33 Minutes

by Todd Hasak-Lowy

  I quickly lift my own hand to the source of the throbbing, where I discover a Tootsie Roll–shaped bump on the top of my head. This is usually not a good thing, but then I remember: I should be getting my butt kicked. Right now. Right this very instant.

  Sharing my skull with Tootsie seems a pretty small price to pay.

  “Is everyone else at recess?” I ask.

  Nurse Landen shakes her head very slowly from side to side. “Oh, no. Recess was canceled. You might be the one and only Viking not on cleanup duty, what with all that tom­foolery in the cafeteria. When will you children ever learn the importance of nutrition?”

  Recess was canceled! One more reason to like food fights.

  “Principal Benson attempted to telephone your mother and father but was unable to locate either of them.” In the time it takes her to speak these last few sentences, I have nearly made a complete recovery. “Would you happen to have any additional telephone numbers for them? Perhaps a cellular telephone number, for instance. Unfortunately, our secretaries have only work and home telephone numbers for your mother and father in our records.”

  I sit up with great effort. “Why are you calling them?”

  Nurse Landen smiles the kind of smile she probably used to smile back in 1794 when her mischievous sons, Floyd and Clyde, wanted to play horseshoes instead of milking the cows. “Why, so they can take you home.”

  “Oh.” I consider this while touching Tootsie.

  So I could end all this with a single phone call. Get picked up. Hide at home. Apply for Canadian citizenship, move to Toronto, live among a more peaceful people.

  But I’d only be postponing the inevitable, because I read somewhere that getting Canadian citizenship is actually pretty hard. Darn peaceful Canadians. Unless there’s a serious spring snowstorm or the sudden outbreak of an airborne virus, I’ll be back here at exactly this time tomorrow. The blacktop, also known as the Wagner Middle School Butt-Kicking Arena, will still be standing. And Morgan Sturtz will still want to kick mine.

  “My dad’s impossible to get ahold of when he’s at work,” I inform Nurse Landen, trying to sound disappointed. He actually works at home most of the time, in his crazy studio. He’s a music engineer, which in his case means he puts together the music and sound effects that they play at football and basket­ball games. One time he composed this awesome introduction for Morgan and me, like we were about to play for the championship of something. I was “Your Captain!” and had played at Michigan State, which ­Morgan said was the best place to have played. My dad turned down the lights, and the music was so loud, I forgot I stink at sports. Instead, I felt like I was about to save the planet. We made my dad play it eleven times, until my hand hurt from high-fiving Morgan. My dad was ready for us to leave by then anyway.

  “And,” I continue, “my mom is in Switzerland on a business trip.” If I’m going to lie, I might as well get my money’s worth. My mom really is away, but only in St. Louis. She went down there to be the photographer at the wedding of some cousin of some friend of hers from college, and so she decided to stay until today to hang out with her friend.

  She always used to take a lot of pictures, but then, about four years ago, the guy who was supposed to take pictures at my uncle’s huge fiftieth birthday got sick at the last minute, so she filled in. Turned out she’s really good at it, so she decided to start her own business.

  I remember how she sat down on the edge of my bed one Sunday night and asked, “Sammy, what would you think if I went back to work?”

  “What kind of work?” I asked her.

  “Well”—she seemed very excited by my question because her face suddenly lit up—“how does ‘Rebecca Lewis Photog­raphy’ sound to you?”

  And then I felt how I had like a hundred questions I wanted to ask her all at the same time, but that most of them maybe weren’t so nice. Questions like: What about me? and How much are you going to be gone? and Photography is stupid. I guess some of them weren’t really questions. But I could tell she wanted me to be happy for her, so I just said, “It sounds good.” Her face stayed lit up, and she did this thing she used to do a lot but doesn’t really do much anymore, where she kisses the top of my head and then breathes in very loudly before getting up and turning off the light. It took me a long time to fall asleep that night.

  At first she just did everything out of our basement, but then she got her own studio, which has some pretty cool computers in it, but still, she’s there way too much.

  In fact, the only really good thing about her being so crazy about cameras is that we have a picture of just about every fun thing I’ve ever done in my entire life. Learning how to ride a bike, making chocolate-chip pancakes, jumping on my neighbor’s trampoline, standing in front of Niagara Falls, you name it. Plus, a couple times she made me these pretty amazing photo albums for my birthday presents. They actually look like real books. When I turned eleven, she made me one that was just pictures from this time my parents took Morgan and me to Cedar Point, which is probably the best amusement park in the whole world.

  There’s this one picture in it, from right after we got off Shoot the Rapids. Both of us are totally soaked and have our hair in Mohawks. We were totally cracking up, too, because right before she took the picture, Morgan said something like, “Man, I just had to go so bad, I couldn’t hold it in.” So I said, “I’m so stupid! I know I should have gone before we got on.” And we kept making jokes like that until after we were already dry, until my dad finally told us to knock it off.

  My mom gave that picture a whole page. That used to be the best picture ever.

  I looked at it this morning, because I woke up early and couldn’t fall back asleep. Then I went downstairs. My dad was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. “Hey, good morning,” he said. I didn’t say anything, just opened the cupboard and took out the Rice Krispies. Then he said, “You’re up pretty early.”

  I went to the fridge, took out the milk, and finally said, “So?”

  I could hear him watching me while I got a bowl and a spoon. “Everything okay, bud?” he asked.

  Now he wants to know. Now, a year and a half after letting Chris into our house. Now, after not caring that I was going over to that kid’s stupid house all the time (where there never were any adults) for the last year so people could drop bowling balls on my head. Now, after Morgan laughed at me in front of the whole school. I just stared at the back of the Rice Krispies box and said, like I didn’t feel like talking, “Everything’s just great, Dad.” He didn’t say much after that.

  So I tell Nurse Landen, “You won’t be able to get either of them right now.”

  “I see.” She scoots to the front of her chair and lowers a foot to the floor to roll herself back to her desk. “Well, ­Samuel, you are welcome to remain here to recuperate as long as you would like.”

  Another chance to hide. But what’s the point? “Actually, I think I’m okay.”

  “As long as you are certain.” Nurse Landen hands me my gym uniform: blue shorts and a yellow T-shirt boasting, what else, the likeness of a supertough Viking.

  “What’s this for?” I ask her, even though I have a hunch I won’t like the answer.

  There’s that smile again. “Well, we can’t very well receive a proper education covered from head to toe in our schoolmates’ lunches, now can we? You may change right here. I will step out for a moment to inform Prinicipal ­Benson of your status and your decision.”

  12:21

  I’m retying my shoes, trying to figure out why applesauce is only partially absorbed by my laces, when a knock comes at the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door springs open, a voice already speaking, “Kay, sorry, me again.” A head appears, that of Ms. Zuckerman, the art teacher. “You wouldn’t happen to have any more of those—” The head turns, she sees me and realizes that I’m no
t Nurse Landen.

  I wave, don’t ask why. “Hi, Ms. Zuckerman.”

  She steps all the way inside, giving me a view of her long, dark, frizzy hair, today’s flowing scarf (blue and green, paisley pattern), a pair of orange glasses hanging from a thin purple cord around her neck, some sort of maroon silky pants-dress thing covering her legs, and, of course, her leather boots, which would look good on a pirate who drives a motorcycle on weekends.

  “It’s Mika, Sam.” She closes her right eye, like reminding me of this has given her a headache. “Ms. Z, if you can’t deal with first names.”

  “Sorry.” I wipe my hands on the bench, trying to remove the applesauce.

  “Hey, what’s up? What are you doing here? Where’s Nurse Landen? And what’s with the getup? Don’t tell me we’ve got another dodgeball casualty on our hands.”

  Allow me to state clearly that Ms. Zuckerman is not your average Wagner Middle School faculty member. Most teachers here think their job is to train us to behave like good little doggies, doggies who can also barf back facts the teachers don’t even care about. But not Ms. Zuckerman, or Mika, or Ms. Z. She just tells us stuff like, “I can’t teach you much about art that you don’t already know. Because art’s already in you. You just need to let yourself remember. We’re all artists, every last one of us.” She treats us like actual adults, or at least actual short adults.

  “You didn’t hear?” I ask, confused.

  Ms. Z looks out the door, around the office, trying to figure out something that I doubt has anything to do with our conversation. “Hear what?”

  How can she be this clueless? “Weren’t you in the cafeteria? They called all the teachers there. Code 9–18 or something.”

  “9–18? No,” she replies, her eyes drifting over to Nurse Landen’s desk. “I meditate during lunch, so my intercom was off. Also, I don’t enter the cafeteria.”

  This is the other thing about Ms. Z. On the one hand, she’s a pretty cool person, and I usually avoid that word. Even though I stink at drawing, she actually got me to want to try it again. She gave me a book on something called “Impressionism,” which I read instead of doing papier-mâché, because there’s something really, really wrong about that goop. When we talked about the book later, I could tell she felt about that guy Monet the way I felt about the scientific calculator I got for my twelfth birthday. But then, on the other hand, she kind of seems like a mess most of the time. Still, she’s probably my second-favorite teacher at Wagner Middle School.

  “Massive food fight.” I pack my clothes into the plastic bag that was holding my PE uniform. “Someone nailed me with a salad bowl.”

  “Where?” This gets her attention.

  “Right here.” And I stand up to show her Tootsie.

  Ms. Z takes her hand, half covered in green paint, and puts it on my head. Somehow this makes me feel much better. “Holy crap, Sam.” Yes, that’s yet another way Ms. Z stands apart from her colleagues. “Morgan didn’t do that to you, did he?”

  “Morgan?” I pretend I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Why would Morgan hit me with a salad bowl?”

  Ms. Z removes her hand, crosses her arms, and says nothing. She’s half smiling and rolling her eyes, an expression that could mean any or all of the following:

  • You’re really smart, don’t act stupid.

  • Please don’t try to fool me like you would, understandably, most of my coworkers. I deserve better than that, and you know it.

  • I’m Mika Zuckerman, I know everything that goes on here at Wagner Middle School, so let’s not pretend I don’t know what I’m talking about.

  Because that’s the last thing about Ms. Z: She does know just about everything that goes on here (except massive food fights, I guess). I don’t think this is part of some master plan on her part (if only because I doubt Ms. Z is the kind of person who thinks up master plans). It’s just that you act differently in her room. Plus, you’re allowed to talk—encouraged, even. Plus, you just sit there painting mangoes or sculpting shoes out of clay, listening to a CD of some guy playing the sitar, chatting the whole time. Meanwhile, Ms. Z walks around, checks in on how everyone’s doing, tells you she thinks your project is great (and seems to really mean it), makes a ­couple suggestions, but then doesn’t hurry off. Instead, she’ll sit down, maybe work on something of her own, until, next thing you know, you’re treating her like just another seventh grader. And this is even before getting to all those girls who stick around after class or show up early to talk with her about private things they won’t even tell their friends. Ms. Z’s room is a magnet for all gossip at Wagner Middle School.

  I sit back down on the sticky bench. “It came from his table. But I don’t think it was him.”

  “So it is true.” Ms. Z plops down in Nurse Landen’s chair. “You two really were going to fight at recess today.”

  “Yeah, it’s true.” No point in pretending.

  “That’s crazy, Sam.” Ms. Z opens up one of Nurse Landen’s cabinets and begins casually looking through it. “You two need to talk. You need to sort this out.” She removes a small plastic container, reads the label, puts it back. “Nonviolent conflict resolution, you know?”

  “Yeah, try telling that to Morgan,” I say, wishing I could ask her to lead the negotiations between us.

  “So, you need to apologize to him.” Ms. Z removes a glass vial, unscrews the top, smells it, and shudders a bit.

  I cross my arms, even if she can’t see me. “Why do I need to apologize?”

  Ms. Z momentarily stops her pillaging to offer me another version of that look. “Sam. Please. I don’t think I’m exactly going out on a limb here when I say that if you two are going to fight, it probably wasn’t your idea. Correct?”

  “Correct.” Arms still crossed.

  “And you and Morgan used to be tight as thieves. Simpatico. Best buds.” She bends forward and rests her forearms on her thighs. “You follow?”

  “Yeah.” Arms still crossed.

  “And”—she takes the end of her scarf in one hand and runs the tassels along the palm of her other hand—“considering he’s a jock and all, Morgan’s still a decent kid, am I right?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” Arms uncrossed. “Used to be, anyway.”

  “So”—she keeps playing with her scarf but has switched hands—“he must be extremely PO-ed about something you did.”

  I look down at my feet for a moment before answering. “Well, I did do this one thing.”

  “One thing?” I think she laughs. “Really? You did just one thing? Only one?”

  Now I am mad. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Sam, tell me something.” Ms. Z is now using her scarf to clean her glasses. “What’d you get on your last report card?”

  What does this have to do with anything? “A’s.”

  She doesn’t look up. “All A’s?”

  “Except for two A pluses. So?”

  “And . . .” She breathes out onto her glasses, then goes back to cleaning them. “And Morgan, how’d he do?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “How am I supposed to know? I don’t remember.”

  “Really?” She lifts her head up and smiles at me. “You know what the capital of Tajikistan is, you know how many electrons are in a uranium atom, but you can’t remember what your best friend—”

  “Ex–best friend,” I correct her.

  “And”—Ms. Z holds up her glasses about six inches from her face and squints—“you expect me to believe you don’t remember what Morgan got on his report card.”

  “Fine.” I kick the bench with the back of my shoe. “He got an A, two B’s, and four C’s.”

  “A in PE?” she asks.

  “Yeah, so?” I say, annoyed. “What does this have to do with anything?”

  Ms. Z finally stops playing around with her glasses,
sits up, and looks right at me. “Oh, I don’t know. But I’d guess that he knows what you got and that he knows that you know what he got and that maybe you couldn’t help being very happy about what you got whenever he saw your grades and you saw his. That, you know, you sort of spiked, just like a football, right in front of him.”

  The back of my neck is getting very warm, and I think Tootsie is swelling. “I didn’t spike anything.”

  Ms. Z puts up her hands, like I need calming down. “Forget it, never mind. You’re miffed about your head, I get it. So tell me, what was the one thing you did do?”

  And I really was going to tell her—I wanted to, even—but there’s Nurse Landen bursting in like it’s her office, a pleasant smile quickly forced onto her face. “Why, hello, Mika. How are you feeling today?”

  Ms. Z shakes her head. “Don’t ask.”

  And then they both look at me, so I stand up and tuck my shirt into my oversized shorts. I’m about to tell Ms. Z that I’ll see her soon for sixth period, but Nurse Landen speaks first.

  “Samuel,” she says very, very softly. “Principal Benson is waiting for you in his office.”

  12:25

  If I weren’t wearing my PE uniform so far from the gym, if I weren’t holding a plastic bag filled with my food-covered clothing, if a number of different condiments didn’t squirt out of my shoes with each step, if Tootsie didn’t pulse each time one of my feet hit the floor, I’d still feel extra strange, because here I am, walking the halls between the mysterious back offices deep inside Wagner Middle School.

  I am walking on (and probably staining) actual ­carpeting. Not particularly nice carpeting, but still, it’s carpeting, which, when you compare it to the rest of the school’s tiling, makes this little wing feel kind of fancy. I almost expect to see a bellboy appear from around the corner pushing a brass cart stacked high with luggage. Next (and I stop between squishy steps to make sure I’m right), the sound level in this hallway is, that’s right, quiet (a word you only ever hear around these parts when a teacher screams, “I said, QUIET!!”). I am alone, walking through an actual student-free zone.