Little Red Riding Hoodie: A Modern Fairy Tale

by Phythyon, John

  ***

  “Well,” Mr. Frank said, glaring sanctimoniously at them, “it seems no one in this class gives a fig for school spirit. I understand that sixth-graders rarely win the Spirit Stick, but you people are pathetic. Not one single sixth-grade essay placed in the top ten. You were completely shut out. You’ve barely raised fifty dollars at the bake table. How can you not like sweets? You’re children! You’re fifty-three points out of second place! You’re not just getting clobbered; you’re getting embarrassed.”

  Sally couldn’t avoid rolling her eyes. Did Mr. Frank really expect them to care about the Spirit Stick competition? She wasn’t sure Molly Richards cared, and she was on the Spirit Committee.

  “This is the worst showing by any class in seventeen years,” Mr. Frank continued. “All of you have a lot to learn, not just about Roosevelt Middle School, but about pride. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  He strutted back and forth in front of his desk, shaking his head and swinging his enormous gut. Sally bit her lip not to laugh. He had no idea how stupid he looked.

  “Well,” he said, “since you can’t be motivated to work hard for school spirit, perhaps you’ll find the right inspiration for class credit.

  “Take out a sheet of paper, and a pen. We’ll spend the rest of the class period writing an essay on the history and tradition of Roosevelt Middle School. It’ll be worth fifty points towards your final grade.”

  There was an immediate protest. Sally was stunned. He was punishing them for doing poorly in the Spirit Stick competition?

  “Oh, you don’t want to do it now?” he snapped. “Perhaps we could come in after the pep rally to do them.”

  Everyone fell silent. Sally knew Mr. Frank was a jerk, but she couldn’t believe he was giving them a pop quiz worth fifty points just because they’d done badly in the contest. She sighed heavily and wondered if this morning, which had started with so much promise, could get worse.

  ***

  “I swear to God, Mr. Frank has never had a date in his life,” Alison said when she sat down at lunch.

  “Did he do the same thing to you guys in third hour,” Sally asked.

  “OMG, yes,” Alison said. “We got a big, honkin’ lecture on what a crappy sixth grade class we are and then had to write an essay extolling the virtues of Roosevelt Middle School. Quel perdant!”

  Sally nodded. She didn’t know what Alison had said, but she was sure from the tone of it that she felt the same way.

  The boys showed up a moment later. Brian looked like he’d been condemned. Brad looked scared.

  “Is it really true?” Brad said as they sat down. “Brian said Frank threw this awful surprise essay at us, because we bombed the Spirit Stick competition.” Both girls nodded at him.

  “Il a un très petit pénis,” Alison said.

  “Oh, man,” Brian said, looking sick. “My mom is gonna kill me. I know I blew that essay. I don’t know anything about Roosevelt tradition.”

  “I’m sure she won’t care about you blowing a stupid assignment like this one,” Brad said.

  “Dude, you don’t know my mom,” Brian said. “The only thing she cares about is my grades.”

  Sally looked at him sorrowfully. He’d confessed to her what his mom was like. She felt like she knew the situation better than Alison or Brad, even though she’d never met the woman.

  “If this sinks my social studies grade, she might make me quit the play,” he added.

  “Would she really do that,” Alison asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Brian said. “I’ve gotta figure out a way to fly this one below the radar, at least until December.”

  “Well, we’ve started second quarter already,” Alison said. “This grade won’t show up on the first quarter report card.”

  Sally wasn’t sure, but she was willing to consider the idea that this might be the worst Thursday ever. Mr. Frank was singlehandedly destroying everything. He was worse than Shakir.

  The thought of Shakir caused her to finger the key dangling around her neck. It was under her hoodie, but rubbing it through the cotton gave her a little thrill.

  Alison scowled, and Sally looked up to see Molly and her entourage approaching. They carried their lunch trays as though there were valuables on them, and they all had their noses in the air as they neared.

  Molly stopped at their table and looked them all over contemptuously. Alison threw her a glare.

  “Your time is almost up,” Molly pronounced. “I’d be watching my back, girls.”

  “Yeah,” Brinna said. “I’d be watching my back.”

  “You’re watching my backside, Molly?” Alison said. “Gee, I think that’s a little forward of you.”

  Sally snorted at the joke, and Brad guffawed. Molly just smiled unpleasantly.

  “Please, Jamison,” she said. “You’d have to have an ass before I could watch it.”

  “You’re an ass?” Alison said. “Wow, Molly! I’m glad to hear you’re owning up to your faults.”

  Sally and both boys laughed this time.

  “Keep running that sassy mouth of yours,” Kylie said. “You’re going to pay for every insult in tears.”

  “That sounds pretty affordable,” Alison said. “Boo-hoo.”

  “Let’s go, girls,” Molly said. “I’m bored.”

  “It won’t get better with that crew,” Alison said.

  “Be seeing you,” Molly said. “Soon.”

  With a casual flip of her raven-black hair, she sauntered off. Moira and Wendy followed.

  “Yeah, be seeing you soon,” Brinna said. “Real soon.”

  “Shut up, Brinna,” Kylie said. “Let’s go.”

  They followed their leader away. Kylie made sure to turn her head and fire a death glare at Alison before they made it to their table.

  “What next?” Sally said.

  “Relax,” Alison replied. “Everything’s under control.”

  Sally wasn’t sure what she meant, but she didn’t believe it.

  ***

  When the bell at last rang for seventh period, everyone thronged into the hallways to stow their books before heading to the auditorium. The period had been cancelled in favor of the pep rally. Sally gave some consideration to cutting out, but attendance was required. Just because there were no classes did not mean anyone was excused early. Besides, she’d agreed to go to the football game.

  She met Alison by her locker, and the two girls rolled their eyes in anticipation of the forthcoming activities. As they made their way to the auditorium, Brian caught up with them. He seemed to have recovered from his lunchtime malaise.

  “Hey, ladies,” he said. “Going my way?”

  “As it happens,” Alison answered.

  “Cool,” Brian said.

  At Sally’s request, they found seats in the back, although Brian seemed a little disappointed. “We won’t get a good view of the pie-eating contest,” he moped. However, he complied without further complaint.

  After everyone was mostly settled, there was a huge lash of feedback from someone who didn’t know how to handle a microphone. It turned out to be Mr. Frank. Sally was not at all surprised to see that he was the MC for the festivities.

  “Good afternoon, Wildcats!” he shouted into the microphone. Another feedback loop occurred, and Sally could imagine whoever was running sound madly trying to turn the mic down so Mr. Frank wouldn’t damage the sound system or the ears of the students.

  “Good afternoon,” the crowd said limply.

  “Hey, come on,” Mr. Frank said. “I don’t think you guys have very much school spirit. I said, ‘Good afternoon, Wildcats!’”

  “Good afternoon!” everyone shouted back. Sally looked at Alison and rolled her eyes.

  “Are we going to whip Jefferson today?” Mr. Frank yelled.

  “Yeah,” the crowd returned.

  “What’s that?” Mr. Frank said, putting a hand to his ear.

  “Yeah!” the crowd shouted.

  “I can’t hear
you!”

  “YEAH!”

  “That’s what I like to hear,” Mr. Frank said.

  “This guy can’t be married,” Brian said. Sally and Alison giggled.

  “Okay,” Mr. Frank continued. “To start things off this afternoon, I’d like to introduce to you the Roosevelt Middle School cheerleading squad!”

  The cheerleaders came running onto the stage, pom-pons shaking, and screeching their perfectly bobbed heads off. Sally settled back into her seat and looked bored.

  “If I ever decide to go out for cheerleading,” Alison said, “shoot me.”

  Sally smiled. The three of them had a good time making fun of the cheerleaders. They pretended to participate in all the yells, and they made silly cheerleader faces with each squeal from one of the girls onstage.

  “Now let’s meet the Roosevelt Wildcats!” Mr. Frank shouted into the mic.

  The cheerleaders parted like a curtain, setting up on either side of the stage. Mr. Frank introduced the starting units for the football team, who all ran on wearing their red jerseys. Then the rest of the team shuffled on, followed by the coach.

  “And how about a big round of applause for the man who is going to lead us to victory over Jefferson, Coach Braddock!” Mr. Frank shouted.

  The coach looked stoic. He stepped forward and tipped his hat to the crowd. Mr. Frank gazed on him adoringly and applauded vigorously, even though the microphone was live.

  “Damn, Mr. Frank is really embarrassing himself,” Brian commented.

  “I think you have to know it’s embarrassing before you can actually be embarrassed,” Sally said.

  Alison said something in French, but Sally couldn’t make it out, because Mr. Frank was thundering into the microphone again.

  “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” he said. “The culmination of Spirit Week – the great Inter-Grade Pie-Eating Contest!”

  The crowd roared. Brian cheered wildly.

  “All right!” he said. “Now we’re gonna have some fun!”

  “Let’s meet our three contestants,” Mr. Frank said. “Weighing in at one hundred four pounds and representing the sixth grade, Bobby Horrrrrrrrowitz!”

  Bobby came onstage looking scared. The sixth-graders cheered meekly. Mr. Frank was right about one thing – they really didn’t have much school spirit.

  “Let’s go, Horowitz!” Brian shouted.

  “Weighing in at one hundred fifty-three pounds and representing the eighth grade, Phillip Boyllllllllllle!”

  Phillip had more confidence than Bobby. He strutted onto the stage with his arms raised above his head, his hands in fists to the enthusiastic cheers of his class. Sally measured him up. He looked fit and strong. She didn’t think Bobby had a chance.

  “And weighing in at two hundred two pounds and representing the seventh grade, our defending champion, Graaaaaadyyyy Joooooohnsonnnnnnnnn!”

  The auditorium exploded with joy as Grady lumbered onto stage. Sally remembered him from elementary school. He’d been a big kid then, and he’d gotten huge between fifth and seventh grades.

  “Gra-dy! Gra-dy! Gra-dy!” the seventh-graders chanted.

  Phillip Boyle looked irritated that Grady was the clear crowd favorite. Grady gazed out over his fans impassively.

  The rules to the contest were simple – eat pie until you couldn’t anymore. Anyone who vomited – or, as Mr. Frank put it, “took The Big Spit” – was disqualified. Mercifully, though they were not allowed to use any utensils, the boys were permitted the use of their hands. Sally really didn’t want to see them face down in pie. This was going to be disgusting enough as it was.

  Each contestant took a seat at the table and ceremoniously tied on a giant bib. A pie was placed in front of each of them. When they finished it, Mr. Frank explained, they were to signal for another one.

  Grady looked left and right, staring down his challengers imperiously. Bobby still looked scared. Phillip glared back.

  “Bobby’s gonna get killed,” Alison commented.

  “Don’t be hatin’,” Brian said.

  Sally looked him over. He was really into this. She shook her head.

  “On your marks,” Mr. Frank called, raising his free hand. The boys tensed. “Get set.” A hush fell over the crowd. “Go!”

  Mr. Frank threw his hand down, and all three boys attacked their pies. To Sally’s horror, Mr. Frank proceeded to call the contest as though it were a horse race.

  “Johnson’s off to a fast start,” he chanted. “Boyle, hot on his heels. Horowitz bringing up the rear.”

  The crowd screamed encouragement to their respective representatives. Sally, despite thinking the whole thing was horrible, found herself being pulled in by the drama of the match. She found herself rooting for Bobby Horowitz just so Mr. Frank would have to eat his words about the sixth grade.

  Grady inhaled his first pie. He ate it so fast, it seemed to vanish.

  “Oh, my god,” Alison commented in response.

  “And Johnson is on to his second pie,” Mr. Frank said enthusiastically.

  Phillip, desperate not to lose pace, scooped up what was left of his pie and smashed it into his face, stuffing it into his mouth as fast as he could swallow.

  “Eeeuuuwww!” Alison said.

  “That’s totally disgusting,” Brian said, clearly enjoying it.

  “C’mon, Bobby!” Sally shouted to her own surprise.

  Bobby was lagging considerably behind. He didn’t have as big a mouth as his opponents, and he couldn’t shovel pie down as fast. Sally wondered aloud how he had been picked to be the class representative.

  “Must’ve been the only one stupid enough to sign up,” Alison offered.

  “Come on, Horowitz!” Brian shouted. “Pack it away!”

  The contest went on longer than Sally expected. Grady and Philip both made it through a second pie and onto a third. Sally couldn’t believe anyone could eat that much. He was still lagging behind, but it looked like Bobby too would make it through a second pie.

  When Grady finished his fourth pie and signaled for another, Mr. Frank’s voice went up in pitch. The tension mounted as the big seventh-grader began to pull away.

  “And incredibly, Johnson has finished a fourth pie,” Mr. Frank shouted. “He’s got a pie-and-a-half lead on Boyle, his closest competitor!”

  Grady dug into his fifth pie as Phillip gave him a disgusted and angry look. He was overmatched, and he knew it.

  “C’mon, Bobby,” Alison shouted. “Hang in there.”

  But she was in the minority. Sensing blood in the water, most of the crowd had written Bobby off. The support now ran along two lines – desperate eighth-graders, who wanted their man to win, and everyone else who wanted to see just how many pies Grady could eat.

  As he neared the end of his fifth pie, though, Grady began to have trouble. He suddenly became flushed, and his eating slowed considerably. Carefully, he pushed the pie away from himself and took a deep breath.

  “And it looks like Johnson may be done,” Mr. Frank said. “He’s ceased eating just short of finishing his fifth pie. Will he resume?”

  Phillip, buoyed by this news and encouraged by his fans, began to eat faster. He polished off his fourth pie and called for a fifth.

  “And here comes Boyle on the outside,” Mr. Frank chanted. “He’s looking unhappy, but he might have it in him to overtake Johnson. This one could be neck-and-neck.”

  The crowd went insane. The eighth-graders chanted, “Go! Go! Go!” to encourage Phillip. The seventh-graders screamed at Grady to start eating again. Grady looked at them horrified.

  Phillip was consuming pie really slowly. He too looked like he might be sick. Occasionally, though, he glanced over at Grady and fixed him with a cruel smile. Helpless to do otherwise, Grady pulled his pie plate back towards himself. The seventh grade erupted.

  “And Johnson is back in it!” Mr. Frank hollered. “Johnson is eating again, trying to stay ahead of the fast-closing Boyle.”

&nb
sp; Grady only managed to take two bites. After the second, a look of horrid recognition came over his face.

  “Oh, no,” Sally whispered.

  Grady turned away from the table and projectile-vomited all over the stage. The crowd roared in delight and disgust. The cheer from the eighth grade was deafening, drowning out the chorus of “Eeeuuuuwwws” from Alison and many of the other girls.

  “And Johnson’s out of it!” Mr. Frank yelled, sidestepping the sick like a professional. “Johnson’s out of it! It’s down to Boyle and Horowitz now.”

  “Holy cow!” Brian said. “I’ve never seen anyone puke like that! If he’d been facing front, he’d have drowned the front row.”

  “Do you mind?” Alison scolded him.

  “Sorry,” he said, but he couldn’t suppress the grin on his face.

  Phillip stopped eating. He looked at the mess Grady had made and put his hand to his mouth.

  “Boyle has ceased eating,” Mr. Frank called. “Boyle has stopped about a quarter of the way into pie number five. Horowitz has also stopped.”

  It was true. Bobby had been eating slower and slower as he worked his way through his third pie. He hadn’t quite finished it yet, but Grady’s fate had done him in. He decided he didn’t want to be the next guy to return pie to the stage. Phillip breathed deeply. He was trying to keep his roiling stomach under control.

  “Boyle, are you finished?” Mr. Frank asked. Phillip nodded. “Horowitz, are you finished?” Bobby couldn’t look at anything but the pie in front of him.

  “Yes,” Bobby said weakly.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!” Mr. Frank declared.

  He held Phillip’s hand up high. Phillip looked like he might faint. The eighth grade roared its approval.

  “Boyle finished four pies, giving him a two-pie lead,” Mr. Frank said. “At twenty-five points a pie, that’s one hundred points for the eighth grade, fifty points for the sixth grade, and zero points for the seventh grade!”

  “OMG, we have to rehearse on that stage tomorrow,” Sally said, staring at the mess Grady made. “I don’t know how I’m not gonna think of this when I have to lie down to die.”

  “Man, I hope they have industrial-strength cleaner!” Brian said.