Slave Day

by Rob Thomas

  “Of course. I know Tanner. I didn’t know he had a daughter in high school, though. Do you have any brothers?”

  “One. He’s in seventh grade.”

  “He an athlete?”

  “Plays quarterback.”

  “Good for him!” the man practically shouts as he picks up the bowl of sliced lemons and hands them to me. “That boyfriend of yours is quite a player.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  The man laughs. “Now, you know better than to bother him on game days, don’t you?”

  “No one gets near him on game days.”

  “Women—bad for the legs.” He laughs some more. Gross.

  TOMMY

  1:25 P.M. Lunch, theater

  I want to be off book before anyone else in the play. Off book means you don’t have to look at your script during rehearsal; you’ve got your lines memorized. I’ve never had so many lines before. It’s tougher than I thought it would be. That’s why I’ve been trying to spend my lunch hours in here. Twilley, who’s followed me into the theater, takes a seat in the front row.

  “No you don’t. Up here. Chop-chop,” I say.

  He takes his time climbing the stairs to the stage. I hand him my script and tell him to go downstage right. This is a test. He moves to the front of the stage, the right side if you’re facing the audience. He hasn’t forgotten his old faculty play days. He passes.

  “Act three. The scene with Tom and Partridge. You’re Partridge.”

  “I didn’t know you were in drama, Thomas.”

  “Only when I’m eligible,” I say.

  “And you’ve got the lead in Tom Jones, I see. What a funny, funny play.”

  I used to think so. Now I’ll have to reevaluate.

  Twilley continues, “Did you see the movie? Albert Finney played Tom. It won best picture, you know.”

  “I saw it on the Late Late Show after one of my Whataburger shifts. I thought it was an episode of Benny Hill at first.” Twilley grimaces, but I ignore him. “Okay, give me my cue,” I say, and we begin rehearsing the scene.

  At first the ancient one does little more than read the words off the page, sort of like those gomers who sign up for drama because they think it’s an easy A, then sit in the back of the room, refusing to act like anything other than the dumb stumps they are. Even though I’m mostly trying to learn my cues, I need a little more energy from my partner.

  Twilley, as Partridge, gives me my cue, “… that’s very serious from a woman of her reputation.”

  “Partridge, what illness has befallen you, my good man?” I grab Twilley/Partridge by both shoulders. “Open up. Say aaaah. You sound close to death. Clap got your tongue?”

  “No, no, no,” Twilley says, “your line is …”

  “I know what my line is, but it’s tough to say it when I’m performing with someone who couldn’t get cast as a corpse.”

  Twilley drops his chin and peers at me over the top of his glasses. He makes his eyebrows connect above his nose. He opens his script and this time delivers the line in someone else’s voice. Someone else’s booming, clear voice. “… that’s very serious from a woman of her reputation.” Twilley stresses the same words Miss A. told our regular Partridge to stress.

  I do my best Henry Higgins from My Fair Lady. “By jove, I think he’s got it.”

  “Then say your line,” Twilley says. “I don’t believe you know it.”

  But he’s wrong. The next line’s one of my favorites in the play. “Why won’t women leave me alone?” I clutch my heart. “Oh, Partridge, beauty like mine is a curse.”

  “I pity you, sir,” says Twilley/Partridge with just the right amount of sarcasm.

  “I dare not be … I dare not be … uh …”

  “Uncivil,” Twilley prods.

  “… to Lady Bellaston, for then she would deny me … uh …”

  “Entry to her house.”

  We work on the scene for the next fifteen minutes. After the first few times through it, Twilley isn’t using the script anymore. Partridge doesn’t have as many lines as Tom, but I’m still impressed. He’s even getting into it a bit. At one point he takes a few steps toward me—and dress me in silk and call me Princess if he don’t lose his hunchbacky lurch. When we finally make it all the way through without Twilley having to help me with a line, I hear clapping from the seats. The stage lights keep me from seeing who it is.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” says Miss A. as she walks down in front of the stage.

  “Thanks,” I say. “Do you think I ought to …”

  “No, no, no, no, no, no. Not you, Tommy. It’s Mr. Twilley who I’m applauding. I haven’t seen you on a stage for a long time, Marcus.”

  Mr. Twilley mumbles something, but I can’t really hear it. His eyes drop back into the script. He blushes. Swear to God. Then he does his monster walk into the wings.

  “What was that?” I ask Miss A.

  “Oh, Tommy, don’t worry about it.”

  CLINT

  1:26 P.M. Lunch, Bonanza

  While the girls are off at the salad bar, I’m tryin’ to tell Trim ’bout Humphrey overhearin’ Coach Rossy, but I don’t think he’s catchin’ the drift o’ my story.

  “You had coach spit runnin’ down your leg?” he says. “And you just sat there? Man, I’da busted outta there inna heartbeat. Screw the game film.”

  So I think, never mind, I’ll change the topic. Somethin’ Trim is more concerned with.

  “So has the investment been worth it?” I say, nodding toward the salad bar where Jen and Annabella are chitchattin’.

  “Not yet, but it’s gonna be,” he says.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “Water Tower Park. Before the bonfire.”

  Water Tower Park—as if you couldn’t figure this out—is a park that they built around Deerfield’s largest water tower. It used to be the only water tower, back before Central’s enrollment zoomed up over ten thousand. That happened right after they lowered their academic standards. The ultimate result is that every high school senior in the state with a C average, tuition money, and a pulse is accepted there. That’s where Deerfield’s claim to fame—the most bars per capita in the state—comes from. Playboy even listed Central as one of the biggest party schools in the country. Anyway, the university built its own water tower, which meant the city council could get away with paintin’

  DEERFIELD

  HOME OF THE FIGHTIN’ REBS

  DISTRICT CHAMPS 1978

  across the front. You can see it all the way from I-35, since it sits at the top of a hill that overlooks the town. All the nooks and crannies make it a popular place for parking. Every now and then there’s a letter in the Herald demandin’ a curfew from some PO’d mom who stepped on a used rubber while strollin’ through the park. No one ever does anything ’bout it, though. Guess our local elected officials found their thrills on Water Tower hill themselves.

  “How’re you gonna get her up there?” I ask.

  “Charm,” Trim says. Trim’s blond with this diamond-shaped head, and I know this may sound sick … like I’m goin’ homo, but as he’s diggin’ through his pocket for somethin’, I can’t help thinkin’ he would be a pretty girl. He finds what he’s looking for: From what I can tell, a piece of tinfoil. He holds it up.

  “And if charm’s not enough—this.”

  I sit there lookin’ dumb. He peels back the foil, revealin’ a white tablet. I sorta recall someone in sixth grade sayin’ somethin’ ’bout how if you put aspirin in a girl’s Coke she goes, like, totally nympho, but I filed that with the one about growin’ hair on your palms from you know what. Trim looks agged.

  “It’s X, man!”

  “You’re gonna do X the day before a game?” I say. The whole senior class is full of Jimis, but Trim knows the team rules: No alcohol, no drugs during the season. If the coaches find out you’ve been drinkin’ they run you three miles a day for five days at six in the morning. They find out ’bout drugs and you’re off t
he team for a year. Trim looks at me like I’m stupid.

  “Naw, man. I’m not worried ’bout me bein’ in the mood. It’s for her.”

  “Does she know ’bout it?”

  “I wanna surprise her,” he says, and the way he says it, I know for sure that he plans on slippin’ it to her.

  JENNY

  1:28 P.M. Lunch, Bonanza

  Annabella Guzaldo pours another bucket of ranch dressing on her salad. Already she’s spread a handful of cheddar on top and surrounded the lettuce with a ring of olives. I look at my own plate. No dressing. No olives. No cheese. Just some lettuce and cabbage that I plan on spicing up by squeezing a little lemon over the top. Why does everything come so easy for some girls? If I ate her salad I’d have to Slim-Fast for the rest of the week. I want to resent her, but she’s too nice. It’s not like we’re pals, but we’re both Rebelettes, so I’m practicing with her all the time. Some of my friends hate her and say she’s stuck-up, but I know it’s because they’re jealous. She’s not stuck-up. She’s reserved. She keeps to herself mostly. That’s why it surprised me that she called us over to sit with them.

  A lot more girls would like Madonna if she would get herself a steady boyfriend. Then she wouldn’t be so much of a threat. She could sure pick and choose, but she doesn’t seem all that interested. In fact, she always seems more worried about grades than anything else. It’s funny. In fact, it’s ironic that the boys call her Madonna because Annabella isn’t anything like the singer. She’s a Gap girl—just like me. She’s the opposite of a boy toy; she’s a boy ignorer. That must drive them crazy. Guys like Timm Trimble can’t deal with that. Last year she dated Joe March for, like, three minutes and went to the prom with Steve Wacker, but I heard she had a crush on Jennings Crawford, that guy who plays guitar on the cafeteria steps during lunch.

  Bonanza has a soft-serve ice cream machine, and I’m not surprised to see Annabella pick up a bowl and head toward it. I can’t decide whether to follow.

  “Sorry I’m being so much of a pig,” she says. “It’s just that the more time I spend chewing, the less I’ll have to talk to him.”

  “It’s been that bad?”

  “Did you know that his family was one of the first to settle in this county?” I shake my head no. “Did you know that his family once owned slaves for real?” Again I shake my head. “Did you know he’s got a three-hundred-watt Alpine amplifier in his trunk?” I think Clint has actually told me about this, but I shake my head no anyway.

  “At least it sounds like he’s doing all the talking.”

  “But he expects me to say things like, ‘Wow, that’s great,’ after everything he talks about.” Annabella makes a perfect little ice cream curlicue on top of her sundae.

  “So that’s why you called us over to your table?”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I know it sounds like I’m using you, but you’ve always been so nice, and you and Clint always seemed, well, you know, happy. He’s such a sweet guy.”

  I have a jealous moment, but it’s brief.

  “Go ahead and use me,” I say. “I don’t mind.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

  SHAWN

  1:29 P.M. Lunch, cafeteria

  All You Can Eat Chicken-Fried Steak Day at Bonanza, and I’m stuck here on the cafeteria steps, stomach growlin’, waitin’ with Tubby here for the “big surprise” he’s promised. To make matters worse, I’m havin’ to listen to some guitar-strummin’ guy in a bowling shirt sing these kill-yourself Smashing Pearl Blowfish songs. He’s got some kinda haircut club gathered at his feet. Meantime, Keeneboy’s displayin’ the same weak-ass moves with Tamika Jackson that he uses on the court. She came up thankin’ him for stickin’ up for her with some teacher, and Keene says—get this—“no sweat.” Man, they must be showing Mod Squad on Nickelodeon again. Then he asks her if she wants any lunch, hands me some cash, and says to hurry back. Fine. Anything that means gettin’ away from Don Juan DeNegro, here.

  Don’t know what he’s all in heat for. You could say Tamika’s a good-looking woman, but it would be in the same qualified way you’d say Jeff Wetler is a good, slow, white, no-hops center. She got a plain face, fair body. No kinda fashion sense. Sat next to her in a couple classes in junior high. Girl’s crazy entertaining, but nothing to pop a chubby over.

  The lunch line is long. Too long. Reminds me of my free lunch days during my freshman and sophomore years—before Mr. Braintree hired me to mow his lawn. Fifty bucks a week, every week, whether it needs mowin’ or not. Shit, comin’ in here used to embarrass me. Gramma tried to give me an allowance, but I knew she couldn’t afford it. She’d leave money on the counter for me, but I’d just ignore it. I tell you what. One day that lady is gonna have the nicest house in Deerfield. Nicer than Walter Braintree’s. Bet on it.

  You wouldn’t know from lookin’ around the cafeteria that this is a mostly white school. Could be Compton High, ’cept for all the Mexicans and the scattered cowboy clumps. Everyone in their own little section. That’s probably how Brotha Keene likes it. Miss Killarney spots me in line and calls me up to the front. I hear some grumblin’ from behind me as I push my way through.

  “What are you doin’ in here?” Miss Killarney says in her Irish accent.

  “Slummin’,” I say, as she hands me a loaded tray.

  Old Killarney cracks me up. She’s always sayin’ how the Irish people are the blacks of Europe—always getting run over and shoved to the back. Ever since I was a freshman, she’s been tellin’ me that I’m gonna amount to something someday. And that’s why, she says, I get the special service.

  “Remember the little people,” she says.

  When I carry the tray back out to the cafeteria steps, I learn what Keene’s next attempt at embarrassing me is gonna be. He’s got one of those shoeshine boxes that most guys make for their first project in shop—like anyone still shines their shoes. He’s set it up in front of one of the benches out on the cafeteria stoop.

  “Time to shine,” he says. It’s the most hilarious line to ever come outta the boy’s mouth, but I don’t think he meant it funny.

  “You gotsta be kiddin’,” I answer.

  “I don’t gotsta be anything.”

  Once again, I hafta tell myself it’s in everyone’s best interest if I don’t hit him. He pulls a rag from the box and holds it out in front of him, actin’ a little too showy in front of the lady, if you ask me. Out in the courtyard behind Keene, I see slaves bringing lunches out to whole circles of people; Perry Willis has got ukelele-strumming Mr. Denhart serenading him and his girlfriend; just then Mr. History comes speed-walking by in an Indian headdress. Slave Day sure does lead to some weird shit.

  “Give me that,” I say, swiping the rag from his hand.

  MR. TWILLEY

  1:33 P.M. Lunch, sidewalk outside cafeteria

  One would think that after more than twenty years, I would be able to behave like an adult in front of Linda Amenny.

  T. S. Eliot hit the nail on the head when he said, “Why do we feel embarrassed, impatient, fretful, ill at ease. Assembled like amateur actors who have not been assigned their parts.” I feel like that all the time now. Like I have no role, and I just show up where I’m supposed to with nothing to say. I used to have good roles: respected teacher, loving husband.

  Linda Amenny is probably the one person on campus who continues to think of me as anything other than a blustering ogre. I stopped dating her the day Esther began teaching here. Still, Linda never held a grudge. I used to kid myself, imagine she never got married because she couldn’t …

  “Yo, slave!”

  I turn. Coming up behind me on the sidewalk is Thomas. He’s wearing a ten-gallon hat and chaps. He’s carrying an Indian headdress.

  “You forgetting something?”

  I had forgotten. It’s surprising how differently my day with Mr. Parks is turning out. Differently than I expected, that is. He’s a handful, no doubt, but I assumed he would spend the day
taking out his frustrations on me as payback for his failing grade. Yet, to my surprise, he’s seemed as interested in livening up his own day as inventing ways to degrade me. Perhaps more so.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Put this on,” he says, handing me the headdress. “Here’s your gun.” He hands me a Colt .45 cap gun. “Here’s the deal. Cowboy and Indian all the way back to my fifth-period class. I’ll give you a head start. I’ll try to track you. If I get a good shot at you, I mean dead to rights, you’ve got to perform a death scene. I’m talking award-winning. I’ve seen you act, so don’t think you can do some weak-ass, fall-down thing. If you can avoid me until the tardy bell rings, you don’t have to herald my arrival in Mrs. Griffith’s class. I’ll give you a minute head start.”

  Maybe I spoke too soon. “Thomas, I don’t think …”

  “One Mississippi, two Mississippi …,” he begins.

  So I’m off. I have no idea how I’m going to avoid him for the next few minutes, but I try to put distance between us. I’ve got a bright red and yellow mane of feathers on my head. I’m carrying a cap gun in my hand. And as I scuttle past students, they drop their books, turn and stare, either becoming dead silent or shouting nonsensical things at me like “Go, Speed Racer, go!” I can’t imagine that tracking me will present much of a challenge.

  I enter the cafeteria and duck behind the partition that separates the faculty tables from the students’. A dozen or so of my peers stop eating.

  “Don’t tell me,” Denhart says, snapping his fingers and pointing. “You’ve done something with your hair?”

  The cracks of cap gun shots alert me to Mr. Parks’s presence in the cafeteria. I peek around the partition in time to see a number of students gesturing to Thomas, letting him know where I’ve holed up. Before he looks up to see me, I point my gun and fire. Thomas dives and belly-rolls behind a table. When he stands, he’s using a young girl—from all appearances a freshman—as a shield.