“I pissed off Dr. Hansen. You?”
“Skipping.”
“That would be hard to get away with,” Matt says. “You’re either here or not.”
“Shit, I miss at least one day a week, sometimes two. I get Grace to gimme a note. I always say I got allergies in the spring. That’s like back pain. You can’t prove or disprove a sinus headache. I had some shit to do last week, so I took the week. Fucking Grace hung me out to dry.”
“That sucks.”
“Don’t I know it. You know, a lotta people been talkin’ about you. You’ve got some serious juice, my man.”
“Juice?”
“You know, like power. You’re not quite in my league, but you got potential.” George nods his head.
George and Matt, followed by Abby, stroll into the lunchroom. Three teenagers, two boys and a girl, sit on top of a table, their feet on the seats. Matt’s body tightens when he sees Colton lounging back, using his hands for support. Colton pops up at the sight of the trio.
“Oh, snap, look at this motherfuckin’ baller,” Colton says. “I thought you dropped out. Shit, you make enough duckets.” He stands and slaps hands with George, eyeing Matt from the corner of his eye, under his rigid New York Yankees cap. “This punk-ass bitch ain’t wich you, is he?”
“Don’t be talkin’ about my brother like that, motherfucker,” George says.
Colton puts up his hands. “Ah-ite, my bad. Don’t start trippin’.”
Matt notices a black eye and a bruise on the side of Colton’s face. Abby and the girl, another fake blonde with orange skin, jabber to each other. The other boy hops off the lunch table. The table creaks as the three-hundred-pound black teen pushes off. He’s a mountain of a man, with tight cornrows, gigantic facial features, and ears punctured with diamond studs.
“My man, George, it’s a sad day, when you get stuck in here,” the humongous teen says.
“Tony, what’s up? I could say the same thing to you,” George says.
“I’m black and three hundred pounds. What’s your excuse?”
“You gotta know your limits. I pushed too far.”
“Who’s your boy?”
“This is my foster brother, Matt.”
Tony nods his head, with a gargantuan grin. “This is the mufucker the youngins be talkin’ about, bitch-slapped that cop.” Tony chuckles. “I hear you be stirrin’ some shit, pissin’ of er body. Teachers be mad as a mufucker. Like Bob Marley said, ‘a real revolutionary.’”
Matt extends his hand. Tony’s mitt swallows his hand past his wrist. “Nice to meet you, Tony,” Matt says.
“Listen to this mufucker, all polite and shit.”
“Tony’s gonna be playin’ defensive tackle for Rutgers in the fall,” George says.
Matt shrugs. “I don’t know much about football.”
Tony laughs. “I like this white boy.”
A lanky, wrinkled white-haired janitor, with Herb written on his name tag, treks toward the teens in Timberland boots.
“Damn, Herb, you straight up pimpin’ in those Timberlands,” Tony says.
“I don’t wanna be doin’ dis anymore ’an you do, believe you me,” Herb says.
“Hey, Herb, my friend Matt here is interested in pursuing a career in the custodial arts. Maybe you could keep that in mind when you’re assigning work today,” George says, grinning.
“Watch yaself, ya li’l smart-ass. If yins don’t mess around, we can get outta here early.”
“I thought you got in trouble for lettin’ us out early?” Abby asks.
“Shut up,” George whispers.
“Ya think I give a shit,” Herb says. “I’m seventy-five goddamn years old.”
The kids laugh.
Matt and George walk from class to class, emptying trash cans into a large plastic bag. They enter Mr. Dalton’s history classroom with the master key Herb provided. George holds the bag open, while Matt dumps the trash inside. Matt scans the room.
“What are you doin’? Let’s go,” George says.
“Go ahead, I’m looking for something,” Matt says.
Matt opens the drawers of Mr. Dalton’s metal desk.
George laughs. “You ain’t gonna find any dirt in there.”
Matt looks at George, blank-faced.
“You got balls, I’ll give you that, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’. You want the dirt, you gotta go to the computer. I know your country ass doesn’t know shit about computers.”
Matt shakes his head. George pushes the button on the monitor and the hard drive. He walks over to the printer on the windowsill and pushes that button. The printer starts to move and whiz. The hard drive beeps and boots up. George sits down at Mr. Dalton’s desk. Matt pulls up a chair. George cracks his knuckles and runs a hand through his wavy blond hair. His hazel eyes stare at the password prompt.
“Let’s see how dumb he is,” George says, cracking his knuckles.
George types in “password.” The computer sends an error message, which states Incorrect Password in red letters. He tries “123456,” which gives him another error message, then “password1.”
The screen flashes, the Microsoft startup music sings, and the icons appear.
“What a dumbass,” George says.
“So we’re in his computer now?” Matt asks.
“Wow, you really don’t know shit about computers. Yes, we’re in. So what do you want me to look for?”
“Anything that might be particularly embarrassing or inappropriate.”
“Damn, you are hateful.”
Matt frowns and looks at the floor. “Do you think this is wrong?”
George chuckles. “You’re asking me? I think Dalton’s a dick.”
George searches Dalton’s documents, videos, and e-mails, doing a word search for “dick,” “shit,” “pussy,” “fuck,” “cunt,” “cock,” and “asshole.”
George’s eyes widen. “Jackpot.”
A string of e-mails addressed to Olivia Pierce show up on the screen.
“We should shut this off,” Matt says.
“No, fuck that. Ms. Pierce is hot. Maybe she sent him a naked picture.”
George opens the first e-mail containing one of the seven dirty words.
From: Chris Dalton
To: Olivia Pierce
Subject: Get Together
Olivia,
You look great today. I love it when you where that turtleneck. We need to get together this weekend. I know you think I come on strong but I know we have a connection don’t deni it. I know you think I’m an asshole sometimes but deep down I’m not. Lets get together I’ll make it worth your wild.
Chris
George cackles, his body convulsing in the chair as he doubles over. “Holy shit, that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. What a fucking tool. Oh, shit, her response is underneath.” George scrolls down.
From: Olivia Pierce
To: Chris Dalton
Subject: Re: Get Together
Chris,
First of all, I don’t where a turtleneck, I wear a turtleneck. Second of all, it’s worth your while, not wild. If you’re going to ask out an English teacher, use proper grammar. I already told you nicely that I was seeing someone.
Ms. Olivia Pierce
Eleventh Grade English
Jefferson High
PS: Please learn to use a comma.
George has another laughing fit. Matt joins in. George opens the next e-mail in the string.
From: Chris Dalton
To: Olivia Pierce
Subject: Re: Re: Get Together
Olivia,
Your reply was so funny. I guess that’s why I teach history and not English. For you I will work on my English skills. I could use a tutor though. Know anybody good? Please consider my offer, it’s a good one.
Chris
“Let’s print this whole string out. There’s like ten of ’em,” George says.
He sends the documents to the printer. The printer spits out
the pages. George and Matt read through them as they come, hot off the press. George picks up the second-to-last page and turns it over, a stifled grin on his face.
“Hey, Matt, check this one out.”
Matt looks over, and George shoves a picture in Matt’s face of a man’s erection poking from a jungle of dark curly hair. George falls to one knee, cackling. His face is red, and his eyes are watery.
“He sent her a dick pic!” George says, before convulsing back into hysterics.
Matt drops the picture in disgust. George regains his composure.
“Goddamn, this is fun,” George says. “I’m surprised Ms. Pierce didn’t get his dumb ass fired.”
Matt reads the final e-mail in the string. “She’s threatening to go to the administration, if he doesn’t stop. He deserves to be fired.”
“What was the date on that last one?”
“It’s from two days ago.”
“You know he probably banged some of his students. There are so many dumb bitches in love with him. I remember when I had him, they would all sit in the front row, checkin’ out his junk. If he can’t stop himself from sending dick pics at school, I wonder what else he can’t stop himself from doin’. Let’s check his Internet history.”
“Internet history?”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like, homeboy. The history, if he didn’t delete it, will tell us what he’s been looking up at school. Oh, shit, here we go.” George clicks around, opening up Dalton’s history folders. “This douchebag is all over porn sites. Is this cliché or what? He’s on naughtyschoolgirls.com almost every day.” George chuckles. “I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.”
Matt frowns and shakes his head.
“Now, Matt, we gotta analyze this. Let’s think about how this happens. So he’s checkin’ out these teenage girls all day, in the halls, in class, checkin’ out their asses in those tight little shorts, lookin’ down their shirts as he stands over ’em teachin’ history. Shit, he probably rubs one out in the teacher’s bathroom. He’s so worked up by the end of the day that he gets on naughtyschoolgirls.com, imagining all the hot chicks in school. This dumbass can’t even wait till he gets home.”
“Can we print the history too?”
“I’m sendin’ it to the printer now.” George turns to Matt, his jaw set tight. “Just so we’re clear—this is on you. I did not help you. Do you understand me?”
“Of course. I appreciate you helping.”
George glares at Matt.
“I mean, not helping me. What do you think I should do with this?”
“Get the motherfucker fired, what else? It’ll be a public service.”
“One thing I don’t get. If we can find this stuff, why doesn’t the school? Don’t they check?”
George shrugs. “I guess that depends on the tech guy.” George grins and nods his head.
“What?”
“The tech guy is Mr. Richardson.”
Matt shrugs.
“He coaches with Mr. Dalton, so he probably doesn’t even check his history, or, if he does, he wouldn’t narc on him.”
The boys stop off at Matt’s locker to deposit the evidence. They continue with their rounds, until they reach Mrs. Campbell’s classroom. They open the door with the master key. Old newspaper clippings of heroic tales of police glory hang on the walls, some framed, some not. Her metal desk sits in the back of the room, with a tubby computer monitor on top and a hard drive underneath.
An old framed picture of Chief Campbell, Mrs. Campbell, and their two kids, Colton and Sophia, sits on the desk. Everyone’s smiling, with crinkles at the corners of their eyes, except Colton, who looks to be about ten. He forces a smile, but his eyes tell the truth. Everyone’s dressed in khakis and white polo shirts, with the ocean in the background.
“So what’s your beef with Mrs. Campbell?” George asks, as he sits down at her desk and boots up her computer.
“I don’t know yet,” Matt says.
George types in common passwords. “Shit, I don’t know what this could be,” George says.
“Try ‘police.’”
“Nope.”
“How about ‘ColtonandSophia’?” Matt asks.
“Nope. Lemme try with an ampersand.” George beams. “Look at that. I’m a hacker now.”
George searches for the seven dirty words. No results. They scan through her e-mails.
“Damn, she’s boring,” George says. “No personal e-mails at all.”
Matt frowns. “Can you check to see if she has any e-mails to or from Dr. Hansen?”
“She has a bunch, but those are part of the mass e-mails Hansen sends out to the whole staff. I’ll bring up any e-mails just between the two of them.” George does the search. “Nope, nothin’.”
George shuts down the computer, and they lock up Mrs. Campbell’s classroom. Matt drags the bulging plastic bag along the linoleum hallway toward the lunchroom. George strolls beside him. Matt stares at the main office.
“I think Dr. Hansen needs her trash can emptied,” Matt says.
“I bet she does,” George says, grinning.
The pair walks down the corridor to the principal’s office. Matt reaches for the handle, but the door is locked. He slides the master key into the lock, but it won’t turn. He jiggles it, but no movement. He flips the key over, but still no dice.
“Whadda yins think yer doin’ down dare,” Herb says.
Matt and George return from the corridor, to the office waiting area. Herb stands, eyes narrowed, with his hands on his hips.
“Takin’ the trash,” George says.
“Uh-huh, I bet. Classrooms only. Take dat dare bag out to da Dumpster. And don’t drag it. It gonna split.”
+++
The six teens push through the front doors, their faces awash in sunlight, and their moods light with the completion of their penance. George, Matt, and Tony walk together with Colton close behind. Abby and the other blonde walk together.
“You got my shit tomorrow?” Tony asks.
“Yeah, I’ll drop it by your place,” George says.
“Ah-ite. Layta, playa.”
George turns to Matt. “I have some business in Philly. Ever been?”
“When I was a baby, but I don’t remember it,” Matt replies.
“Well, shit then, ya gadda come.”
“Yo, can I come?” Colton asks.
“Listen, Colton, I don’t wanna be a dick, but you can’t go to Philly with that wigger shit you got goin’ on.”
“Come on, George. I can talk regular. I gotta get the fuck outta this town.”
“All right, but I want twenty dollars for gas, and you gotta wait in the car.”
“Ah-ite.”
George glares at Colton.
“I mean, all right.”
“Abby, you comin’?” George asks.
“I guess, but I’m sittin’ in front,” Abby says.
George guides the black Mustang onto I-76, stopping at the toll booth to grab a ticket, before mashing the accelerator, the V-8 roaring to life. Matt’s head pushes back into the headrest. Abby raises her arms like she’s on a roller coaster. George bangs through the gears like a NASCAR driver. The two-hour ride to Philly is short on conversation but long on blasted rock ballads from Def Leppard and Guns N’ Roses.
George drives into a neighborhood with endless brick row homes. Air conditioners and fans stick out of the upper windows, bars protect the lower. Satellite dishes are the most common upgrade. Reddish brick colors vary just enough to make each house in the row clash with the others. Cars line the curbs in front.
“Parking sucks here,” George says, as he circles the block. George slams the stick into Reverse and parallel parks. “You two stay in the car. Keep the door locked. Matt, let’s go.”
“Come on, George. I’ll be cool,” Colton says.
“Shut up and stay in the car,” George replies.
George and Matt stride down the sidewalk. Other than the odd tuft of grass or
dandelions growing in the cracks of the sidewalk, no greenery exists. A few neighborhood stoop-sitters give the two boys the evil eye. George stops at a brownish-redbrick row home, with black bars protecting the windows and the door. This row home is the only one with a sickly small tree quarantined by concrete. George reaches his hand between the vertical bars and knocks on the door. A scantily clad black woman with wide hips opens the wooden door, with the barred door still shut.
“What the fuck y’all want?” she says, her eyes narrowing at George’s backpack straps.
“We’re here to see Jimbo. I’m George.”
“Oh, shit, you’re George? I’m sorry, honey. I was expecting you to be … older. Come on in.” She opens the barred door and steps aside for the boys. “Now who’s your friend?”
“This is my brother, Matt.”
“Okay, I can see the family resemblance. I know some young girls that’d be real interested in you two. I could get you an employee discount.” She giggles; her cleavage shakes. “Why don’t y’all wait here in the TV room. I’ll get Jimbo.” She saunters to the stairs. “Jimbo, George is here.”
An L-shaped couch, with a plastic covering on it, sits along the wall and in front of a big-screen TV standing on built-in speakers. The number 227 appears on the screen, with intro music, followed by two black women arguing: one dressed in a tight-fitting leotard; the other, older, with a perpetual scowl.
“I love this old show,” she says. “It reminds me of my neighborhood back in the day.” She laughs and puts her hand on her chest. “I don’t know why I’m telling y’all. Prolly never hearda 227.”
“Marla Gibbs, Jackee Harry, Hal Williams—I remember it,” George says.
She giggles. “You so crazy. What are you doin’ watchin’ these old shows?”
Against the Grain Page 15
