Rumors

by Phil M. Williams

  “I’m sorry. At my old school we didn’t have document cameras or much technology at all.”

  “Google is your friend.” He exited her classroom.

  CHAPTER 10

  Caleb’s Fine

  Students hurried to the lunchroom, a cacophony of raucous voices. The quicker they got their lunch, the more time they had to socialize with their friends. Caleb wasn’t sure where he’d sit. He didn’t have many friends. It had always been him and Madison, but she’d moved over the summer. There was Jamar, but he was in B lunch. Caleb trudged down the hallway, purposely slow, preferring to wait in line than sit by himself.

  Caleb glanced around, scouting out a seat. Metal and laminate tables were arranged in perfect rows and columns, like cemetery plots. He should sit with the football players, but Shane and Lance were there. The last thing Caleb needed was to be bullied in front of the entire lunchroom. He knew a few other kids but not well enough to sit with them. What if they rejected me? How would that look? He hoped the line moved slowly enough that he wouldn’t have time to think about socializing. Nobody would care if he sat by himself for five minutes just to eat.

  Caleb was nearly last in line. The line twisted around the ropes like a popular ride at Disney World. He pushed his tray and Styrofoam plate along the metal counter. Cheese pizza, tater tots, and creamed corn. The food groups: yellow and brown. The cashier swiped his free-and-reduced lunch card, and he stepped to the lunchroom with his tray in hand. He found a corner table that was mostly uninhabited. He ate quickly, but the bell rang before he was finished. The lunchroom emptied as he continued to eat, finishing the last of his tater tots. He tossed the remnants of his lunch in the trash and stacked his tray with the others. He had to pee, so he hurried from the lunchroom toward the bathroom.

  The tardy bell rang, the hallway empty now. Caleb turned into the bathroom, but Aaron Fuller blocked the doorway. Aaron was a sophomore—like Caleb, but taller and more athletic—and a total hellion, much like his older brother, Drew. Also like his brother, Aaron was an excellent linebacker. Last year, everyone on the freshman team had been afraid of him. Everyone thought he’d start varsity alongside Drew, but Aaron hadn’t come out for football as a sophomore.

  Aaron lifted his chin. “What the fuck you think you’re doin’?”

  “I have to take a piss,” Caleb replied, trying to sound tough.

  “Go to another bathroom, bitch.”

  “Who is it?” Drew called out from inside the bathroom.

  “Shit, I don’t remember,” Aaron replied. “Little fucker. Plays football.”

  “Caleb Miles,” Caleb said.

  “Caleb Miles,” Aaron repeated for his brother.

  “Let him in,” Drew said.

  Aaron stepped aside, and Caleb walked into the bathroom. Shane, Lance, and Drew stood by the sinks. The best football players in the school. All seniors. Shane heated the end of the pipe with a Bic lighter and inhaled a vapor. He grinned and handed the pipe and lighter to Lance.

  “You want a hit, little man?” Shane asked.

  Drew and Lance laughed. Lance took a hit.

  “Don’t be a punk-ass bitch,” Drew said.

  “I just have to take a piss,” Caleb said, his voice higher than normal, almost pleading.

  “Go on then,” Lance said.

  Caleb stepped up to the urinal, unzipped his jeans, and pulled his penis through the hole in his boxer shorts. The seniors surrounded him, and he couldn’t pee, not a drop.

  “I thought you had to take a piss,” Lance said.

  “Leave me alone,” Caleb said, his penis in hand.

  “Look at that little thing. Have you even hit puberty yet?”

  Shane snapped a picture with his camera phone.

  “Hey.” Caleb shoved his penis back into his pants and zipped up. He reached for Shane’s phone.

  Shane held up his phone, out of reach of the much smaller boy. “You better back the fuck up.”

  Caleb stepped back. “Come on. That’s not cool. Erase it.” He sounded desperate.

  Shane put his phone in his pocket. “You don’t like people lookin’ at your dick, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Then why were you lookin’ at mine, you little faggot?”

  “I wasn’t. I swear.”

  “That’s some bullshit,” Lance said.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to,” Caleb said.

  “It’s cool,” Shane said with a crooked smile.

  “Can you please erase the picture?”

  Shane shrugged. “Relax. It’s just a dick pic.”

  “I want you to erase it,” Caleb said, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I don’t give a fuck what you want.” Shane lifted his chin toward the exit. “Get the fuck outta my face.”

  Caleb exhaled, hung his head, and left the bathroom without a word. He trudged to another bathroom to finish his business. Afterward, he went to Mr. Phelps’s world history class eight minutes late. He was happy it was Mr. Phelps. He had had Mr. Phelps last year for American history. He never yelled at anyone. Lewis Phelps didn’t say anything to Caleb as he took a seat. Mr. Phelps simply nodded, placed a syllabus on Caleb’s desktop, and continued his instructions.

  * * *

  After class, as Caleb started for the door, Mr. Phelps asked, “Caleb, can you hang back for a minute?”

  Caleb stopped, blew out a breath, turned around, and approached Mr. Phelps. Caleb looked down on Mr. Phelps, and Caleb was only five foot six.

  Mr. Phelps waited for the last student to exit, then he asked, “You all right?”

  “I’m sorry about being late,” Caleb replied.

  “It’s okay. You didn’t miss much. You do look a little stressed. Anything I can do to help?”

  Caleb shook his head, a lump in his throat. “I’m fine.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Rick and Sugar’s Addicting

  Posters of male and female athletes hung from the walls, along with the new food pyramid. The students and their desks were aligned in perfect rows and columns. Rick stood at the head of his health class. The students were sleepy—droopy eyes and heads propped within their hands. An hour after their corn-syrup-filled-lunches, they were crashing.

  “Everyone stand up,” Rick said.

  The class groaned and stood. Many students leaned on their desks.

  “Stop leaning on your desks,” Rick said. “You guys are like wet noodles. Do you know why you’re so tired?”

  A disheveled boy said, “Because we stayed up too late last night.”

  “Were you guys this tired a few hours ago?”

  “No,” Ashlee Miles said from the front row.

  “Then what happened between now and two hours ago?” Rick asked.

  “We ate that crappy lunch. Well, some of us did anyway. I don’t eat that junk.” Ashlee smiled at Rick, fingering the gold locket around her neck.

  “That’s good.” Rick nodded at Ashlee, then addressed the class. “Much of what you guys eat for lunch is loaded with sugar, and that sugar acts just like a drug. It’s highly addictive. When you have too much sugar, you have that sugar high, then you crash. That’s why you’re all so sleepy. Starting tomorrow, your homework is to keep a food journal. Buy yourself a notebook tonight, and, every time you eat something, I want you to record what you ate and when you ate it. At the end of the week, we’ll take a personal health survey. The next week, we’re gonna continue with the food journal, but we’re gonna do our best to eat as healthy as possible. At the end of that week, we’ll take another survey. Then we’ll analyze the data. Got it?”

  The disheveled boy raised his hand.

  “Yes, Craig.”

  “I don’t understand,” the boy said. “What’s eating healthy? People say stuff’s healthy. Then they say it’s not.”

  “That’s a great point but don’t worry about that right now. We’ll get into the specifics of healthy eating. For now, eat like you normally do and record it in you
r journal.”

  The bell rang, and the students grabbed their purses and book bags.

  “Don’t forget your journals tomorrow,” Rick said as they exited his classroom.

  Ashlee Miles tapped on her cell phone as the room emptied. She had olive skin, brown eyes, and dark wavy hair, much like a shampoo commercial. She was taller and prettier than her mother, Heather, and she looked nothing like Caleb. They had different dads.

  Rick approached her. “Ashlee, you know you can’t have that in class.”

  She shoved her phone in her little purse and grinned. “Sorry, Mr. Barnett. I thought class was over.”

  “It is, but I don’t allow cell phones in my classroom. Your cell phone can be very addicting. It’s good to take a break from it.”

  “I think the food journal is a good idea. I already eat pretty healthy though.”

  “Sometimes we don’t realize what we’re eating. Writing it down can be very eye-opening.”

  “Do you eat healthy, Mr. Barnett?”

  “I try, but it’s a struggle.”

  She looked him up and down. “It doesn’t look like it’s a struggle.”

  Rick was stone-faced. “You should head to class. You’re gonna be late.”

  “I guess I better mind that bell.” Ashlee sauntered for the door, her hips rocking back and forth. She turned at the threshold and waved. “Bye, Rick.” She giggled. “Sorry. I mean, Mr. Barnett.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Janet and Silent Snowballs

  She thinks she can do whatever she wants. We’ll see about that. Janet’s heels click-clacked on the linoleum as she marched to Gwen’s classroom. They never expect me twice in one day. She’s the type of teacher who needs to know her place. As she neared Gwen’s classroom, she thought she’d made a mistake. It was dead silent. Maybe she doesn’t have a class last period.

  Janet pushed into Gwen’s classroom. Another group of students were playing snowball fight. They threw paper balls at each other with wide smiles and bright eyes, but they were quiet, not a word or even a sound, apart from the occasional sneaker squeak.

  Gwen glanced at Janet but continued to throw “snowballs” as if Janet were invisible. Janet stood with her arms crossed over her ample chest, scowling. Eventually, Gwen held up her hand, like a stop sign, the students stopping immediately, all of them still—except for their chests moving up and down, their breathing elevated, their smiles still plastered. Gwen then completed her icebreaker lesson, not addressing Janet until the dismissal bell.

  Once the last student exited the classroom, Janet approached Gwen, who was standing near her desk.

  Gwen smiled at Janet and said, “Twice in one day. I feel special.”

  Janet deadpanned, her expression serious as cancer, “It’s not a good thing, Ms. Townsend. My criticism this morning was very serious, yet you didn’t seem to take it seriously. It’s my job to make sure that you comply with the high standards of this school.”

  “Well, I certainly learned something from this.”

  “And what exactly did you learn?”

  “I learned that, as much as the students like the snowball-fight icebreaker, they like silent-snowball fight even better.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Gwen and Buster

  Gwen shut her laptop and placed it in her computer bag.

  Lewis Phelps knocked on the open door. “You headed out?”

  Gwen sighed and forced a smile toward Lewis. “I think I’ve had enough for today.”

  “Looks like we’re the last ones again.”

  She walked toward him, her mouth turned down.

  “Tough first day?” he asked.

  Gwen turned off her light and locked her classroom. “The kids were great.”

  Lewis chuckled. “Not the adults?”

  “You could say that.”

  They walked down the hallway toward the parking lot.

  “Lemme guess. Janet?” he asked.

  “She gave me a hard time because my class was making too much noise. We were doing the snowball-fight icebreaker.”

  “That’s a good one.”

  “I like it because I have the kids do a lot group work, and it’s important that they know and like each other.”

  Lewis nodded. “Makes sense.”

  “I understand the reprimand. I wasn’t upset about that but just the way she talked to me.”

  “Like she’s above you?”

  “Exactly. Like I need to know my place.”

  Lewis opened the door for Gwen. She stepped outside, followed by Lewis. They walked across the asphalt toward the parking lot. “Janet had it out for me my first year.”

  “What happened?” Gwen asked.

  “She gave me a hard time about my lesson plans, picking apart anything that she considered out of the ordinary. She gave me a bad evaluation, which I fought and won. Then she just stopped. I don’t know why. Maybe she moved on to easier targets. We haven’t said a single word to each other in five years.”

  “I just want to do my job. I don’t need this.”

  “I hear you. I sympathize. I do. Just ignore her and do your job. You’ll be fine. In the meantime, be careful who you vent to.” Lewis motioned back to the school. “Those walls have ears.”

  The parking lot was empty except for two vehicles. One car was parked close to the school, the other in the back of the lot.

  Gwen stopped next to an old Volkswagen Jetta, parked near the school. “Thanks, Lewis.”

  “No problem.” Lewis glanced at Gwen’s car. “I like the TDIs. Nobody wants to buy them after the debacle, but they’re still good cars.”

  Gwen opened the door with her key fob. “It was cheap, and it gets good gas mileage.”

  “Fifty-five miles per gallon on the highway, 236 pound-feet of torque, and a motor that’ll run forever.”

  “You know more about my car than I do.”

  “I’m a bit of a gearhead.”

  “Are you parked way over there?” Gwen asked, motioning to the back of the lot.

  “Too many kids with driver’s licenses around here. I like to keep my car out of harm’s way.” Lewis paused for a moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow, Lewis.”

  Gwen drove past farms and the grocery store toward the tiny town of West Lake. The town was a cluster of aging row homes with rusted metal roofs and mom-and-pop businesses. Main Street was only a few hundred yards long. Gwen stopped at the only red light in town.

  Lewis’s black sedan pulled up alongside her, in the left turning lane. His car had bulging fenders, a wing attached to the trunk, and a throaty exhaust. He beeped his horn and nearly peeled out as the light turned green. His car made a whoosh noise, almost like an airplane, as Lewis sped away from town. Gwen turned right and drove the short distance to the town’s only apartment complex.

  The apartments had been converted from old row homes, with four units per building or two units per building, depending on how many bedrooms you wanted. Gwen climbed the metal steps to her one-bedroom apartment.

  Inside, she flipped on the overhead light. Boxes still sat in the living room next to the couch. The jingle of Buster’s tag followed her into the kitchen. Buster meowed and did a figure eight around her calves. Gwen set her computer bag, keys, and purse on the kitchen table.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” Gwen said to the black cat, bending down and petting her head.

  Buster purred and rubbed her head against Gwen’s hand.

  “You hungry?” She grabbed a can of cat food and fed Buster. Gwen didn’t have the energy to cook, so she mixed up a can of tuna with peas, mayo, pickles, and the remnants of a bag of lettuce. She ate at the kitchen table for two, while Buster ate from her bowl on the floor. The wooden table was the first piece of furniture she and Brian had purchased together. From Value City Furniture. Back when they were broke the first time.

  She thought about the finality of her marriage. Maybe Brian’s right. Maybe it is time to move on. Twenty-two year
s is a long time. He has it much worse than I do, and yet he’s still trying to do the right thing for me. She wondered if Brian mailed the divorce papers. Of course he did. That’s the thing about Brian. If he says he’ll do something, he does it. She pushed away her dinner. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  CHAPTER 14

  Caleb and Perspective

  Ashlee’s Jeep was gone, but the Pontiac was parked under the carport. You know what Pontiac stands for? Poor old nigger thinks it’s a Cadillac. That’s what one of his mother’s redneck boyfriends had said, but she’d been proud of her car. She’d bought it used eight years ago. The salesman had called it previously owned. They’d had a station wagon with wood paneling prior to that. The Pontiac was her red sports car, complete with a spoiler and a V6. It was the last of the Grand Ams. The end of an era of shitty American-made cars. Now, eight years later, the paint was peeling, the wheels scratched from rubbing concrete curbs, and the interior was a mobile trash can, housing empty Starbucks cups and bottles of vitamin water.

  Caleb walked along the car to the side door of the house. He smelled faintly of BO from football practice. He still stayed clear of the showers at school. It was quiet inside the double-wide trailer. He stepped to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Nothing but a few expired condiments and wine coolers. He checked the pantry. Stale cereal, a big can of fruit cocktail, a can of creamed corn, and coffee filters. They still had some pasta but no more Ragu. His stomach rumbled.

  He stepped down the hall and knocked on his mother’s bedroom door. “Mom, it’s me.”

  “What do you want?” Heather said, her voice strained.

  His mother had been in a funk since Saturday, staying in her room, watching television night and day. She hadn’t even gone to the gym.

  “We need to go to the grocery store,” Caleb said through the door.

  “Ask your sister to take you.”