Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  “Well, that’s supposed to be part of the fun for the students,” Denhart says. “Look, if Tommy doesn’t mind, I don’t either.”

  It’s at this juncture that Mr. Parks makes his presence known, demanding from the jump-ball circle my immediate service.

  “Yo, Mr. T! These books ain’t getting any lighter.”

  And I know that I have no chance of spending the day in peace.

  TIFFANY

  10:37 A.M. Passing period, gymnasium

  I tell Rainy and Suzi to wait while I hand over the C-bill to this council plebe who stuffs it in a big interoffice mail envelope.

  “Make sure you put that down under Delvoe Ford,” I tell him.

  The Herald always lists the top Slave Day contributors in its homecoming edition. Daddy’s got his campaign ad. My job here is done. The scrawnster I bought pussyfoots over to where I’m standing. He’s got his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and he’s staring down at my Manolo Blahniks.

  “Solids or stripes?” I ask him.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Thought you were playing pocket pool.”

  His left hand comes flying out of his jeans pocket, but his right hand gets stuck for a second. When he manages to get it loose, the white lining of his jeans pocket comes out with it. He looks up at me, takes a breath, and then tucks the pocket back inside his jeans. I look over to Suz and Rainy and make sure they’re catching this. They are. Suz has her eyes covered; Rain’s shaking her head. The scrawnster says his name is Brian and offers up his hand.

  “You must be stark raving, Brian,” I tell him, “if you think I’m shaking that thing. I know where it’s been.”

  He stutters. I leave him there and head to the gym doors. As Suz, Rainy, and I head toward the math building, I quiz Suz on what happened after I bailed last night. She radiates insta-guilt.

  “Oh, that Greg came back over and started talking to me.”

  “Uh-huh …”

  “And we ended up going for a ride.”

  “Did you, now?” says Rainy with that fake drama voice she uses all the time. I swear, one day she’s gonna talk to me like that, and I’m going to uncork my Mace on her.

  I skip right down to the vital info. “What did he drive?”

  “Tiffany, it’s questions like that that give women a bad name,” Rainy spews.

  “A Trooper,” says Suz.

  “New or used?” I ask.

  “New.”

  I think for a second. “There’s a nuclear family in his future. He buys his clothes out of the J. Crew catalog. Some day he’ll get a golden retriever if he doesn’t have one already. Athletic, but not a jock. He’s close with his parents. Might get a tattoo, but that’ll be his big rebellious statement. Overall, I’d say a solid guy. He’s not gonna drum for Pearl Jam, but he won’t leave you for Courtney Love, either.”

  “This is sick,” quacks Rainy.

  “It’s their game,” I say. “I didn’t write the rules. I just learned ’em early.”

  “But it’s so shallow … choosing guys because of what they drive.”

  “Oh, and I’ve seen you riding shotgun in so many Escorts and Civics,” I say. “Besides, I’m not saying you should choose the guy with the hottest car. I’m just saying you can tell a lot about a guy from the car he drives. Women today, we’re not left with much to worry about.”

  “How so?” says Rainy.

  “Look. Back in caveman days, our prehistoric sisters had to find the guy who was going to keep the saber-toothed tiger out of the cave, bring home the woolly-mammoth steaks. We went for big and dumb.”

  “So not a lot’s changed,” says Suz.

  “Some girls will tell you that, nowadays, it’s not the biggest club or biggest biceps, necessarily; it’s the three C’s—cars, clothes, castle. It’s the promise of a better future. Me? I say get your own damn stuff, then you can take home the tan windsurfer in the Gremlin.”

  “I still think that, no matter what car a guy drives, a great personality is …,” Rainy starts.

  “Color me nauseated,” I say. “So, Suz, tell us everything that the boys at the Phi Delt house already know. What sights did you and ol’ Greg take in on your little ride?”

  SHAWN

  10:38 A.M. Passing period, gymnasium

  “I don’t know, girl,” I say, “I just don’t think I’d look good in that baby blue. Sure, Jordan went there ’n’ all, but he was a country boy at heart. Chapel Hill seemed like a big city to him. Me, I like the sound of UCLA, USC, maybe even St. John’s. L.A., the Big Apple—that’s where you make a name for yourself.”

  Cynthia Brown twists another strand of her hair around her finger. Every time she sees some college play on TV she’s gotta come up to me and tell me that’s where I should play next year. I give her the time of day ’cuz I hear her friend’s a freak. So, even though I’m talkin’ to Cynthia, I’m playin’ her amazon partner.

  “What about you, Denise?” I say, smiling and letting my eyes stare all the way into hers. “Where would you like to see me get off?”

  Laughter. Much laughter. They think this is even funnier than what I told ’em ’bout Keene Davenport waitin’ to play ball, readin’ The Autobiography of Malcolm X on the sidelines. In the middle of these good times I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn and—lo and behold—there’s the devil I’ve been speaking of. He’s holding out one of his books.

  “Let’s go,” he says.

  I turn back to Cynthia and Denise. “Sorry, ladies. Massa here wants his books toted to class.”

  “Well, you bes’ run along, then,” says Cynthia. Denise tee-hees some more.

  I take Fat Boy’s book and make my way to the gym doors where a mob of football players have spontaneously huddled. Meaty-ass hands fly up for automatic high fives as I cut through the group. I look back and notice Keene dodging ’em as he tries to slip out the doors behind me. I take a deep breath and survey the courtyard outside the gym entrance. I let the morning air fill my lungs. The chill means one thing to me: Basketball season is almost here. That’s when real life begins, and everything else—school, ladies, recruiting trips, student council—gets put on autopilot. Standing here, I can’t help thinking about how the Lee High gym needs a real name. All the Austin schools name their gyms for past coaches and players. You know, Greeley Square Garden has a nice ring to it.

  “I’ve got trig with Coach Preppernau next,” says Keene when he finally makes it outside.

  “Well, let’s move it, then,” I say as I head off in the direction of my basketball coach’s class.

  As I make my way across campus, I work the usuals. I rub Bald Dennis’s head for luck. I tell Hat king “Stump” Milton that I’ll try to make it out to his deerblind for poker Saturday afternoon. Andy Thistlewaite, our power forward, lets me know these two cheerleaders from Liberty Valley want us to meet ’em at Dairy Queen after tomorrow night’s football game. I see our head cheerleader, Trinni Rea, leaving the girls gym, so I go on and on about how hype the gym looked for the assembly. I slide by the back door of the cafeteria, where Miss Killarney slips me a hot-out-of-the-oven frosted strawberry surprise cake. As I pass by the office, Mr. Gant lowers his walkie-talkie and yells at me.

  “Hey, Shawn! How’s that shooting arm feeling? Is it too early to order us a championship banner?”

  “Might as well, G.,” I answer.

  Before he returns to the office, Mr. Gant shoots an imaginary basketball toward me in that old-timey, Bob Cousy–looking, from-the-chest-era way.

  “All net, G.,” I shout before the door closes behind him.

  The Pillsbury Doughboy speaks for the first time during the trip across campus.

  “I’m gonna throw up.”

  By now the tardy bell’s rung—not that that’s going to be a problem with Coach P.—but we have been pretty much left alone. My first thought is that I should put any thoughts of trying to show me up out of the boy’s head. I close in on him and bend down, getting my nose six inches
from his.

  “You got somethin’ to say?”

  “Yeah, back off, slave.”

  I know it looks tough on paper, but the squeaky-voice way it comes outta his mouth, it mights as well have been, “Please don’t hit me, sir.” I try to think what I could do to the Reverend here with one pop, but then I decide it wouldn’t be worth it. Bad pub, without a doubt. Naw, I think a better plan is to let the boy hang hisself. It should teach him a lesson: Laughin’ gets you farther than whinin’. What’s more important—maybe he’ll learn that whatever else happens today, when all is said and done, I’ll still be me, and he’ll still be him.

  CLINT

  10:38 A.M. Passing period, outside the gym

  “What the hell was that all about in there?” I ask Jenny as I hand her my backpack after the assembly.

  “What?” she says, like she thinks I’m stupid.

  “What was up with Damien?”

  “He’s your friend. Why don’t you ask him?”

  I can tell it’s in my best interest to chill; Jen looks pissed. “Look, Shug,” (She knows I’m kiddin’ if I call her “Shug”) “as my slave for the day, you’re gonna have to lose some of that attitude. I don’t wanna hafta get out the whip … just yet.” I kiss the top of her ear.

  “Were you really only going to bid five dollars for me?” Jen asks without looking up at me.

  I bend down to her eye level and take her chin between my thumb and index finger. I raise her face until her eyes meet mine.

  “I thought we could use the extra money to go somewhere special for lunch. Maybe skip the Golden Arches for once and go to Bennigan’s or The Olive Garden.”

  “Clint, I would have sold for less than anyone else up there.”

  “Seriously, I didn’t think that sorta thing was important to you.”

  “For future reference, it is.”

  “So now I know.”

  We look at each other for a few seconds. Jen takes my hands, stands on her tiptoes, and kisses me. Then she wipes her lipstick off my mouth.

  “You got my algebra homework?” I ask.

  “Yes, master,” she says.

  BRENDAN

  10:44 A.M. Second period, computer science

  I just spent ten minutes in the lobby of the inner circle—where cuspy-fine girls say anything right in front of me. It’s just like that dream I have where all the lockers are taken in the boys dressing room, so they make me dress out with the girls and nobody notices I’m not one. The whole dance team is stripping down right in front of me, and they’re talking about everything that’s never made sense to me before: how come they can dance so much better than guys, what they really mean when they say you’re cute, why the most assholish guys get the best girls. In my dream it all makes sense. I understand them. But then I realize I’m dreaming, so I tell myself I’ve got to concentrate, try to remember. That way I’ll still know the secret when I wake up. But it never works.

  As soon as Mr. Ramsay is through lecturing, I log onto one of the LONS. The LONS are the terminals that are part of the Lee Online Network System. Every classroom in the building has at least one terminal, but in computer science there are enough computers for everybody. Lee got some huge grant two years ago to install the system, so now we’re part of this national pilot program. The mainframe—everyone calls it the Overlord—is in the administration office. From any terminal on campus, you can log on to the Overlord and send mail to anyone at Lee, check your transcript, access any local Internet sites, write and save your own papers, see if a book you need is in the library. You can print out anything you want, because every classroom has its own Laser-Writer. All the clubs set up bulletin boards where they post their agendas, minutes, meeting places, and times. Teachers have home pages where they list homework. Some of them even upload their handouts, so you can print them out whenever you’re ready to work on them. You can even access the system from a home computer.

  My computer screen name is PPARKER, which is short for Peter Parker, Spiderman’s secret identity. I don’t tell my password to anyone. Security reasons. After I log on, I see I’ve got mail from everyone I know. As expected. Even a few people I don’t know. This is the one place on campus where I’m right at home. I open up the first piece of mail, the one from Lloyd, aka MENTOR.

  BREN,

  I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW SOMETHING. DO FRIES COME WITH THAT SHAKE?

  FROM GANDALF …

  I’M WRITING “THE BALLAD OF BRENDAN.” IS THIS THE CORRECT SPELLING OF COMMONER ?

  FROM THE FALCON …

  IS IT TRUE GODDESS DELVOE HAS A TATTOO ON HER BUTT THAT SAYS “BRENDAN FOREVER”?

  FROM R2D2 …

  TRY NOT TO BREAK HER HEART.

  FROM Q …

  DETAILS! DETAILS! DETAILS!

  HAS SHE MADE YOU LICK HER BOOTS CLEAN YET?

  Since it would take forever to try to answer everyone separately, I just do a “reply to all” command that instructs everyone to check in at the Dark Side of the Moon—our own hacker bulletin board. I post this message there:

  I OUGHT TO PRINT OUT YOUR JUVENILE MAIL AND HAND IT TO TIFF. SHAME, SHAME. IT WOULD PROBABLY CONVINCE HER THAT EVERYTHING SHE BELIEVED ABOUT THE COMPUTER SAVVY (PERPETUALLY HORNY/GEEKY TO THE NTH) WAS TRUE. I WILL KEEP YOU POSTED HERE CONCERNING THE STATE OF THE WORLD. IT’S BETTER THAN LISTENING TO YOU FLAME ALL DAY. AS FOR THE EVENTS OF THIS MORNING, I THINK IT’S OBVIOUS THAT OUR MAYOR’S DAUGHTER RECOGNIZES QUALITY WHEN SHE SEES IT—AND IS WILLING TO PAY FOR IT. ON THE WAY TO CLASS, WE HAD A PLEASANT CONVERSATION CONCERNING THE IMPORTANCE OF AUTOMOBILES IN TEEN CULTURE. HER FRIENDS HAD SOME INTRIGUING INSIGHTS AS WELL. PPARKER

  I go ahead and call up Tiffany’s schedule, so I’ll know where I’m supposed to go for the rest of the day. We’re not supposed to be able to access schedules, grades, discipline reports, and all that, but I cracked that password—CHAMPS78—day one. It’s what the only banner we have hanging in the gym says. Do they think they’re dealing with pinheads here? You know, it’s funny, but Tiffany didn’t make me do anything on the way to her last class. She didn’t have any books to carry. She acted like I was just one of the gang, like it really didn’t matter what she said around me.

  JENNY

  10:46 A.M. Second period, algebra

  I think I might die.

  I sit right behind Clint in algebra, which makes it convenient in case I need to whisper answers or want to scratch his neck, but sometimes he’ll turn all the way around and just face me. Which is what he was doing a minute ago, telling me about the posse’s plans to drive down to Mexico for spring break. Then, without so much as a warning, Mrs. Chatfield calls Clint up to the board to work one of last night’s homework problems that she’s just been explaining. It’s the first time all year she’s made Clint go to the board, so if he’s not prepared, I swear, it’s her own fault. These teachers treat football players like the jocks sign their paychecks.

  I’m freaking out because we’ve already turned in today’s homework and “Clint” got this one right. What’s she going to think when he can’t do the first step? I don’t think “chalkboard anxiety” is going to play with Chatfield. She’s none too happy; I guess she’s finally decided she’s seen enough of the back of Clint’s head.

  As Clint walks to the front of the class I notice his fingers crossed behind him. Mrs. Chatfield starts explaining the next problem, but I’m more interested in Clint’s progress. It’s tough to see how he’s doing, though, because his body blocks out his work. Why is it that some of the biggest guys have the tiniest handwriting? He’s scratching out something, which I guess is a good sign. He finishes and sets the chalk back on Chatfield’s desk and returns to his desk in front of me. I’m almost afraid to check out his answer, but I take a quick peek.

  It’s right.

  He leans up and whispers in my ear. “Cake.”

  “That’s very good, Clint,” Chatfield says. “Would you mind explaining your steps.”

  “No, ma’am,” Clint say
s. Then he goes through the problem, explaining how he came up with the answer. He even throws in a shortcut that I hadn’t thought of. “Oh, and ma’am?”

  “Yes, Clint?”

  “Sorry about not paying attention.”

  Gross. Mrs. Chatfield’s prison-guard face melts and the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly.

  There’ve been a couple of other times where Clint’s told me, “You’re so much smarter than me” and it’s seemed like bull. He does fine in the classes we’re not in together. Once he explained to me how much more money I would make by putting my college money in CDs rather than a savings account. He was figuring the rates in his head, just spitting out numbers like a calculator. He was on the honor roll way before we started dating. So why have I been doing his math homework for him every day?

  MR. TWILLEY

  10:46 A.M. Second period, world history

  “Clear your desks and take out a sheet of paper.”

  Without comment, my students put my instructions into action. Despite my tardiness, every student was in his seat and quiet when I arrived. Never set rules you’re afraid to enforce—General Patton said that. Contrary to what students may say, my rules aren’t any more severe than most teachers’ here. I’m just not afraid to enforce them.

  “This pop quiz will cover the reading you were assigned last night. Please use your blank piece of paper as a cover sheet.”

  My classroom is arranged with five rows of six desks. It’s been that way since I began my career here. I place the quizzes on the front desks of each row. The sheets are handed back quietly.

  “You have fifteen minutes to complete the quiz.”

  I stand in the back of the classroom during quizzes. This way, students don’t know where I am, and they’re more apt to do their own work. Within thirty seconds, the usual suspects have turned over their quizzes and lain their heads down on their desks, accepting with little fight their zeros.