Child’s Play 2

by Matthew J. Costello

  He went up another step, and the door closed. While Kyle kept looking at him.

  She looked . . . worried. Like the way his mother had looked the time he had the flu and Mom didn’t go to work. She just sat by his bed, read to him, and felt his brow.

  “Take a seat,” the driver snapped.

  Andy turned around. The driver held a plastic cup filled with something hot. A thin smoky cloud rose from the cup. Andy nodded and moved down the aisle, following the other kids.

  The bus was crowded. Most of the kids were already sitting together, talking to each other, laughing.

  Andy felt very alone. He saw an empty seat ahead. But the kid next to it was the mean kid with the short haircut. Andy thought of moving to the back, but he felt the driver’s eyes on him, waiting for him to sit so he could take them all to school.

  Andy started to move into the seat. And the kid quickly brought up his leg, covering the seat. He grinned at Andy, an ugly grin. And the kid had something in his hand, something that he started to throw at Andy.

  Andy backed away, against the seat across the aisle. Kids yelled at him and gave him a push back the other way.

  And the grinning kid shot a yo-yo out at Andy.

  Andy fell back again before he saw the yo-yo stop and roll back into the kid’s hand. The kid laughed.

  It was a Good Guy yo-yo. Andy saw the Good Guy face on the side. He turned around quickly. All the kids were laughing at him.

  The driver yelled, “Take a seat!”

  Andy looked at the back. He saw an empty seat all the way in the back. Next to a small boy who was siting quietly with a Good Guy lunch box held tightly on his lap.

  He’s everywhere, Andy thought, hurrying to the seat. Chucky’s face is everywhere.

  He took his seat.

  The kids clapped rudely. And the bus grunted and pulled away, taking Andy to his new school.

  There were moments when Chucky thought that the brat could feel him there, waiting in the bushes, hiding behind parked cars, following him.

  We’re close, the two of us, he thought. We’re regular little blood brothers.

  He watched Andy talking with Kyle. Soon to be my big sister, he thought happily. We’ll be able to do lots of things together.

  He knew he couldn’t wait for the little brat to get home. There just wasn’t that kind of time to squander.

  He examined his hand where the fingers had been smashed in the trunk. They throbbed like real fingers! No, time was running out.

  The best solution would have been to get one of the other kids to bring him right on the bus. What kid wouldn’t pick up a lost Good Guy doll? Something for show and tell. But how could he do that? Just lie on the sidewalk and wait for one of the squirts to bring him on the bus? No, that was too risky. They might take me back to their house, he thought, lock me in some closet with Candy Land and old soccer shoes.

  No, he saw, there was only one way.

  He rode the axle.

  After all, he was the right size and—for all his bleeding and pain—he was practically indestructible. And after the first terrible minutes, with the bus’s smelly exhaust billowing around him, it wasn’t so bad, holding onto the axle, his feet dangling just inches above the street.

  I’m going back to school, he thought. I learned you can’t get anywhere without a good education.

  When the bus stopped, Chucky hung there, hiding behind the wheels. He watched Andy and the others trooping off to the schoolyard. When he heard the whoosh of the bus’s door shutting, he hurried to some bushes near the school fence.

  Now this was a problem.

  Can’t just go marching in there. Probably get stopped by the hall monitor. Gotta pass, little fella? No, but I can squeeze your nuts real good . . . if you’ll just bend down here.

  No. He decided to wait. To think. To concentrate. A good solution would present itself.

  The school bell rang and the playground emptied.

  While Chucky crouched under a bush, his hands dug into the chain-link fence, planning his next move.

  17

  The teacher’s name was Miss Kettlewell, and she wasn’t at all like his real first-grade teacher, back at his old elementary school. His real teacher was young and smiled a lot. She always led the kids in funny songs and had great art activities to do.

  This woman, Andy thought, was like a witch. She must be at least a hundred years old. She didn’t smile at him when he was brought to the class by the principal, a man who seemed very, very busy. She just nodded to him and pointed to a desk. Even the principal seemed scared of her.

  Then Andy saw that the seat she had pointed out was right in front of that mean kid with the short hair. What happened to the kid who used to sit here? Andy wondered as he trudged back to the seat. What happened to him?

  Miss Kettlewell took roll, and he learned that the name of the kid behind him was Rick Spicer.

  The fun started right away. Rick Spicer kept tapping under Andy’s seat with his foot. Tap. Tap. All morning long, while Andy copied words off the board. The At Family, a sign said. So Miss Kettlewell had written hat, cat, rat, fat.

  Andy turned around once to ask the Spicer kid to stop tapping his chair. And just when Miss Kettlewell looked up from her desk.

  “Andy Barclay, kindly keep your eyes on your work. We work very hard in this class.”

  Just my luck, thought Andy. I turn around for one second and I get caught. The teacher must have radar.

  Then they did some numbers stuff. It was easy for Andy, who knew how to add and subtract. He finished his sheet quickly, and watching what the other kids did, he brought it up to Miss Kettlewell. She took it and put it on a pile to the side. Some of the work seemed like nursery school stuff. Andy wondered if he hadn’t been put in a special class for crazy kids.

  But some of the kids looked okay. They were dressed nice; they were doing their work.

  Spicer started tapping his chair again. Andy heard him snickering behind him, whispering to a friend across the aisle. But Miss Kettlewell saw and heard nothing.

  Except if I do anything, Andy knew. I hate this, he thought.

  But then—as if it was a miracle—Miss Kettlewell stood up and said, “Children, we’ll go to recess now. And today, since it’s so lovely, you’ll be outside.”

  The class said aloud “Yeah.” Miss Kettlewell frowned. “And how do we line up?”

  And then, all together, the class grunted, “In alphabetical order.”

  Outside! Andy thought. Out of this classroom. That was good news. He didn’t even care when Miss Kettlewell snared him by the collar and guided him to his correct alphabetical position, while all the other kids laughed at him.

  “Barclay. B,” she said loudly. She pushed him into the line. “Now, remember your position.”

  He nodded while the other kids giggled at him.

  This is going to be a long day, he thought.

  They burst out of the school, all of them, the noisy brats screaming and yelling, laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Except for poor little Andy. Now there is a troubled looking lad, Chucky thought.

  But it’s nothing a little soul-swapping won’t cure.

  The building had to be empty, he guessed. All the runts were out here, enjoying the sunshine, polluting the air with their screams. The principal’s probably grabbing another cup of java, maybe playing “hide the cruller” with his secretary. The teachers are probably down in their cancer ward, sucking at Marlboros while bragging about which kid is the craziest.

  Chucky held the mesh of the fence tightly. I was one of those kids, he thought. In a special class . . . had emotional problems. And reading problems. And math problems. Yeah, I was a regular walking mess, with more problems than you could shake a yardstick at. And all the teachers and the aides and even the principal cared about was collecting their checks and keeping me out of their hair.

  School, he thought.

  Then he said the word, “School . . .”


  It’s a lousy concentration camp for kids. Especially the kids that need help. You don’t get help in school.

  He looked at the building.

  It’s empty now, he thought.

  He let go of the wire mesh fence and started running, dodging between the bushes, checking that no one could see the red-and-blue blur of his Good Guy clothes, hustling to the side door.

  I hope it’s open, he thought.

  He stopped at the entrance gate and, seeing that the kids were over by the hopscotch courts and the climbing toys, he ran.

  I move pretty good on these little legs, he thought.

  And that scared him. Maybe too good—too good because they’re getting to be mine!

  He got to the metal door covered with chipped and peeling red paint. He pulled on the handle. And nothing happened. But then he grunted and pulled harder, pressing down hard on the latch. The door popped open.

  He smelled something he hadn’t smelled in—what?—twenty, twenty-five years? Chalk. And crayons. And stale urine from the lavatories where the little boys with their pee shooters end up playing firemen on the floor. And vomit. He remembered kids throwing up, in the classes, in the halls.

  School didn’t agree with them.

  He hurried up a short flight of stairs. In the corridor he saw a row of doors, and bulletin boards filled with pictures. First grade. Andy’s in first grade, he reminded himself.

  He hurried down the silent halls, past the water fountain and a glass case with a fire extinguisher. He saw a door just ahead. Principal’s Office it said. He heard some clacking from inside. Typing.

  He hurried past it, and then past the auditorium. He ran full out.

  He saw a door marked 2-A. Second grade, he thought. And then, past that, two more doors, 1-A on his left and 1-B on his right. Which one? he thought.

  He heard a door open behind him. Is the principal coming? he wondered. He grabbed the door to 1-A and turned the knob. And—as his luck would have it—it opened.

  He slid into the room and the wood floor creaked. He heard the brats outside, squealing and yelling. The room looked like every hell of a classroom he had ever done time in.

  Chucky waited, listening to hear if there was anyone there. He could see that there were no feet under the teacher’s desk. He ran to the chair and climbed up.

  The desk was neat and orderly, with three nice and orderly stacks of papers. Chucky picked up a pile of math papers and flipped through them, searching the tops of the pages, checking the scrawled names.

  “Come on,” he muttered, “where the hell is it . . . ?”

  If Andy’s not in this room, he must be in the other one.

  He flicked through the Ashleys, and the Merediths, and the Tommys, and the Brads. Until he came to a paper that had the name Andy B. on top.

  This must be the place. He grinned. He reached out and grabbed a pencil. The pencil had words on it: Merry Christmas from Miss Kettlewell.

  He heard a whistle blow outside. Recess must be over.

  Chucky wrote on the paper, laughing to himself, his strange little voice echoing in the empty room.

  Miss Kettlewell held the book up to the class, but from where Andy sat he couldn’t see much. He was in his seat, miles away from the front of the room.

  My old teacher had a rug, he thought. We all sat around her, real close, and she was good at reading stories. She made voices, and sounds, and . . .

  When Miss Kettlewell read, it sounded like his grandmother.

  But Andy listened to the story. It was a good story, a story that, for some reason, he really liked.

  “And the Cricket said to Pinocchio, ‘If you’re very, very good, and you promise to tell no lies, then you will become a real, live boy . . .’ ”

  The other kids were whispering, leaning across their seats talking to each other. Miss Kettlewell didn’t seem to hear them. Andy leaned forward to hear the story better.

  “And Pinocchio said, ‘Oh, I will be good, I—’ ”

  Thwack. Andy felt a sudden stinging feeling at his ear. His hand shot up to his right ear and he groaned, “Ow” as he rubbed it.

  Rick Spicer was laughing. Andy turned around, scowling. Spicer made a flicking motion with his finger, making his middle finger kick at the air.

  “Got you good, kid,” Spicer whispered.

  “Get lost, Microchip,” Andy said.

  But as soon as he said it, he realized that he had spoken too loudly. Miss Kettlewell’s voice sailed from the front. “Am I boring you, Mr. Barclay?”

  Slowly Andy turned to face front. “No, Miss Kettlewell.”

  She had put the book down and stood up. She started walking toward him, each step releasing more words.

  “I have . . . precious little patience . . . for disruptive students.”

  She stood right in front of his desk. It was Spicer, he wanted to say. “But—,” he started.

  Miss Kettlewell slammed the Pinocchio book down on the table. “Especially new students whose utmost concern should be fitting into the class. I have my good sides, Andy Barclay.” She paused. He could finish her thought. “And I have my bad sides.”

  Andy looked down. He heard a snicker from behind him.

  Miss Kettlewell took a breath, a long, slow displeased breath. And then—in the nick of time—the bell rang. And all the kids started scurrying around their desks.

  Saved by the bell, Andy thought. He was glad to see this day end.

  Miss Kettlewell shook her head and started walking back to the front of the room. “I want those desks spic-and-span before anyone leaves.”

  Andy cleared his books and papers off his desk, stuffing them into the empty hole just below the desk top. Then he remembered that he had a Berenstain Bear book from the class library. He pulled it out of his desk and walked over to the bookshelves near the tiny housekeeping corner filled with a battered toy stove, trucks, and blocks.

  He didn’t see Miss Kettlewell pop open her mouth. But he did hear her gasp.

  He was too busy looking at the shelves of toys. At the Good Guy doll sitting on the bottom shelf.

  That hadn’t been there before, he thought. He stood perfectly still, looking at it. It hadn’t been there before. He would have seen it.

  He backed away.

  “Andy!” Miss Kettlewell screamed. “Andy Barclay, come here!” He spun around. He felt as if he’d fall over, like the time he had a fever and everything seemed to be moving.

  Just a doll, he told himself. Just a doll.

  Right. Just like the other one, his mind yelled. Like the one that tied him up. Like the one that’s going to get him.

  “Come here!” Miss Kettlewell repeated. And Andy trudged over to her. He barely saw the other children gathered around the desk, smelling blood, eager to see what the new kid had done to get teacher sooooo upset.

  The teacher shoved a paper at him.

  He saw his name and math problems. And there were words, upside down, words he couldn’t read.

  He started to turn the paper around.

  “Do you think this is funny? Is this the idea of a joke where you come from?”

  He could read the words now.

  Fuck you, bitch!

  “I . . . I didn’t do that . . . ,” Andy said quietly.

  The kids watching all laughed.

  Andy looked at them. He didn’t see any sympathetic eyes out there. These were kids who were used to watching someone get in trouble. It was that kind of class.

  The bell rang again.

  “Go ahead . . . get to your buses,” Miss Kettlewell snapped to the class. “And don’t forget the spelling test tomorrow.” She turned her demon eyes back on Andy while the kids stampeded out the door, to the buses, to home, to freedom.

  Andy started to move away.

  “Not you. Take your coat off and get comfy, Mr. Barclay. You’re going to be here awhile. I’ll have the office call your home. You can take the late bus.”

  Andy sniffed at the air, and his eyes stung.
They felt full, and he knew he was ready to start crying.

  Not in front of her, he prayed. Not in front of this monster. Teachers like this live for kids crying.

  “But I didn’t do it!” he wailed. “I swear!”

  “No? Then who did?”

  Andy shook his head. He thought of Rick Spicer. He might have done it. He was that kind of kid. But when could he have done it? The class had always been together, all the time, and . . .

  He turned, looking away from Miss Kettlewell’s glares. Over to the windows, the bookshelves, the toys.

  The doll.

  Miss Kettlewell saw him look. And she started moving, her shoes clicking angrily on the Wood floor. “No, sir, don’t even think about playing with toys.”

  She went straight for the Good Guy doll and picked it up by its red hair. Andy watched. The hair didn’t look right. It almost seemed a bit loose.

  Miss Kettlewell walked to the back of the room, to a big closet. She unlocked the closet and threw the doll in. Andy caught glimpses of stacks of construction paper, a kick ball, a sweater hanging on a hook. She slammed the closet door shut.

  “Now go to your desk and put your head down while I call your . . . your foster mother.” Andy went to his desk while Miss Kettlewell slammed the classroom door behind her.

  He kept his head down for a minute—knowing that she was watching him. Then he popped his head up. Just a bit. Just enough to peek.

  She locked the door? he wondered. She couldn’t have done that, could she? You can’t do that to kids. You can’t lock them in a room.

  Then he turned and looked at the closet door.

  That was locked. He was happy about that. She had locked that nice and tight.

  He looked at the classroom door again. He didn’t see her looking in. He sat up, turning now to look back at the closet door.

  It’s just another Good Guy doll, he told himself. It’s probably been here for ages.

  But . . . but then why was the hair the same? The red hair looked all kind of . . . funny.

  He checked the classroom door again.

  And then, very slowly, as if his moving would make a tremendous sound, he slid off the chair and got to his feet. Tiptoeing, he walked to the back of the room, looking repeatedly over his shoulder.