by R. D. Tarver
“How did you know I love soda fries?” She spoke with a mouthful of food, making sure to reveal the contents of her open mouth in the process.
“Seriously, don’t mention it,” Jesse said, forcing a smile.
“So you must be Jesse?” The inquiry came from a curly-haired girl wearing a green army jacket and cat-eye glasses seated across from Mal. “Don’t mind those assholes.”
Jesse nodded.
“This is Kara.” Mal took a drink as she choked down the fries. “She’s like the only human I can tolerate in life.”
Nearby, one of the football players was tripped up by his teammates’ horseplay and fell, jettisoning the contents of his backpack on the ground. A spiral notebook slid under the table near Jesse’s feet and was quickly snatched up by Rust.
“Oh shit,” Rust whispered as he thumbed through the notebook. “Anybody want Kenny Summers’s algebra homework?”
“Unless those are workout notes, or phone numbers of slutty cheerleaders, it probably isn’t worth copying,” said Kara.
“I got a better idea.” Rust dipped his finger into a ketchup container and sketched an inverted pentagram on the first blank sheet inside the notebook. Once the sigil was completed, he dropped the notebook to the ground and slid it with his foot back towards Kenny’s fallen backpack.
Unaware of the subterfuge, Kenny bent over to pick up the notebook along with the rest of the contents of his backpack. The other varsity players took turns trying to execute a wedgie from his exposed underwear.
Alex and Rust exchanged a sly grin.
“He is going to freak,” Mal whisper-screamed.
“Totally.” Kara looked around. She lowered her voice to Jesse. “His dad taught my Sunday school class when I was a kid.”
“Watch and learn, losers,” Rust muttered under his breath as he stood from the table. He knelt beside Kenny and began helping him gather his stuff.
“Thanks, man. I’m such a klutz,” said Kenny.
The jock’s earnest expression made Jesse uneasy at the thought of what was to come, despite the uniform he wore.
Rust pointed to the ketchup dripping out from the fore edge of the notebook, “Dude, what is that?” he asked. “Is that blood?”
Kenny opened the notebook in disbelief, spreading apart the stuck-together pages to reveal the red, blotted pentagram. “Wait a minute. I didn’t do that.”
The others huddled around as Kenny thumbed through the notebook.
Mal pointed to the pentagram. “People doing weird stuff they can’t remember can be a sign of demonic possession.”
“Yeah, it’s like they’re hypnotized under Satan’s spell,” said Kara.
The color drained from Kenny’s face.
Alex jumped on the dogpile with his go-to rap about demonic possession. “My sister went to high school with this kid in the city who killed his parents after being possessed by a demon.” He narrowed his eyes into weasel slits as he dealt the killing blow. “It was on Donahue.”
Rust looked to Jesse who had up to now remained silent.
“It’s true,” Jesse said. “First it’s pentagrams. Then the next thing you know, you wake up in the middle of the night levitating three feet above your bed.” He surprised himself at the ease in which he contributed to the torture. “You should probably get to a preacher and get checked out before it’s too late.”
Kenny held the notebook as if it were a serpent about to strike.
“Oh my God, I didn’t do this. I swear to God I didn’t do this.” He wound up and threw the notebook as far as he could, landing it near the feet of the on-duty lunch chaperone.
The chaperone blew a whistle that hung from the lanyard around her neck. She jogged up to the scene in her white tennis shoes with the sopping notebook in hand, wearing one of those “Hello, my name is…” nametags that read: mrs. rasmussen.
“Mr. Summers, what on earth do you think you are doing?” she asked.
“I’m possessed by Satan!” Kenny wailed.
The commons fell silent.
Mal took Jesse’s hand and bolted through the glass double doors. They made their way through the interior commons before disappearing into the arts hall.
“Holy shit! I can’t believe that actually happened,” she said.
Jesse’s heart was nearly beating out of his chest. “Oh my God. That poor, dumb jock.”
“Please. Those jerks deserve much worse.” Mal stopped at the end of the hall. “In here.”
An unlit darkroom in use sign hung above the door. Mal produced a key, unlocked the door, and peered inside. The room was dark except for a red safelight that glowed from behind a partition of black plastic curtains that spanned the length of the room.
“Mr. Woods lets me use the darkroom during lunch. He usually goes off campus to eat, so we should be good,” she said as she closed the door behind them and locked it from the inside.
Mal guided him through the dark, towards a row of photo enlargers that lined the back counter. A strong chemical smell that Jesse did not recognize hovered in the air.
“I have something for you.” She reached up to the clothesline where several photographs were drying out and handed him one. “This is one of my favorites from the practice shoot.”
As his eyes adjusted to the scant light, he could see that the photo was a self-portrait. In the background over her left shoulder Jesse could see his likeness playing bass in Alex’s garage.
“Can I have this?”
“Well, duh. It’s just a test print, but if you like it...”
“It’s great.” Jesse smiled. “I mean, you’re hogging most of the frame, but at least you still managed to get my bass in the shot.”
Whether it was the fumes of photographic chemistry that he had been inhaling, or the realization that they were alone together in the dark room, a wave of dizziness washed over Jesse as she stepped closer.
The sound of the key turning in the lock ended the moment.
Mal jabbed Jesse in the shoulder and placed her index finger over her lips for him to keep quiet. The lights went on in the front room as heavy footsteps resounded near the chalkboard.
She pointed through the curtain and mouthed the words Mr. Woods.
Jesse nodded, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the squat, mustachioed photography teacher as he tossed an empty fast food wrapper into the trash.
Mr. Woods stuffed the last bite of a burger in his mouth and wiped his hands on his pants. He then walked to the center of the room, facing the chalkboard, and leaned forward while resting both hands on his hips. The sound of Mr. Woods’s ass exploding tore through the silence in the room.
Mal immediately dropped to her knees and covered her mouth with both hands.
They ran out the side door of the darkroom and into the white linoleum-covered hall, bursting with tears. Jesse thought for a moment he might pass out from lack of oxygen.
“Bleh.” Mal rolled her tongue off the roof of her mouth. “Now I know what it feels like to get fumigated.”
“There you are!” Mrs. Rasmussen’s shrill voice paralyzed him. She marched down the hall, still clasping the plastic whistle that hung around her neck. Alex and Rust followed sheepishly behind her. “Mallory Henderson and Jesse Lynn, come with me to the principal’s office this instant.”
3
Jesse sat with the others in the waiting room of Principal Anderson’s office. His thoughts drifted from the darkroom encounter to the look of disappointment on his mother’s face when she would learn that Jesse was already in trouble on his first day of school.
A round, middle-aged woman appeared at the desk counter. She scowled at the group from behind a nameplate that read: grace johnson, administrative assistant. “Principal Anderson will see you now,” she said, clutching the gold crucifix around her neck as she spoke.
The group filed into Principal Anderson’s office, who was rifling through a bookshelf behind her desk. Her hair was set in a wreath of tight brown curls that seemed to
defy gravity, an attempt at fashion that countered the drab, navy blue power suit she wore.
Jesse felt a sense of dread as he noticed Kenny Summers’s ketchup-soaked notebook on her desk.
Principal Anderson took her seat and gestured to the row of empty chairs opposite her desk. She pursed her lips as she read from her notes. “Russell Krokowski, Alexander Brooks, and Mallory Henderson…I heard we had a little incident today during lunch, is that right?”
The group sat frozen in silence.
“I just received a frantic call from Kenny Summers’s father, who as we speak is rushing over to pick up his son from school because he believes he is possessed by the devil.” Principal Anderson shifted in her chair and folded her arms. “Would anyone care to comment on that?”
“No, ma’am,” Alex and Rust said in unison.
Jesse noted the practiced response.
“Is that so?” Principal Anderson sighed as she directed her attention towards Jesse. “And let’s see…Mr. Lynn, is it?”
Jesse nodded.
“Well, Mr. Lynn, I’m sorry to see that you have fallen in with the wrong crowd on your very first day at Macomb Springs High. I hope this isn’t the beginning of a precedent that you are establishing.” She gestured to the large crucifix that hung on the wall behind her desk. “I don’t know how they did things where you are from, but I assure you that here in Macomb Springs, we place a high value on our moral convictions.”
Jesse looked to the ground, suddenly embarrassed by the situation.
Principal Anderson slid a book across her desk towards the group. She tapped her red-polished nails on the cover and waited. Jesse read the title—Michelle Remembers—and received a momentary twinge of recognition from one of his brother’s anti-establishment tirades. Rick would flip his lid if he was here to see this. Jesse stifled a laugh despite himself as he imagined his brother’s reaction to the situation at hand.
“You might think this is all a joke, but I have news for you: Satanic cults are real, and nothing to take lightly.” She fingered through a neat stack of magazine and newspaper clippings on her desk as she continued. “All over the country, the police and the F.B.I. are encountering occult activity among teenagers just like yourselves. Ritual sacrifice, child abuse, suicide, and worse—some of them are even killing their own parents.”
She produced a handful of small rectangular booklets from her desk drawer that she handed out to each of the detainees. “I want you to read through these while you enjoy detention for the rest of the week.”
Jesse thumbed through the small rectangular comic strip that depicted a group of teenagers hanging out in the woods. As he turned the page to reveal the next panel, the teenagers were suddenly wearing dark hooded robes and appeared to be in the throes of conducting an animal sacrifice.
“Chick tracts,” said Mal. “Really?”
Principal Anderson sat back in her chair and sized up the group. “Mallory, I don’t understand why such a pretty young girl would choose to dress like such a hideous ghoul. And to think, you used to be one of our star cheerleaders.”
Mal blushed at the mention. “Color guard. And that was like three years ago.”
“What your poor parents must think. I feel pity for them, I truly do.” Principal Anderson clicked her tongue and shook her head in disapproval. “Such a shame.”
Mal’s alabaster cheeks turned a deep scarlet hue at the mention of her parents. Her eyes transformed into narrow slits of glacier ice as she leveled her shoulders and spoke in an almost guttural snarl that belied her small frame.
“Lady, you don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
4
By the time the interrogation in Principal Anderson’s office had run its course, sixth period had ended. The group were escorted by Grace Johnson to detention hall.
As they entered the classroom, Jesse froze in recognition of the bearded and bespectacled man that sat at the front of the class.
The sex pervert with the weird science equipment.
Unable to visually confirm his suspicion with Mal, who had already covered her head in her arms on her desk, Jesse took his seat with the rest of the group as the strange-looking man began to address the classroom.
“Good afternoon. My name is Mr. Agostino, and I am your new guidance counselor.” The words came methodically, though upbeat, and with superb elocution. He seemed happily surprised by each new syllable that formed in his mouth as he toyed with his heavy beard. “In order to get to know some of the students who might best benefit from my services, it has been decided that I monitor detention for the foreseeable future.”
Mr. Agostino surveyed each of the students in turn, peering over his circular wire-rim glasses. His eyes beamed excitedly under the mop of dense black curls, which flowed almost seamlessly into the equally dense beard he wore. He lingered on Jesse momentarily, arching an inquisitive eyebrow.
Appearing satisfied with the visual survey of the students, Agostino returned to his desk and opened a worn leather briefcase. “Very well then, one hour of reflective meditation to contemplate your recent turn of fate,” he said as he pulled out a paperback from his briefcase.
Jesse passed the hour by examining the illustrations in the Chick tract, all the while watching Mal from his periphery, who sat a few seats over. Her heavy mascara had run down her face in dark streaks, creating thin tributaries of sadness that eroded the landscape of indifference that generally masked her features.
Once Mr. Agostino had announced that the hour had passed, and the students were free to go, Jesse followed after Mal who had already strode out of the room ahead of him.
“Hey, wait up,” Jesse called out as he jogged to catch up to her. “Did you happen to notice that our new guidance counselor bears a striking resemblance to a certain—”
“What the fuck does that uppity bitch know about my life?” Mal interrupted.
Jesse thought better of continuing the line of inquiry. “Maybe this can help you find some answers.”
He handed her a booklet he had fashioned out of leftover drawing paper from art class. The pages were torn lengthwise into strips and folded down the center to emulate the design of the Chick tracts Principal Anderson had provided to the group. The title read Spawn of Satan. The first series of images portrayed Mal and the others being interrogated in the principal’s office, which was quickly transformed into an Inquisition-style tribunal.
The next panel revealed Principal Anderson depicted as an evil queen brandishing a sceptre in the shape of a gigantic crucifix. She appeared to be casting a spell on the group who hung from the wall in manacles. A ray of light shot out from the center of the queen’s crucifix towards her prisoners.
In the next scene, the students’ regular street clothing had been altered into slacks and blazers, and all wore neatly trimmed haircuts.
All but one.
The following panel showed that Mal, unaffected by the evil queen’s spell, had broken free from her bindings. She appeared dressed in a dark robe. A maelstrom of fire blazed from her mouth, engulfing the evil crucifix-wielding queen and her minions like a volcanic eruption, spewing molten hot rage down upon her enemies while professing her allegiance to Satan.
The next scene revealed the students of Macomb Springs High fleeing from the school in droves as it was devoured by the flames. The students cheered as the school was reduced to smoldering ruins.
Mal turned the page, smiling, and witnessed a scene that portrayed her as a famous photographer, shooting stageside at a huge arena show. The backdrop banner above the drum riser read HELL patrol.
In the final scene, Mal was standing on a pile of money surrounded by adoring fans. Jesse stood next to her with his bass in one hand, and the other around her shoulder.
“Solid sympathetic magic.” She kissed Jesse on the cheek. “I guess you can walk me home.”
5
The woods to the east of the school grounds were a much-needed solace. A void within the surroundin
g trespasses of civilization, their reach comprised a majority of the small rural township—a pastoral remnant that had only recently been touched by the hand of modernity.
Having grown up mostly in the city, Jesse could get used to a little bit of wilderness. At least Macomb Springs had that going for it.
And she was here.
As they walked the wooded trail in silence, Jesse began to dread the moment they would leave the forest. He could feel the outer world threatening to swallow his individuality whole, leaving only the undigestible fibers of his being behind—the stubborn parts of him that wouldn’t go down so easy, the parts that made him want to grow his hair long and play loud, heavy shit and wear fucked-up clothes in spite of the friction it caused. Or was it because of the friction it caused? He wasn’t sure anymore.
