Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  TOMMY

  11:05 A.M. Third period, steps to drama room

  Twilley’s late to walk me to my next class. He’ll pay.

  I’m sitting on the steps of the drama room. I’ve changed into a toga, and I’ve got the crown of leaves—“laurels,” Miss A. says—resting on my head. I’m testing myself. I’m standing just like the statue of David, while everyone walks by during the passing period. Rid DeLord hawks up a loogie and launches it at my feet as he passes, but I ignore his ass. I’m in character.

  Finally Twilley shows. I see him approaching. I’d like to see a little more hustle out of the man, he’s a good five minutes late, but this is going to make our arrival in English all the more worthwhile. He seems puzzled by my posture and costume, but he says nothing. I relax my pose, shadowbox for a moment to just keep Twilley on his toes, blow a snot rocket, then wag my finger at the old coot.

  “Time passes. Will you?” I say. Twilley’s got a hand-lettered poster hanging by his room clock that says that. I’ve never understood the connection. I tap my wrist where a Rolex might be, in a parallel universe where Whataburger drive-through tellers are the shit.

  “Excuse me?” Twilley says.

  “Likely story,” I say. “So why are you late?”

  The muscles in Twilley’s jaw tighten, then release before he answers. “I had to take care of a discipline problem in the office.”

  “You got a note?”

  He picks my books up off the theater steps. “Let’s go,” he says.

  “Are you forgetting something?” I say.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, who’s in charge.”

  Twilley’s jaw muscles threaten to break through his cheek skin this time, but he manages a polite, if sarcastic, tone when he says, “Whenever you’re ready, Your Highness.”

  “Saucy,” I say. I pantomime a whipping motion. “Hyaaah.”

  And we’re off for English. At first I stay a good ten feet ahead of the man, like he’s my gook—sorry, Chinese—wife, but that gets boring. I let him catch up and take a good long look at Twilley, maybe for the first time. Man’s bald—or nearly so. He’s got that Captain Picard ring of gray. His eyes are wrinkled up, but I guess not any more than Miss A.’s. He wears bifocals. Cheap ones. I’m sure the frames came free with the prescription. Maybe they were flash in ’69 or whenever it was he got them. His eyes are a bit on the small side, which gives him his famous weasel look, plus he’s got this broom of gray hair shooting out his nose, which any sane single man would yank out. Twilley needs to take a Weed Eater to his. Now that I’m thinking about it, I notice Twilley’s taller than I’d imagined. Definitely over six feet. He’s got me by a couple inches, but he walks all hunchbacky. I decide that’s the part that makes him look so ancient. That and his clothes. He’s got on this clownish brown corduroy jacket, a green button-down, and a wide orange and white barbershop-pole striped tie.

  The tardy bell rings as we enter the English building. The hallways are nearly empty, so there’s no sense in making Twilley perform. Good thing is, Mrs. Paulson’ll have the class simmered by the time we get there. Twilley heralding my presence should go over big.

  “Remember,” I say, “it’s ‘Lords and ladies—I present to you the Godfather of Soul, the King of Pop, the Legend of Rock and Roll, his Royal Badness, the artist formerly known as Thomas Orin Parks.’”

  Twilley stares at me.

  “Got it?”

  “Got it,” he says, flatter than my seventh-grade sisters.

  “And try to say it out loud this time.”

  But when we get to the room, no one’s there, and I remember that we’re supposed to meet in the library today to start working on our research papers. I tell Twilley this, but he starts doing his Igor impression back toward his own classroom rather than the library.

  “Hey! Slave! Library’s this way.” I point to the north entrance.

  Twilley stops, rotates, and speaks so quietly that I have to strain to hear him.

  “I’m required to be in my class five minutes after the bell. I don’t have time to make it to the library. Had you known your class was meeting in the library, I would have been happy to escort you there. Blame this on your inability to pay attention in class. A trait that I see wasn’t limited to your study of history.” Then he heads back toward his classroom.

  “Hey, old man, you were the one who was late!” I shout down the hall, but by the time it’s out of my mouth, the giant double doors are swinging shut. “Hope you have a stroke!” I add.

  CLINT

  11:11 A.M. Third period, field house

  “Come in here, boy. Want you to take a look at what you’ll be up against tomorrow night.” Coach Rossy, our defensive coordinator, calls to me from the Coaches Den. The lights are off, so I know they’re lookin’ at game film. I drop the load of practice jersey laundry I’m doing—my one and only duty as coach’s aide during third period—take my last pure gulp o’ fresh air and duck into the room. Secondary coach Coach Lamme and Coach Rossy are both, as usual, smokin’ these fat Cubans. I guess they haven’t seen the NO SMOKING ANYWHERE ON SCHOOL GROUNDS—STATE LAW sign hangin’ in the gym lobby.

  “Pull up a chair,” Coach Rossy says. “This here just illustrates my point.”

  “Yes, sir.” I try to say it without losing any air.

  “Rewind that last play, Lammy,” Rossy says, then he zeroes in on me. “You know who that is, don’t you?”

  Of course I do, dickhead. It’s Lamar Jones, 157 yards on sixteen carries against us last year, all–Central Texas as a junior, currently leading the district in total yardage.

  “Yes, sir,” I answer. On the screen I watch as Jones busts through the Martindale defensive line, hurdles a linebacker who stupidly tries to leg tackle him, jukes the free safety, then starts on a footrace with a cornerback toward the end zone.

  Coach Lamme gives the play-by-play. “He … could … go … all … the … way.” Jones has put five yards between himself and the defensive back by the time he crosses the goal line.

  “Now go to the other play we were watching, Lamme,” Rossy says. The assistant coach fast-forwards through the next set of downs, then lets the tape run at super slow. “Watch this!” Rossy says, totally stoked.

  This time Jones accelerates through a hole that’s opened up between the guard and tackle, but just as it looks like there’s daylight, the Martindale strong safety closes and about decapitates Jones.

  “Hoooooo, doggie!” Rossy says as he slams his fist down on the table. “That’s puttin’ some leather on ’m. Now, DeFreisz, watch what happens next.”

  I wanna watch, but Rossy’s fist made this Styrofoam cup on the table tip over, and I can feel somethin drippin’ down my jeans leg. Shit! It’s someone’s spittoon. I’ve got coach saliva runnin’ down my leg.

  “Pay attention, DeFreisz, this here just proves my point.”

  “Uh, Coach, can I …”

  “Righ’cheer. Watch Jones on the next play.”

  I try to pay attention. This time there’s a gapin’ hole in the line, but Jones kinda dances around, makes a couple useless jukes in the backfield. By the time he gets to the hole it’s closed up. Jones is runnin’ straight up.

  “My four-year-old girl could tackle ’m the way he’s runnin’ now,” Rossy says.

  I can feel the grainy drool hit my sock. I look around for a box of Kleenex and spot Humphrey Brown in the doorway. He’s checkin’ out the game film, but he’s smart enough to stay out in the fresh air. Since he’s a senior and the quarterback, his coach’s aide duties are even more cush than mine—all he has to do is put away the rubber basketballs that the coaches roll out for all those PE All-Americans.

  “Now this just proves mah point, DeFreisz. DeFreisz! Pay attention!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You hit one of these brothers hard enough, they just fold. Like a deck of cards.” Rossy makes a church steeple with his fingers and has it crumble to demonstrate his point. I
check out Humphrey to see if he’s pissed off by Coach’s theory, but he’s moved outta the doorway. “You gonna do some stickin’ tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Gonna put some boys in comas?”

  “YES, SIR!”

  “Well, then,” Rossy says, lookin’ pleased and running his thumbs inside the elastic bands of his shorts. “We ain’t got nothin’ to worry ’bout.”

  TIFFANY

  11:14 A.M. Third period, government

  I’m trying to picture Mr. Warren naked.

  Word has it that he used to be a high-dollar entertainment lawyer in L.A. Daddy heard out at the club that Mr. Warren was cruising home from a party at Jack Nicholson’s the night that big earthquake hit. The car right in front of him plunged into an abyss where there used to be an I-10 overpass. Mr. Warren took the incident as a sign from God and hightailed his ass back to his hometown. Now he’s both the most overqualified teacher and most eligible bachelor at Lee.

  I haven’t figured out yet if I want him, but I’ve sure been trying to make him uncomfortable while I’m deciding. Since I’m eighteen and can write my own excuse notes, I’ll skip, then bring him a letter saying I was seeing my shrink about my nymphomania, or one from my doctor noting that, after extended testing, I was certifiably disease free. Warren gets red-faced and flustered and says, “Tiffany, please.”

  I aim to.

  Still, he hasn’t done anything that could get him fired yet. Maybe he’s gay. That would serve me right.

  Mr. Warren—I call him Bobby when there’s no one else around—has asked me to ask Daddy if he’ll come in and speak when we get to the local government chapters. I can just hear ol’ Martin now, “I came to Deerfield with nothing but a ten-dollar bill and a truckload of ambition.” Your standard rags-to-riches story. (He doesn’t mention that he was sixteen at the time and the ten bucks was his allowance.) Do you think he’ll include the part about knocking up the richest girl in town? From what I gather, that’s the most important step in a quick rise to power. I shouldn’t rag on the guy. He took over Grampa’s Ford dealership, and within a few years doubled its profits. The only reason he ran for mayor was because the doofus in office blocked a zoning request Daddy made that would have allowed Delvoe Ford to expand its used-car lot into some environmentally protected area of Rio Vista Park.

  During that first election, Martin was a man possessed. He outspent the incumbent something like eight to one. There was a DELVOE FOR MAYOR sign driven into every welcome-mat-size patch of grass in town. Now, there’s an important lesson for the class—money is power. My classmates better learn it now. God knows I have.

  I didn’t think Daddy was gonna have much to do as mayor once he got the zoning fixed, but he certainly warmed up to the job. Somewhere down the line he decided he liked cutting ribbons at new factory outlet stores. He liked golfing and drinking on the tabs of the Deerfield gentry. He liked being interviewed about local tax problems. He liked it so much that he sold half of the Ford dealership to his friend Mr. Milligan, who he now calls “that Yankee sumbitch.” Daddy made a killing, though. Now he only has to make appearances down at the dealership. That Yankee sumbitch sells the cars. Daddy just counts the money.

  I tell you one thing. I’m not having Marty come down here in the mood he’s been in these last few days. He comes home and just sits out on the porch sipping Wild Turkey. He yelled at me last night for coming home late. Since when did I have a curfew? Most of the time we get along. He was the oldest of four boys, and I’ve got two older brothers. They’re both at Princeton (“Why? Because we can afford it. That’s why!”), so I’m, like, the first girl he’s ever had to deal with. Gotta hand it to him. Marty didn’t change. He just treats me like I am a boy. Always has. Maybe that’s why most girls tend to piss me off—all that silly, fake, giggly bullshit. I can just see through it. The only thing that pisses me off more are the stupid boys here who can’t.

  TOMMY

  11:19 A.M. Third period, library

  What kind of library is this, anyway? Nothing about Quentin Tarantino—possibly the greatest artist of his time? Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, True Romance? Man, I’d give up a nut to be in one of his pictures. I could see me now.

  T. O. Parks IS Slim Travis—one tough-talking Texan. They took his Lincoln. They took his woman. They took his pool cue. This summer, he’s heading to the City of Angels to get his pool cue back!

  I had to beg Mrs. Paulson to let me do my paper on Tarantino. She wanted me to do Neil Simon. I pretended I’d never heard of him, just to watch her tear up.

  “You won’t be able to find anything on Tarantino, Tommy,” she warned. But I said I wanted to do it anyway. So far, though, it’s looking like she was right. I find one dusty book on filmmaking that talks about the latest technical advancements of Superman. The only magazines we get here are Time and Newsweek. I find an article on violence in films, but it just barely mentions Tarantino. I give up and go ask Mrs. Carlson, the librarian, where I can find anything else. She gets on one of the LONS, punches a few keys, and comes back with a printout of articles.

  “They’re all available up at the Central library. They won’t let you check them out if you’re not a student, but you can photocopy them.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Great. When the hell am I going to have time to go up to Central and spend the day in the library? While I’m standing up at the counter I have an idea. “Mrs. Carlson, do you keep all the old Stars & Bars somewhere?”

  “In the back,” she says.

  “Can I see them?”

  She walks out from behind the counter and motions for me to follow her. She leads me to a door at the back library, unlocks it, and lets me inside what looks like a little meeting room. On shelves along the back wall are all the old copies of the Lee yearbook. I’m dying to see what Father Time and Miss A. looked like all those years ago.

  I pick up the first yearbook on the shelf—Stars & Bars 1922. It’s thin and bound in leather. Flipping through the pages, I check out all these pictures of humans who are supposed to be students. They all look thirty, though, in their coats and bow ties, the girls in their Southern-belle dresses. There are no action photos of anything, just group shots and these huge individual portraits. I check out the faculty pictures. No Twilley, no Miss Amenny. I stop to think. Miss A. said she started teaching when she was twenty-one. To be in this book, she’d have to be about a hundred today.

  I add forty and pick up the 1962 S&B. This one has an index at the back of the book. I’m stunned. There’s, like, a million pictures of Twilley listed. I start looking up the pages. There he is in the group shot of the Quiz Bowl team. Here’s another of him in a T-shirt. The caption underneath reads EVEN TEACHERS GOT THEIR HANDS DIRTY DURING THE HOMECOMING WEEK HALL-DECORATING CONTEST. MR. TWILLEY, SPONSOR OF THE SOPHOMORE CLASS, PUTS THE FINISHING TOUCHES ON A CLASS OF ’64 POSTER. HEY, MR. HISTORY, LOOKS LIKE YOU SPELLED A WORD WRONG!

  They called him Mr. History then? Why? He doesn’t look much older than the students in these pictures, all of them in their buzz haircuts. Twilley, with a full head of hair, has a paint brush in his hand and paint running down his arms. I find another shot of him with a leg of chicken in his mouth at the faculty/student picnic. Sitting across from him is Miss A. Wow, not too shabby. All the other women teachers I’ve seen have their hair up in these Super Glue hairdos, but Miss A. looks like Nancy Sinatra from that video they show all the time. The one about boots. Her hair is long, full, and straight. Miss A. looks, well … groovy.

  I start going through the books one by one. I can’t believe it’s the same guy in these pictures that wouldn’t allow the Spanish Club to collect canned foods in his room at Christmas last year, because he said it wasted class time. In the 1965 book I find a shot of him wearing a Stetson and a fake mustache. He’s untying Miss A., who’s in a petticoat and a bonnet. The caption says IN THE PRODUCTION DIRK SNIDELY MEETS THE PECOS KID, THE FACULTY SHOWED OFF A WIDE RANGE OF ACTING TALENT. HERE THE PECOS KID,
MR. TWILLEY, RESCUES ZELDA PETTICOATS, MISS AMENNY, FROM THE CLUTCHES OF DIRK SNIDELY, MR. HAWTHORNE. MISS AMENNY SAID SHE WANTS THE FACULTY PLAY TO BECOME AN ANNUAL EVENT.

  In the 1966 book there’s a shot of Mr. Twilley giving a student a piggyback ride during—get this—Slave Day. In the 1968 book I start seeing shots of black students. I hadn’t even noticed that there hadn’t been any before that. In 1971 Twilley wins the favorite teacher award, and I’m positive that I have been sucked into the Twilight Zone.

  In the 1972 book, there’s a photograph of Twilley—he’s got huge sideburns—standing next to Mrs. Twilley, except her name in the caption is Esther Harris. The caption says MISS HARRIS COVERS THE ROMANTIC PERIOD OF WORLD LITERATURE FOR MR. TWILLEY. In the 1974 book, Miss Harris has become Mrs. Twilley. Twilley wins the favorite teacher award again that year.

  In the 1976 book I discover it.

  You know there are certain things you believe in that make you who you are. Take me. I believe in things I can see. Rivers flow downhill. Fries take three minutes to deep fry. Rid DeLord has three nipples. But what I see here could change my whole philosophy. You see, I’m not sure I can believe this, even though it’s right in front of me, in living color. The caption says MR. TWILLEY RELENTS TO PRESSURE FROM THE STUDENT BODY TO PERFORM AT THE NOPE TO DOPE ASSEMBLY. HE SAYS HE LEARNED HIS ACT AS A YELL LEADER AT OL’ MISS. And in the photo, plain as day, Twilley’s forming an R with his body.