by Jim Krieg
You know, a serious throw down like this one isn’t like it is in the movies. There’s no slow motion or sound effects of bones cracking accompanying every blow. Dudes don’t call out the names of their fancy moves before launching into them with a lot of fanfare.
It’s just two professionals, equally matched, going to town, silently, methodically, matching each other strike for strike, block for block. It’s more like a chess game, really, just one for players with a really high pain tolerance.
I won’t bore you with the details. I’m not even sure I could. When I’m in The Zone like that, my conscious mind shuts down. Plus, does it really matter who “won” the fight?
What matters is that I got through to him.
If you’re reading this, and I handed it to you? That means everything turned out okay and you’re completely unconnected to Volger (which is what I would assume, Delane). If Mrs. Nutting handed this Incident Report to you, then maybe I’m missing, or in the hospital, or worse.
But if I’m still walking around the hallways and you’re NOT reading this . . . well, I don’t even want to think what that means.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
HELEN NUTTING GUIDANCE COUNSELOR RAMPART MIDDLE SCHOOL
Continuation of the RECORDED INTERVIEW with seventh grader Griffin Carver.
GRIFF: POCK.
POCK.
POCK.
You’ve heard the sound a million times. Ten million if you count the echoes. And it always echoes.
I was still pretty shaky when I got back to school the next day. After the Dark Time. I needed to think. Someplace where I could be alone. I knew where I had to go before I even finished the thought.
As I passed Rampart’s outbuildings, the white fog seemed to stretch out and welcome me. You can only hold your breath so long. I inhaled and felt the chalk dust rush in and nestle in my lungs and I wondered how many years it would take off my life somewhere down at the end of the line. I might want those years, someday, when I was old. Too bad I couldn’t volunteer to give up this one in their place.
It isn’t really chalk, you know. That squeaky powder-covered mineral cylinder that you’ve been using on the blackboard all these years? In all likelihood, it’s gypsum. They haven’t used real chalk, cool because it is made up of the shells of billions of dead microorganisms, in years. But they, teachers, parents, society, keep calling it chalk anyway. Thanks for the misinformation, adult world.
But whatever it is. It still has to be knocked out of those blackboard erasers. Every day. For every class. That’s a lot of gypsum dust. And despite living in an age of post-Internet technological miracles, there was still only one way for a teacher to get those erasers clean. Have some kid knock them together.
It’s hard to believe that back in elementary school, kids used to fight to GET that job. What a bunch of suckers we were. Flapping our hands over our heads like our lives depended on it, just so we could swat those bad boys together for Ms. Kozan.
In middle school, it’s always a punishment. Troublemakers are banished to a secluded corner of the yard, where they stand, banging erasers together and filling the air with so much dust that no wind will ever blow it away completely. It’s like foggy London town in the really old movies, but I’ve only ever heard it called No-Man’s-Land.
Most kids are afraid of No-Man’s-Land. I don’t know why. Same reason we’re afraid of the dark, I guess. But walking into the billowing cloud of mineral particles felt great to me. Sure, I wasn’t completely alone. The shadowy forms of middle-schooler zombies would emerge from the fog and then vanish into it as I walked by. They never talk or make eye contact. I don’t know if it’s the shame of being in trouble or the fear over what their parents are going to say later when they find out. Whatever it is, they’ve got a lot on their minds.
That’s why I was surprised to hear his voice. Tommy, I mean. It isn’t that his voice is so recognizable; it’s just who else would be yowling my name across No-Man’s-Land like a lost kitten? I figured he’d stop soon enough.
I was wrong. Tommy kept calling and calling.
“Griff!” he called. “Griff, where are you?”
I was starting to feel bad for the eraser clappers. Thought I’d better make an appearance, just to shut him up.
“What do you want?” I asked him. He jumped, of course. I must’ve looked like a ghost coming out of the fog like that.
When he finally pulled himself together, he answered, “You were right.”
“I know,” I said.
“Yeah.” Tommy nodded. “But now I know too. Aren’t you going to ask me how I know?”
“From your wet hair and the smell of industrial lavatory cleanser, I’d say you asked too many questions. Questions some people didn’t like.”
“You’re good, Griff.” Tommy shook his head. “I’ll give you that. I just wanted to say . . . sorry . . . for thinking you’re a criminal or whatever.”
“Okay, you said it,” I answered him dismissively. “Thanks for stopping by.” I could tell he was waiting for something. Forgiveness, maybe.
“It’s—it’s just . . .” he stammered, “what I overheard in the cafeteria? When you were talking to Volger? It sure made you sound like you were—”
“Dirty,” I snapped. “It was supposed to, genius. Do you still not know what that was all about?”
Tommy shook his head. “I’d probably have figured it out if I heard the whole conversation, but there was a lot of static.”
“Then let me enlighten you, Patrolman. Belton was a punk, a pushover. I knew it as soon as I heard how loud he yelped when my rubber band nailed him. I didn’t even have to fish much before he was offering me the moon to let him go. Said he was connected up the wazoo. Whatever I wanted, his friends could get for me. Sky’s the limit. Middle school would be my oyster.
“He wouldn’t spill then and there, of course. Wouldn’t name names that easily. But I knew he’d lead me to ’em if I was patient. So I told him I was interested and cut him loose.”
Tommy looked at me, amazed. I was half afraid he was going to slap his forehead and say that if it was a snake, it woulda bit him. “So,” he said, figuring it out as he spoke, “you let the little fish go in order to get to the big fish.”
That part was so obvious, I didn’t even respond to it.
“Figuring out who the big boss was turned out to be no great shakes. Doesn’t take a big Sherlock Holmes detective brain to tail a guy for a day or so. I didn’t even have to wait that long. Belton was so shook he didn’t wait two periods before he went crying to Volger. I’d love to tell you that I thought, Aha! I knew it all along! Could tell he was guilty from the fluorescent teeth. But no such luck. Maybe I wasn’t as shocked as the general student population would’ve been, but I raised an eyebrow over it.
“Next, I followed up that glamorous legwork with a few more days of wearing the treads off the bottoms of my shoes. I needed as much intel as possible before I made my move. Guess you were there when that curtain went up.
“Volger wasn’t hard to find, since he practically owns that cafeteria table. I stared down Volger’s two goons, Gabe and Boca—”
“Ben and Morgan,” Tommy offered without being asked.
“Great. If I ever need to invite Volger’s muscle to my birthday party, now I know their first names. Anyway, I let him know that I was interested in his organization. He played it really cool, of course. Told me he hardly knew Belton and besides, ‘I can’t be held responsible for every random comment made by each and every one of my supporters.’
“‘But you do take a lot of responsibility for some of your supporters,’ I told him. ‘Nino Coluni, for instance.’
“‘What about him?’ Volger asked. No attitude from Volger this time. I’d hit a nerve.
“‘He’s one of your biggest supporters,’ I said, rather obviously. ‘A big chunk of students will vote however he tells them to. At least, as long as he’s on the team they will. It’s a shame he’s academically ineligib
le to play, huh?’
“‘Yeah,’ Volger agreed, not smiling.
“‘You know, I had a little chat with Nino. Not the sharpest Crayola in the pack of ninety-six crayons, and that’s the one with the built-in sharpener. You ask me, the real surprise is that he got passing grades as long as he did. Especially in Intro to Spanish, his arch-foe class.’
“‘So, I did a little checking,’ I went on. ‘Turns out every time Señor Olsen threw a pop quiz in Nino’s class, the fire alarm rang a few minutes later. Everyone marched out of the school and the test was rolled to the next day, after Nino got a sneak preview of the answers, compliments of some slow exiter who hung around Señor Olsen’s room long enough to memorize the test.’
“‘What’s that got to do with me?’ Volger growled.
“‘Well, when my idiot partner told me that the only action in the last six weeks of school was a rash of false fire alarms, I said to myself, ‘Griff,’ I said, ‘these Hallway Patrol boys’ve got this corridor locked up as tight as the nurse’s medicine cabinet. Who’s pulling that alarm?’ Answer: Only someone with a hall pass would even have access to the fire alarms . . . a hall pass as phony as Señor Olsen’s hairpiece.’”
“By the way,” interjected Tommy, “I totally get why you said ‘idiot partner.’ So Volger would think you’re bad like him, right?”
“Sure,” I answered unconvincingly.
“But why not just bust him?” Tommy asked. “Tell Delane, Sprangue, someone?”
“As I’m sure you’re now painfully aware, Volger couldn’t be better connected. And I had nothing. No proof. No witnesses.”
“You needed him to make you part of his gang so you could collect evidence!” This was a eureka moment for Tommy.
“That was the idea. Anyway, Volger just sat there at his table glowering at me with those luminous teeth. ‘Think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?’ he asked.
“‘No,’” I told him. ‘Janet Creelman is smart. All I did was ask a couple of discreet questions.’
“‘I was sitting in class every time that fire alarm got pulled!’ Volger insisted. ‘You can’t tie anything to me.’
“‘A little advice, Marcus,’ I said calmly. ‘Anyone else ever asks you about this, it would look weird if you knew exactly when every single fire alarm was pulled. And second, I’m not trying to tie anything to you, chief,’ I said. ‘That’s the point.’ Now it was my turn to smile. ‘I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to be your friend. If I could figure this out, it goes to show that someone else could as well. A smart kid might find it helpful to have a hall cop on his side. A guy who’ll look the other way, tell him when the heat’s on. For a price.’”
“Then what happened?” asked Tommy.
“Nothing,” I answered. “Then I picked your microphone quarter off the floor and took off. Then he used you to get me booted off the squad.”
Tommy winced. I don’t know if it was from guilt or embarrassment. “But why did Volger set you up? Why didn’t he make a deal with you? You were a pretty convincing creep,” Tommy said.
“To you, maybe,” I conceded. “You take everything at face value. Volger made me in a second. Everything out of Volger’s mouth is a lie. He naturally assumed I was lying as well. And he was right.”
“What are we gonna do?” he wondered.
“Nothing to do,” I explained. “I’m just another student now. All I can do is keep my head down. Eventually, Volger will probably build me a nice little frame, plant stolen test answers in my backpack, something like that. Sprangue will get an anonymous tip and I’ll have a one-way ticket to a new school. Maybe next time I’ll be smart enough to really join the marching band.”
He rolled that around in his skull for a moment.
“No.” Tommy shook his head in disbelief. “No way! No way!”
I’d had enough. The last thing I needed was to watch Tommy have a temper tantrum. I walked away from him.
Then BAM! Out of nowhere, he grabs me! I guess it was supposed to be a tackle, but it was more of a hug. And as my aunt Barb will tell you, I’m not a big fan of hugging.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Tommy shouted. “We’re going to fight this thing! We’ve got to!”
“Hands off, Camp Scout!” I warned, but he only gripped me tighter. You only get one warning. I jerked my head down, driving my forehead down onto his nose. I interpreted that high-pitched yelp I heard as a warning to step back before I got nose blood and snugger juice in my hair.
Surprisingly, Tommy wasn’t finished. After wiping his nose, he sneered at me, swirled his arms in front of him like he was doing some kind of interpretive dance, and shouted something. “Windmill arm attack!” I think he shouted. Something like that.
Suddenly, I’m swatting away his arms like I’m in a swarm of mosquitoes. Actual mosquitoes would’ve probably done more damage, but nobody takes kindly to a dork-slapping.
I stepped past him with one of my legs and crowded him just enough to send him toppling over my calf. A classic Griff move, but reliable. Usually.
Next thing I knew, Tommy was whirling around on his shoulders and head. Evidently, he had a badge in breakin’ as well, because next thing I know, B-boy is an upside-down tornado. Some blurry Rodriguez appendage sends me flying.
I don’t like this. And I let him know. With my foot. He shouts, “Flying kick block!” or something like that just before our shins collide, turning us into a choral group of groans and mumbled, bottom-shelf swearwords.
“Don’t fight me!” Tommy shouted. “Help me fight them! I need a partner!”
“You need the school psychologist!” I barked back at him. “There’s no way to fight them. They’re everywhere!”
“Reverse roundhouse jackal attack!” he shouted, spinning away from me and raising his foot. This was pretty much the pattern of the fight. For some reason, Tommy would shout out the name of whatever crazy martial arts textbook move he was going to pull just before he executed it.
I caught his ankle with one hand in mid-kick and twisted, sending him tumbling across the asphalt and smearing the chalk of a hopscotch grid. He spun when he hit, scooping up a long-forgotten jump rope. By the time he rolled to his feet, he was whirling it around him. Suddenly, I felt the nylon rope encased in dozens of colorful plastic macaronis wrap itself around my neck. Tommy pulled. Down I went, into a pair of trash cans. Or, more accurately, one trash can and one recycling bin. Either way, they were both full of stuff I would rather not have bounce off my head.
I scrambled to my feet and ran. Must have felt like victory to Tommy, who ran after me like I knew he would. I raced to the nearest jungle gym, but not too fast . . . didn’t want to lose him.
I ran into the maze of metal bars and plastic slides. Had to time this just right. Tommy was just reaching my shirt when I grabbed the horizontal monkey bar above me and let my momentum flip my entire body over the bar. Tommy was now in front of me, of course. We slammed together and the collision sent him stumbling farther into the play area.
He fell against the teeter-totter, stunned.
“Hey,” I heard myself ask him, “you okay?”
He looked pretty bad, so, like a schmuck, I went over to help him up. I must have stepped on the lower end of the seesaw, and when Tommy saw that I’d stepped into his trap, he sprang into action, hurling all of his body weight on the opposite end of the board. Yes, I did have a nice flight. Thanks for asking. As I soared toward the ground, I noticed Tommy picking a dime up off the asphalt. Camp Scouts are thrifty.
I was just pulling the jacks out of my back when I heard Tommy shout his war cry. I looked up just in time to see him swinging toward me on the end of a tetherball rope. Those Scouts must give out badges for Spider Powers. I had just enough time to notice the ball itself pressed against his gut. Countless hours on the playground had conditioned my response, which was to hit the ball, naturally.
Tommy immediately soared around the tetherball pole in the opposite direction.
&n
bsp; I never had any official training, just an older brother who fought dirty and wasn’t afraid to lean onto his elbows when they were pressed into my rib cage. Our relationship had consisted mainly of Indian burns and unprovoked noogie attacks. Those were the good times. I missed them.
Tommy’s assault, all bells and whistles, felt like it was being done for the benefit of an audience that wasn’t there.
Still, it was clear that he’d spent time practicing. A lot of time. And just between you and me, he was better than you might think, tumblers and all.
All the while, he kept saying that Rampart had a disease and we were the only cure. Stuff like that. He talked like the announcer in a movie preview, but that wasn’t what made me mad. What made me mad was that he was right.
I wouldn’t have been fighting him at all, except that I was so burned up about Volger’s operation and losing my badge. Maybe it was the same with Tommy, I don’t know, but I gotta say that it felt good to blow off some steam like that. Lord knows I had enough of it bottled up inside.
Tommy must’ve felt the same way because he was breaking out every move from the Chinese acrobats show that was vaguely fight related. Sometimes I thought he was doing tai chi.
I guess by this time we’d made some noise, because the next think I knew, some eighth-grade gorilla had me in a headlock. Another upperclassman had Tommy. I guess we’d been too occupied to notice their approach.
Ever heard the expression “walking Spanish”? It’s like when some goon’s got you by the collar and the seat of your pants and they’re half pushing, half carrying you and you’re up on your tiptoes like some crazy flamenco dancer.
Well, take it from me, there’s nothing an eighth-grade boy likes better than making a smaller kid walk Spanish to the principal’s office. They will bust you for any infraction, real or imagined, just for the pleasure of turning you into their personal marionette without fear of repercussion. Just one of the many reasons I am opposed to student vigilantism.
