The School of Revenge

by Michael Richan

  They wouldn’t be laughing then, he thought.

  I wonder if I should start weight training; build up my muscles. Learn how to fight. Maybe Taekwondo.

  He felt the shove from Curtis, sending him off the locker room bench. I probably looked like a dork, lying there on the ground, trying to pick myself back up. He hadn’t looked at Curtis during that exchange, not wanting to see the guy’s eyes. He probably thinks I’m afraid of him. He’s right, of course. I should have pushed him back.

  Funny; if we’re on the football field, I can push him back and not get in trouble. If I do it in the locker room, we’d be accused of fighting.

  The next time we have practice, I should really lay into him, he thought.

  He felt anxious, just the opposite of how you want to feel before trying to go to sleep. He knew it would keep him up. For all the resolutions and fantasizing, he knew deep down tomorrow would be the same as today; when he faced Curtis again, he didn’t know how he’d react, but he suspected he’d lose, regardless.

  Then he considered the paper that he’d read. “Tools,” it had said. Tools you could use to get justice and make things right.

  That’s what I’m missing, he thought. I need some tools. Something to help me stand up to that prick.

  The more he thought about the tools, the less anxiety he felt, and soon he drifted off.

  —

  The next morning he’d completely forgotten about the tools, and when he remembered thinking about them the night before, he discounted the idea of attending the meeting. He was feeling better for some reason, and didn’t even want to bring up the idea of the meeting with Phillip.

  It’s probably something stupid anyway, he thought as he settled into his chair for first period. As the morning wore on, he almost forgot about it completely.

  Then lunch arrived.

  Lunch was the first time each day that Aaron and Phillip got to see each other. As Phillip joined him with his tray of food, Aaron felt sick to his stomach.

  They were wearing the same green-striped shirt.

  “When did you get that shirt?” Phillip asked. Aaron could see that the same thoughts and concerns were racing through his friend’s mind.

  “New this year,” Aaron said.

  “Me too,” Phillip replied, sitting down. He deliberately sat a seat away from him so they wouldn’t be side by side. “Do you think anyone will notice?”

  “If they don’t during lunch,” Aaron replied, “they will during Algebra.”

  “Damn,” Phillip said. “You should go home and change.”

  “You should go home and change!” Aaron replied.

  Aaron saw the hand reach over his shoulder, grabbing his milk. He didn’t have to turn to know Curtis was behind him.

  “Little twinners?” Curtis said. “You look exactly alike. Look Dirk, aren’t they cute?”

  Aaron felt his anger rising, and he wondered if he’d follow through on any of the responses he imagined himself executing in his fantasies the previous night.

  “Yeah, they’re real cute,” Dirk said. He felt Dirk’s large hand land on his shoulder, pressing him down. “I can’t tell them apart.”

  “This’ll help,” Curtis said, pouring the milk over Aaron’s head. As the cold liquid ran down his hair and past his eyes, Aaron tried to stand, but Dirk’s hand kept him down.

  “Now you can easily tell them apart!” Curtis said. “The wet one, and the dry one!”

  Before he could think of a way to respond, Dirk’s other hand was at the back of his head, and his face was going down toward the table. He turned his face just as his nose came into contact with the food and he felt it smear into the side of his cheek. Dirk held his head down for a few moments.

  Snickers erupted from other tables, and Aaron felt blood rush to his head in embarrassment.

  “Leave him alone!” he heard Phillip say. The pressure released from his head, and he raised himself. Tomato sauce dripped from his face.

  “You wanna be wet, too?” Dirk asked Phillip. Aaron saw Phillip stare him down, not responding.

  Curtis and Dirk left without saying anything more, and Aaron reached for a napkin to wipe off his face. He decided he wasn’t hungry and stood up, abandoning the table. He found a restroom where he could look at himself in a mirror and get the rest of the milk and food out of his hair.

  Phillip came up behind him, and he saw his reflection in the mirror.

  “You OK?” Phillip asked.

  “Seems like that’s always what you’re asking me,” Aaron replied, splashing water into his face.

  “They’re such idiots!” Phillip replied. “I hate them.”

  Aaron looked in the mirror. “Well, we gave them an easy target with the shirts,” he said, pointing at their clothing.

  “I’m never wearing this shirt again,” Phillip said. “I don’t care what my dad says.”

  Aaron looked at himself in the mirror. You need tools, he thought, and he remembered the paper from the night before. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “I thought it was your piano lesson night?” Phillip replied.

  “It is, but I mean later. Around 8.”

  “I’ll be hanging at home, wishing I was at your place playing GTA.”

  “You know the old library on Abraham Street? The one they closed down a couple of years ago?”

  “Sure,” Phillip replied. “Used to go there all the time. Why?”

  “Meet me there at 8,” Aaron said.

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “If you’re not going to go home and change, I’m going to,” Phillip said. “We can’t be seen in Algebra like this. It’ll be devastating.”

  “I’ll go,” Aaron said. “There’s food on my shirt anyway.”

  They turned to leave the restroom, and Aaron solicited a promise from Phillip that they’d meet later that night.

  —

  “Fingering!” Mrs. Morrison said for the fifth time. “Aaron, stop! Just stop!”

  He pulled his hands from the keyboard.

  Mrs. Morrison was a middle-aged woman who lived three doors down from Aaron. She’d been giving him piano lessons since he was eight.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Suddenly you’ve forgotten everything about fingering we’ve ever discussed!”

  “I’m sorry, it’s hard to concentrate,” he replied. And it was. Thoughts of what happened at school earlier that day plagued him all afternoon. He’d heard other people talking about it, and heard laughter as he walked down the halls. Thank god we weren’t dressed the same in Algebra, he thought.

  “I’ll say,” Mrs. Morrison replied. “You seem to be far away, not here at this piano. What is it, school?”

  “Yeah,” he replied, knowing he needed some kind of excuse or she’d keep digging. “Tons of homework.”

  “Well, you’ve got to put all of that out of your mind while we work on this piece,” she said, pointing to the sheet music in front of him. “If you get this down, you’ll be able to attend the city recital. I think you can do it, but you’ve got to concentrate!”

  “I’ll try,” he said, seriously meaning to comply. He’d hated playing the piano the first two years, but his mother insisted that he keep at it, and in the last year the music that Mrs. Morrison had been asking him to learn had become easier and more fun to play. He found himself gravitating to keyboard parts in his favorite songs, and wondering what it would be like to play keyboards in a band.

  He positioned his fingers and started again, this time forcing himself to use the fingering that Mrs. Morrison had taught him. At first it seemed harder to do than the fingering he wanted to do naturally, but the more he picked up on her method, the more he realized that she was teaching him a technique that was actually faster than what he’d tried originally.

  “Better, better!” she said, once he’d completed. “See, if you stick with what I showed you, you really can do this. I believe in you!”

  “The city
recital is when?”

  “December,” she replied. “So you’ve got two and a half months. Think you can do it?”

  “I’ll try,” he replied.

  “That’s my boy!” she answered. “Let’s do it again.”

  He raised his fingers and played the piece. It was getting easier each time. The idea of performing it in front of people made him a little nervous, but Mrs. Morrison’s encouragement kept him going.

  And besides, he thought, no one from my school needs to know I play the piano. None of them will likely go to the recital.

  Over the course of the lesson he played the piece three more times, Mrs. Morrison stopping him in places to point out mistakes or changes he needed to make. By the time the lesson was over, he was beginning to feel confident.

  As they parted, Mrs. Morrison confirmed their appointment for the next week, and Aaron hurried home, knowing his mother would have dinner waiting.

  Chapter Three

  As he entered his bedroom after dinner, Aaron was surprised to see a wadded-up paper ball at the base of his window.

  Another one? he thought.

  He picked up the paper and smoothed it out. Like last time, small grains of white sand were inside; they fell to the floor as he brushed them off.

  Exactly the same, he thought as he read it. The same flyer as yesterday. Whoever is tossing them into my window sure wants me to come!

  He checked the clock on his nightstand; it was 6:30. He figured he’d need to leave by 7:45. He considered telling his mom about his plans, but decided he didn’t want to risk receiving a “no.” His mother’s no’s were final, non-negotiable rulings, and once pronounced, could not be appealed.

  I’ll just sneak out, he thought.

  He finished up the day’s homework and killed time with Fallout until 7:45 arrived. Then, he quietly slipped out the window and removed his bike from the garage. It was already dark, and streetlights had popped on. The last bugs of fall were buzzing around them.

  The breeze felt good. He hadn’t brought a jacket, and enjoyed the feeling of the wind blowing through his shirt as he pedaled. He could feel his brown hair lifting a little when he was going fast enough, and it reminded him he was in need of a haircut.

  The library on Abraham Street looked dark and quiet. Plywood had been placed over the windows years ago, and while the city kept the weeds down, it still looked abandoned and lonely. It made him feel a little sad, remembering the hours he’d spent inside, exploring the sections of books, finding titles.

  He pedaled around back, pleased to see the old bike rack still there, bolted to the ground. Two other bikes were chained up in it. He locked his up and walked to the entrance. A hastily-written sign directed him to a side entrance.

  He’d never used the side entrance before, but he followed the arrow on the sign and found Phillip waiting by a large metal door.

  “Thought you’d never get here,” Phillip said.

  “You been here long?”

  “I don’t know, maybe five minutes. A couple of kids have gone in. They looked at me funny, standing out here like a dork.”

  “You ever gone through this side entrance before?” Aaron asked, reaching for the handle.

  “Nope.”

  The door swung open. It led downstairs.

  “Huh,” Aaron said. “The basement.”

  “I didn’t know there was a basement,” Phillip said. “There weren’t any books down there when it was still a library, were there?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  They walked down the stairs, landing on a cement floor. Ahead of them was an older teen, standing at the intersection of a hallway.

  “Come on in, guys,” the teen said. “You’re just in time. They’re going to start in a minute. Sign here.”

  The teen turned a clipboard to them and held out a pen.

  “Sign?” Aaron asked.

  “Yeah,” the teen replied, “we want to keep track of who came, for our records. I’m Jeremy, by the way. You are?”

  “Phillip Parsons,” Phillip said, taking the pen and signing the clipboard. When he was done, he handed the pen to Aaron, who signed as well.

  Jeremy turned the clipboard around. “No joking, guys, we need real names.”

  “That is my name,” Aaron said.

  “Aaron Rogers?” Jeremy asked skeptically.

  “That really is his name,” Phillip said. “It’s spelled differently. There’s no D in it.”

  Jeremy looked at the clipboard again. “I guess so. Besides, you wouldn’t make that up around here if you didn’t have to, am I right?” He smiled at them.

  Aaron gave him a weak smile in return.

  “OK, guys, first room on the right. Go inside and take a seat,” Jeremy said. “Should be starting any minute.”

  They walked down the hallway and into a room that had a dozen folding chairs arranged to face an empty wall. All but two of the seats were taken, so they didn’t have much of a choice where to sit. Aaron was grateful that at least the open seats were next to each other, so he wouldn’t have to sit next to someone he didn’t know.

  And he didn’t know anyone there. If he had to guess, half the room seemed to be filled by high-schoolers, and most of the rest looked like seventh or eighth graders. He didn’t recognize a single soul.

  “Welcome!” came a voice from behind them. In walked a tall man with long black hair and glasses. He walked through the chairs until he was standing against the wall where they could all see him.

  “My name is Herrod,” he said. “It wasn’t that long ago I was exactly where you are now. Not right here in this building, in those exact chairs. No, I was stuck in a miserable existence where everything around me seemed unfair and fixed.” He looked around the group, staring individuals in the eyes. When Herrod’s eyes landed on Aaron, it made him feel uncomfortable.

  “Maybe you can relate,” he continued. “Maybe you’re like me. Not exactly like me, for sure; we’re all different, aren’t we? Me, for example, I don’t take shit from anyone, not anymore. You, on the other hand, you have a lot of shit to deal with, don’t you? I know exactly how you feel. I used to feel the same way. They say it’s the same rules for everyone, right? Consequences for actions. Justice for wrongs. They say that’s how it’s supposed to work, and you think, ‘Great, makes sense!’ But then, as you get older, you begin to see cracks in the system. Times when it doesn’t work. Times when the rules don’t seem to apply to everyone, when consequences aren’t meted out in accordance with actions. Am I right? Have you seen that? Can you think of a time when some wrong was done to you, but no one was ever held accountable? No one was ever punished for it?”

  Boy, can I! Aaron thought. Once again Herrod’s eyes scanned the group. He got the impression that Herrod was assessing them, gauging their reaction to what he was saying by reading their faces.

  “Well, like I said, I know how it feels,” Herrod continued. “I do. I remember, way back, before I learned, before I became educated on how things really work, I remember how painful it was.” He laughed. “Yeah, it was pain-ful! I mean, it used to eat me up inside. Pushed or shoved by people bigger than me, insulted, humiliated, embarrassed…boy, it hurt. It really did. So I can relate to what you’re going through. I remember having trouble sleeping at night, afraid of what tomorrow might bring, worried about people at school or at work who treated me like shit, wondering when justice would show up and fix things — like they promised! — but knowing in my heart that it never would. Disappointment built upon disappointment. Do you ever feel that way? Don’t raise your hands, but think to yourself — have I ever had trouble going to sleep, worried about how I’d be treated the next day?”

  Aaron knew that in his head, his hand was rising. He wondered how many of the others in the room felt the same way, but were too ashamed to show it.

  “You’re even ashamed to admit it, aren’t you?” Herrod continued. “Maybe your father or a teacher has asked you what is wrong, and you replied, ‘Oh, n
othing. I’m just tired,’ or ‘I’m fine, really,’ or ‘Everything’s OK,’ when what you really wanted to say was…”

  He paused. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to finish.

  “…I’M NOT OK!” he shouted. Aaron jumped.

  “I am NOT OK, not by a longshot!” Herrod continued. “I dreamed at night about getting back at those who oppressed me. I dreamed about making them pay for what they did. I visualized elaborate scenarios where they get to experience the pain that I’d experienced! It’s the only kind of justice I used to get, the kind where I had to dream it all up in my head, because out there, out in the real world, justice is a lie!”

  Aaron turned to look at Phillip. He appeared enraptured by Herrod’s speech. Then he looked around at the others; they were all hanging on every word.

  “Well, like I said,” Herrod continued, “I used to be like you, but I’m not anymore. I got myself an education in justice, and it fixed everything. Do you know what it took? It took having my face pressed into the piss-covered asphalt behind my school, held down by the boot of a thug who had tortured me daily for years. Two years older than I, and it was his personal mission every day to make my life a living hell. I put up with it. I lived with it. I dreamed at night about how I would get him back, but when push came to shove, he always got the better of me. It was always my head in the toilet bowl, or my face pressed into my lunch.”

  Aaron could sense Phillip turning to look at him. He felt embarrassed all over again. The guy had nailed exactly what had happened to him that day, and having Phillip look at him just made him feel all the more ashamed. He didn’t return Phillip’s look, he just kept staring at Herrod.

  “Well, when my tormenter finally decided to hold my head under his boot, with my face pressed into the asphalt where he and his buddies had just taken a piss, THAT — that was when I broke. THAT was when I decided the scales of justice would have to begin to balance out, even if I had to press down on them to get them to work!”