by Gordon Jack
“Or the vomit,” someone yelled from the front row.
“Brett got suspended?” I asked.
Crystal nodded, smiling. “Turns out you can’t threaten people in a gymnasium without some repercussions. Stone takes a pretty hard line on that ever since the badminton tournament with the fembots.” By “fembots” Crystal meant the students who attended Victory Prep, an all-girl private school who routinely destroyed us in athletic and academic competitions. When their badminton team beat us in league finals, one of our players threw his racket at the referee and chipped his tooth.
“People are now saying he’s the Viking,” Eddie whispered, his grip on the desk loosening somewhat.
“What?” I asked. “How?”
“He needed to look heroic for the school,” Crystal said, her batlike ears picking up on our conversation from across the room. “Brett isn’t Jerry.” And here she pointed to a picture of Jerry, his face full of flan. “So he created the Viking to make himself appear strong and resolute against an ‘enemy.’ It’s a classic political strategy.”
“Only problem is, people ended up liking the Viking more than they liked Brett,” Eddie said.
“That’s why he lost it today,” Crystal said, turning off the projector with a wave of the remote. We were suddenly immersed in darkness. “All that work for nothing.”
Just then Dawn and Jerry stormed through the door, reminding us what the human body can look like with good genes, a strong exercise regimen, and liberal application of spray tan. Eddie took in a deep breath, as if readying himself for the beauty assault about to take place. I, on the other hand, detected a glimmer of malice in their shiny appearance. Something in the way Jerry’s lip curled when he saw me told me that something was up. This suspicion was confirmed when Jerry pointed in my direction and hollered, “Larry, you fucker.”
Eddie shrank away from me as if I had suddenly been identified as patient zero in a global pandemic. Crystal straightened her glasses and smiled shyly in Jerry’s direction.
“Hi, Jerry,” I choked, digging around for any writing implement that could be used for a weapon. My hand landed on a tape dispenser.
“You know anything about this?” Jerry’s muscular arm heaved a crumpled piece of paper in my direction, which hit me squarely in the forehead. It’s a wonder our football team is doing so poorly with that kind of accuracy and precision.
I opened up the letter and read the message printed in Times New Roman.
Your float won’t make it to halftime.
Sincerely,
Lawrence Barry
“What?” I said. Eddie and Crystal crowded around, their curiosity winning over their desire to maintain some distance from the social pariah. I could feel them read over my shoulder. “I didn’t write this.”
“It’s got your name on it,” Dawn said.
“I see that,” I said. “But I didn’t write it. Do I need to point out the obvious, again, that threatening messages and ransom notes are typically not signed by their authors?”
“Are you sure you didn’t type this out when you were high or something?” Dawn offered. “Maybe as some kind of joke?”
I tried to exaggerate my look of hurt in response to this, but really, this is the kind of bonehead maneuver I would typically make while high. One time, I called the attendance office and impersonated my father in order to excuse my seven cuts to fifth-period European History. I had completely fooled the attendance lady until I said, “Thanks, Mrs. Rosenberg. See you tomorrow,” and blew my cover.
“I promise, I had nothing to do with this.” I looked to Eddie and Crystal for support, but they were entranced by the shimmering blonds in front of them.
“Why would someone write your name on this letter then?” Jerry asked, astutely.
“Obviously someone is trying to frame me.”
“The same person you saw at my house on Wednesday?” Dawn scoffed.
“I think so. Oh God, you haven’t shown this to Stone, have you?”
Jerry snorted. “That dude can’t do shit.”
“I’m afraid for the person standing on Rapunzel’s tower,” Dawn said, doing her best to keep a straight face. We all knew it would be her standing on Rapunzel’s tower, waving to her subjects as the float was dragged around the football field at halftime. “She could be in danger.”
“I’ll protect her,” Eddie blurted. “I’ll guard the float.”
Dawn placed her hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “That’s sweet,” she said. “But we’ll need you cheering. Besides, we don’t want someone walking alongside Rapunzel’s castle like a secret service agent. It would totally spoil the effect.”
“Lawrence can do it then,” Eddie said, putting an arm around my shoulder.
“What?” I said. “No way.”
“He’s got a costume that he uses for LARPing. He’ll blend right in.”
“What the fuck is LARPing?” Jerry asked.
“Live action role play,” Eddie said. “He pretends he’s a knight from the Renaissance.”
Jerry and Crystal snorted in unison.
I glared at Eddie, silently communicating my displeasure at being thrown under the bus. But then I remembered all the times I screwed things up for him. This was a fitting punishment.
“Isn’t that like asking the fox to guard the henhouse?” Dawn asked. “How do we know Lawrence won’t sabotage the float?”
I would sabotage the float if it were a henhouse, I thought, shuddering at the thought of a house full of chickens.
“I’ll be there with my camera,” Crystal said. “Any funny business and I’ll show the photos to Stone.”
“For the last time, I’m not the vandal!” I said.
“Will you do it, Lawrence?” Eddie asked.
Believe me when I say that this was the last thing I wanted to do. My social standing had taken enough of a hit when I stopped partying. It didn’t help my reputation that I was now seen in the company of a freshman nerd, male cheerleader, and Renaissance woman. If I were to put on a Viking dress and march alongside Rapunzel’s castle, it would be the last nail in my coolness coffin.
But then I looked at Eddie, his pleading eyes begging me to do this one thing for him. The fact that he trusted me to protect the love of his life, after I had screwed up so many times, made me almost grateful for the opportunity to humiliate myself in front of the entire student body.
“Sure,” I said. “What time should I be there?”
TWENTY NINE
After school, I drove home and changed into my costume. With the sword, shield, and beard Spencer loaned me, the Stone Age cocktail dress was sufficiently unrecognizable. Besides, I doubted if Harkness or Stone would recognize the outfit without the mascot head and boots that usually accompanied it.
Before I left, I called Audrey to see if she wanted to join me on this guard detail. Her Renaissance hotness might distract people from hurling things in my direction. Unfortunately, no one answered, so I had to leave a message, which no doubt her grandmother would delete after hearing.
I drove to the far end of the student lot, where the floats were parked, awaiting their first and last appearance on the football field. The freshman float was still a mess of tangled two-by-fours and tissue paper. It had been saved from destruction but bore as much resemblance to the story of the Little Mermaid as my kindergarten scribbles did to the Sistine Chapel.
The sophomores had done their best to recover from the act of vandalism perpetrated against their float, but whoever thought it would be a good idea to position an actual goat in a tableau for The Three Billy Goats Gruff did not understand that the animal would ingest practically anything you place in front of it, including tissue paper and cardboard. Their float would be half eaten by halftime.
My class had chosen Jack and the Beanstalk as its float theme and constructed a green, leafy tower with a G.I. Joe on top. I doubted anyone in the stands would see the tiny action figure though, which made our entry look like a giant stalk of asparagus
.
The senior class float was even more spectacular than when I saw it at Dawn’s house on Wednesday. The tower that imprisons Rapunzel was a good sixteen feet high and seven feet in diameter, like a gas tank trailer standing on its end. Black lines were painted on the gray cover to mimic granite stones. Knowing she would most likely be elected homecoming queen, Dawn had designed the structure to allow only her to stand atop the giant tower. Jerry, or whoever was voted king, would stand below, and hold on to the rope of blond hair attached to the cylindrical structure. Along the perimeter of the flatbed ran a two-foot-high border made out of chicken wire and gray tissue paper and designed to look like a castle turret.
When Dawn saw me in full costume, she beamed. “You look great,” she said. She was dressed in her cheerleading outfit, but I’m sure she had her gown and slippers ready for when they announced the homecoming king and queen at halftime.
“How do you get to the top?” I asked Dawn. From our vantage point, it looked like the only way up the tower was to scale it using the fake hair as a rope.
“Whoever is elected homecoming queen,” Dawn said, smiling, “will enter the tower here.” She pointed to a tiny door, about twice the height of most swinging doggy doors. “There’s a ladder inside that you climb to the top. Isn’t that the coolest?”
I agreed that it was indeed the coolest.
“We’ve been working on the float since the end of summer,” Dawn continued. “Which is why it’s so important the vandal doesn’t destroy it before halftime.”
“I’m on the job,” I said, saluting.
“I have faith that God will protect our float,” Dawn said, her expression growing darker, more serious. “But if you so much as sneeze on our tissue paper, I will destroy you.”
“Understood.”
Dawn transformed back to peppy cheerleader. “Go Vikings!” she squealed, and bounced off toward the field. A few minutes later, I heard the whistle blow and the crowds cheering from the stands.
I kept a tight vigil for the first five minutes of the game but then got bored with marching around the structure. My presence was unnecessary, as there were tons of parents milling about, taking pictures of the floats and chatting up the volunteer drivers. A few adults asked me why I wasn’t at the game. I told them I was on guard duty, but really I had no intention of letting people see me in this getup until halftime. As long as I was stationed near the float, I blended in. If I left the castle, I would probably be slain by the opposing team or our own bloodthirsty fans.
I hoisted myself up onto the truck bed. The tower filled the width of it, making a march around it impossible. Instead, I kicked off my flip-flops and lay down in the moat as sentry. The sun emerged from the clouds and warmed my hideout, making it almost cozy, like the forts I used to build out of refrigerator boxes and pillows when I was younger. I passed the time by playing Tetris on my iPhone. There was something soothing about seeing all those geometric shapes fall so nicely into place. It gave me a feeling of control. Normally, the pieces of my life crashed in a jumbled mess, but for once things felt orderly, even predictable. Perhaps this guard duty would clear my name and I could live a normal life without the threat of expulsion hanging over my head. Maybe I’d be seen as the hero who saved the senior float through his steadfast guardianship and keen observational skills. . . .
A gunshot sound woke me from my slumber. I looked up and saw that the sun had moved westward by a few degrees. I quickly stood up on the truck bed and peered over the fence that separated the parking lot from the football field. I could just make out the scoreboard at the opposite end of the field. The clock said 0:00. The score was Home 7, Visitor 14. It was halftime.
Adults were getting into their cars, preparing to pull the floats around the field. I did a quick scan and saw that the senior float was still in one piece. No one had destroyed it while I took my afternoon nap. I leaned up against the tower and breathed a sigh of relief.
And that’s when I heard something moving inside the structure.
“Hello? Anyone in there?” I asked, hoping that Dawn had already entered the tower and was in the process of ascending the ladder that led to the top. “Dawn?”
Off in the distance, I heard Assistant Principal Morgan announce that this year’s homecoming king and queen were Jerry Tortelli and Dawn Bronson. Cheers and applause erupted from the stands. When the noise died down, I put my head against the structure and heard it again—the distinct sound of someone moving inside the tower.
“Who’s there?” I dropped to my hands and knees and poked my head through the tiny door at the bottom of the structure. What I saw there chilled the blood in my veins.
It was a chicken.
Before I could yank my head out of the hole, someone straddled my neck and shoulders with their strong legs. “What the fuck?” I screamed. I was helpless as the person above me threw a large, globular object over my head. In a swift move, my captor attached the casing to my body by encircling my neck with what felt like a spool of duct tape. When the job was complete, the person jumped off my back and beat a hasty retreat to the opposite end of the tower’s interior. All I could hear was the villain’s heavy breathing. And the frantic pecking of the chicken.
I tried to pull out, but with the large object attached to my head, I was too big to fit through the tiny trapdoor. There was only one way to go and that was in. Maybe if I crawled through the tower’s entrance, I could stand up and remove the object that had been forcibly attached to my body.
I crawled inside and stood up with some difficulty. Whatever object had been taped to my head was making it hard for me to get my balance. When I was fully upright, I realized there were two eyeholes for me to see out of. With shaking hands, I reached up and felt my new exterior. There was a large, beak-like nose and bushy mustache where my face used to be. That’s when I understood. It was the Viking’s head.
I scanned the tiny confines of the area looking for my captor. When I saw her crouching to my left, holding a mangy-looking, red-headed chicken, I gasped in horror.
It was Crystal.
“Hello, Lawrence,” she said, stroking the chicken’s back.
“Crystal,” I said. “What the hell are you doing?”
“You haven’t guessed yet?”
“Wait. You’re the Viking?”
“I was the Viking,” she said. “Now you are. Have fun in here with Mr. Winkles.”
I was trying to make sense of it all when she threw the chicken at my face. All I saw was a flurry of feathers. Luckily, the mascot mask protected my face, but every other part of my body was exposed to the chicken’s stabbing beak and claws. I fell back against the opposite wall and covered my privates like a soccer player in front of a penalty kick. Over my heavy breathing I could hear Crystal outside congratulate Dawn on her homecoming election. A few seconds later, Dawn squeezed through the trapdoor in her sequined gown and tiara.
A searing pain in my foot made me double over in pain. The chicken must have pecked my bare foot. I bent down just as Dawn was standing up. Our heads knocked, but as my head was encased in polyfoam, I didn’t feel much pain.
“Mother Teresa!” Dawn swore. I looked up and saw her adjusting her tiara. “What are you doing in here? And whose chicken is that?”
“Dawn, you have to help me.”
“Lawrence?”
“Yes, it’s me. Crystal is setting me up.”
Dawn responded by pushing me aside and ascending the ladder. “I don’t have time for your games right now, Lawrence. We’re about to start moving.”
I tilted my head and saw her flaming red dress and heels recede as she ascended to her rightful position of homecoming queen, perched atop her tower like some sparkling trophy out of everyone’s reach. Within seconds, she disappeared through the trapdoor at the top and I was trapped inside this cockfighting ring of a tower with Mr. Winkles.
I couldn’t do anything until I removed this head. I dug my nails into the duct tape and tried to shred it off my sk
in. When that didn’t work, I tried ripping the mask in two but didn’t have the strength to tear the material with my bare hands. Where was the bloodthirsty prospector and his handy pickaxe when you needed him?
I heard a nearby car engine start. We must be getting ready to tour the field. The sudden movement disturbed Mr. Winkles, who started clucking frantically. I tried to shoo the creature out the swinging door, but every time my foot neared the chicken it pecked at me and darted out of my limited line of vision. When the car started, jerking the truck bed forward, I fell against the tower and felt the whole structure creak and sway. Above me, I heard Dawn give a frightened cry as Rapunzel’s tower started to feel more like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I stretched my arms out and tried to steady the float, but that’s hard to do when your body’s shaking like a leaf.
The chicken circled me in the ring like a prizefighter, flapping its wings and pecking at my ankles. Every time I moved away, it darted in my direction and tried to pierce my flesh with its beak or talons. I didn’t have a lot of room to maneuver, and every time I dodged the chicken’s attack, I crashed into the side, making the whole structure shake and teeter. All the while, Dawn’s heels tapped out an angry Morse code above me that probably translated to “Stop trying to kill me, you fucking idiot.” I imagined Dawn with a painted smile, doing her queenly wave, while the ground beneath her feet shook and became increasingly unstable.
The chicken started bouncing in our cylinder like an exploding popcorn kernel. It flew into my field of vision, a blur of orange feathers and sharp, pointy objects. Suddenly, I was back at the petting zoo being attacked by not one, but a flock (Or is it gaggle? Brood? Oh, who the fuck cares?) of chickens, all seeking to tear my skin off to get at my wormlike intestines. I didn’t want to die this way. I couldn’t. I started kicking my attacker, hoping to make contact and break one of its legs or wings to keep it from advancing on me. But the little fucker was too small and kept darting away, leaving my foot to collide with a two-by-four, knocking it loose. At this point, I didn’t care. Better to be buried alive under a waterfall of wooden beams, tissue paper, and an angry homecoming queen than have my liver pecked out by this pollo loco.
