, but that was the end of it. Mr. Proctor was still fumbling with the speaker when Mrs. Woods came storming back into our classroom. Spotting him on that chair, she immediately put two and two together.
“You can leave now, Mr. Test Goober,” Scott said. “Our teacher has returned.”
“Mr. Mason, please do not disrespect our guest. I shouldn’t have said that, and I’m sorry you heard it.
“Mr. Proctor, please accept my apology.”
Mr. Proctor gathered his things and left without a word. He didn’t even bother to collect our practice tests.
I braced myself, because the moment our door closed, I expected Mrs. Woods to read us the riot act. She had to be enraged after her argument with Mr. Allen, but that didn’t faze you-know-who in the least. Seriously, where would we have been at times like these without Scott?
“It’s okay, Mrs. Woods. I make lots of mistakes, but your mistakes don’t have to define you. Even though I goof up, I’m still going to do something that helps people someday.”
“Thank you for that advice, Mr. Mason.”
“My mom says what’s important is that you learn from your mistakes.” Scott wasn’t done yet. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, Mrs. Woods. The last thing you want to do is forget and leave that microphone on when you go to the bathroom, especially if you’ve ever got a case of the rolling thunder farts like my dad gets.”
Mrs. Woods broke out in laughter—not even she could hold it together after Scott said that. The rest of us joined her. Scott had us in stitches. Indeed, everything that happened with that practice test was outrageously funny in the end, but none of us would’ve been laughing had we known what was about to occur with the real tests.
Jane was no longer sitting outside the window scrutinizing my workouts from start to finish. The first time I glanced over and saw she was missing, I began hyperventilating. Where was she? I panicked. Was she in the gym, ready to yell at me because I needed to tighten my routine? I looked all around, but Jane was nowhere to be found. I checked the window again, but she still wasn’t there. Slowly I regained control of my breathing and resumed my exercises. I didn’t see Jane all night.
This was how my practices had been going recently, and I was having my best workouts. But things got even weirder. One night after practice, when I came out of the locker room and walked into the lobby area, I spotted Jane talking to Coach Andrea. I felt my body go we
ak. Was she pushing Coach Andrea again, demanding answers for why I wasn’t doing better?
“I needed to do this a long time ago,” I heard Jane say.
“You’re sure?” Coach Andrea asked.
“Yes. Take her off the list,” Jane replied.
“Okay.” Coach Andrea nodded. “It’s going—”
The second they saw me coming, their conversation ended. Coach Andrea gave me a small smile, and then Jane turned and walked out of the building. I followed her to the car. I had the eerie feeling I’d just seen and heard something I wasn’t supposed to see or hear, kind of like what happened in school with that conversation between Mrs. Woods and Mr. Allen. But where was Scott to say something and make it all better?
Jane and I rode in silence, but an hour is a long time to keep asking yourself the same question over and over. It bubbled up inside me to the point that I couldn’t stand it anymore. I didn’t need Scott. I finally broke and said something. “What list did you take me off?” I asked.
“The list of gymnasts competing in the St. Patrick’s festival,” Jane said.
How was I supposed to respond? That was not what I was expecting her to say. I didn’t know what to think. After bombing at the Halloween event, I needed to win the St. Patrick’s Gymnastics Festival, not skip it.
“It’s time for you to have a little break, Randi. You need to recharge your battery so you’re ready for States. We’re going to ease up so you can focus on school and get caught up in math. So you can nail those CSAs.”
I was so confused. Was this about me and what was best for me, or getting me ready for States and top classes and scholarships? It was too little too late. I didn’t need any extra time for math. My math was already done. Scott finished it for me during lunch. He did it for me every day. He always tried his best to explain it, and I always nodded like I understood, but really I didn’t get any of what he was saying. I just let him do the work for me. That wasn’t my plan when this started, but that’s what it had become. Without his help, there was no way I was going to correctly answer all those questions on the CSAs. I’d hold my own, but I wasn’t going to ace them like Jane was hoping. I wished I could make it right, but there was no turning back now.
