Madame Pritchard kept cutting and tossing hair until the girl had little left except for patches of long sections that looked ridiculous. Aaron could see some of the girls in the crowd, jumping and clapping with glee, pointing at her, delighted with her degradation.
They were probably bullied by her, Aaron thought. Look how happy they seem.
“What shall I do with these?” Madame Pritchard called to the crowd, holding up the scissors. Dozens of suggestions were shouted back. The crowd screamed in approval as Madame Pritchard raised the blades of the scissors and brought them down into the flesh of the girl, just below her collarbone. They stuck there, and blood began to trickle from the wound, running down the girl’s body, a stark red contrast to her white skin.
A man appeared from the side of the stage, carrying a large sledgehammer. He brought it to Madame Pritchard and set it down next to her. She took the handle in her hand.
“That’s not good enough for this bitch, is it?” she called. The sound of rolling thunder increased in the room, and the lights illuminating the stage suddenly turned red as Madame Pritchard picked up the sledgehammer. “It’s always hair, and when it’s not hair, its legs!” she yelled. “Am I right?”
The crowd was in a state of delirium, screaming at the top of their lungs, fists raised in the air. Aaron kept clapping. No one would notice if I stopped clapping anyway, he thought. They’re all mesmerized by what’s happening on stage. It’s like they’re all high on something, just like Karissa.
Madame Pritchard raised the sledgehammer; he had a sickening feeling as he realized what she was about to do. He managed to turn his head away just as the hammer slammed into the girl’s right leg. Even over the din of the crowd he could hear the hideous sounds of bone breaking. When he turned back, he saw the fractured limb; the bone had broken the skin. Blood began seeping from the wound, dripping to the ground below the table. Madame Pritchard raised the sledgehammer to the crowd, showing them the blood smeared on it. They roared in response.
He wondered what it would feel like if Curtis was up on the table, receiving the blow from Madame Pritchard, and it excited him. It was one thing to witness revenge exacted upon someone he didn’t know, however legitimate it might be — but it was another to imagine it happening to someone he personally knew deserved it. Maybe all these people are imagining their own bullies in her place, he thought. Maybe that’s why they’re so excited.
He resumed his applause as Madame Pritchard raised the sledgehammer once again and swung it into the other limb. This time Aaron didn’t look away, and saw as the massive hammer broke the girl’s leg.
It’s just a show, he reminded himself. Like a movie.
The screams inside the theatre reached a fever pitch, so loud that Aaron wanted to cover his ears with his hands. Madame Pritchard raised the sledgehammer once again, and with a dramatic swing landed it squarely in the girl’s chest. The girl convulsed, vomiting blood.
Men appeared from offstage. One was holding a large Plexiglas box filled with something. Attached to the bottom of the box was a clear tube, which the other man forced into the girl’s mouth and held in place while the man holding the box shook it, causing its contents to descend through the tube. With horror, Aaron realized the movement through the tube was small insects, like spiders. The crowd’s approval intensified as the bugs entered the girl’s mouth and her cheeks began to bulge.
Madame Pritchard dropped the sledgehammer and stood next to the force feeding, watching with delight as the insects traveled through the tube, and turned to listen to the roar of the crowd, soaking in their screams of approval. After dozens had been forced into the girl, the man holding the tube pulled it roughly from her mouth. Aaron expected the girl to begin spitting the spiders out, but Madame Pritchard slapped her hand over the girl’s mouth, stopping her from expelling the bugs. She produced a large, curved needle and quickly pierced the girl’s lower lip with it, threading up and into the girl’s upper lip, creating a stitch right in the middle of her mouth. Two more quick stitches on the right and left of the first, and Madame Pritchard pulled to tighten the string, effectively sealing the mouth. She slowed, taking her time as she completed several more stitches, turning occasionally to look at the crowd, and receiving rapturous applause whenever she did. As she finished, she stepped back so the audience could see the result. The crowd roared its approval, and she held open her arms, absorbing the loud and raucous response. With a glint in her eye, she brandished the needle she’d used to perform the stitching, holding it up for the audience, and then slowly brought it to the girl’s eye, pressing until the sharp point pierced and sank into it.
Aaron screamed and screamed, unsure how much of the scream was excitement, and how much was horror.
Chapter Seven
“Don’t tell me you’re having doubts,” Phillip said, sitting across from him during lunch. “We just made a huge commitment, buddy.”
“Not doubts,” Aaron said. “Don’t you think it’s just so…grotesque?”
“That’s what makes it satisfying,” Phillip replied. “How else do you expect it to work? It wouldn’t mean much if they tickled them with feathers.”
“Seems so brutal.”
“Not more brutal than GTA.”
Aaron thought about it. Phillip had a point. Just a couple of days ago they’d tortured someone as part of the video game. The School was a game, too; entirely fake, like GTA. It was just a way to feel better, to balance the scales.
“Look, Karissa was in my second hour this morning,” Phillip said. “She’s fine. She’s got some pimples breaking out around her lips, which I found amusing, but she’s walking and talking. It wasn’t real.”
Aaron saw Curtis and Dirk enter the lunchroom. They seemed uninterested in him, making for the other end of the room, engaged in a conversation with their group. He felt a sigh of relief.
“Looks like dickwad might leave us alone today,” Phillip said.
“Yeah, they’re all wrapped up in something.”
“Maybe they’re talking about the pep rally,” Phillip said. “Mindless idiots. What’s the point of a pep rally, anyway? It’s just people jumping around trying to make you get excited about something you don’t give two shits about.”
“Yes, that’s the point of a pep rally,” Aaron replied.
“And a reason to trot out the band and listen to them try to play stuff. And why do they call it pep? I mean, what a stupid word, pep. The whole thing is a big, fake show. They should call it Pep Show.”
As Phillip continued his diatribe against the pep rally, Aaron could hear people at the table behind them talking, concern and surprise in their voices. Something had happened at the school, and news was spreading from table to table. He tried to filter out Phillip and concentrate on what the people behind him were saying. Phillip was making it hard.
“Hold on a second,” Aaron said, raising his hand to Phillip.
Phillip stopped mid-sentence while Aaron listened.
“What?” Phillip asked.
“Shh,” Aaron replied. “I’m trying to hear what they’re saying.”
Phillip looked around Aaron at the people behind them. He picked up on the tone of their conversation, too, his face showing interest.
“It’s Ryan,” Aaron said. “They’re talking about Ryan.”
Aaron listened more, with Phillip trying to hone in as well.
“They said hospital,” Phillip whispered. “Hmm, backup quarterback in the hospital? That’s going to put a damper on the pep rally.”
“Shut up about the pep rally!” Aaron said. “I’m trying to listen!”
Aaron noticed the table behind Phillip talking about Ryan now, too. The news was spreading like wildfire throughout the lunchroom. Unfortunately, no one seated at their table seemed to know what was going on. Aaron strained to hear details.
“Did you guys hear about Ryan?” Joe Handleburg said, plopping his tray down next to them. Joe rarely appeared at their table for fear of becomin
g involved in Curtis and Dirk altercations; today Aaron was happy to see him show up.
“Seems like people are talking about him,” Aaron said. “What happened?”
“Internal bleeding,” Joe replied. “That’s all I know. An ambulance showed up during third hour and hauled him to the hospital, and his sister said there’s internal bleeding.”
Aaron recalled the savage punches Madame Pritchard made to Ryan’s stomach.
“That’s all they know?” Phillip asked.
“Seems like it,” Joe replied. “You gonna eat that?”
Aaron looked down at his half-eaten hamburger. “No, I’m done with it.”
Joe reached over and grabbed the burger, placing it on his plate, then lifted himself up from the table. “See ya,” he said, moving on to the next table.
“Internal bleeding?” Phillip repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It’s when you’ve been hurt really bad and your organs are all messed up inside you,” Aaron replied, “but you’re not bleeding on the outside.”
“Huh,” Phillip replied. “What’s the problem with that? All your blood is inside you anyway.”
“It’s not sloshing around in there like a jar!” Aaron said. “It’s supposed to stay in your veins. His veins have been ruptured.”
“Huh,” Phillip repeated. “Football?”
“Or…” Aaron said, not finishing his sentence.
It took Phillip a few seconds, but his friend picked up on what he meant. “Could be unrelated,” Phillip replied. “You don’t know.”
“You don’t either,” Aaron replied.
They both paused, looking at each other as though they were in a stalemate. Finally, Phillip said, “As I mentioned, Karissa looked fine in second hour.”
“You said she was breaking out around her mouth.”
“Yeah? So what?”
Aaron didn’t reply; instead he pictured Madame Pritchard sewing Karissa’s mouth shut, trapping the spiders inside. His stomach felt a little queasy. “I gotta go,” he said, and rose from the table.
“Video games after school?” Phillip asked.
“Yeah,” Aaron replied, not with much enthusiasm.
“See you then,” Phillip replied.
“You’re not going to the pep rally?” Aaron asked.
“Right,” Phillip replied. “How could I forget about the pep show.”
Aaron took his tray to the station of grey tubs and dropped it inside, then made his way outside. He wanted to walk for a little in the mid-day sun and think before returning to class.
—
Aaron watched Karissa carefully as she attempted to perform the calisthenics and acrobatic maneuvers of the cheerleading squad as they warmed up for the pep rally. Phillip sat next to him in the bleachers.
“I don’t see any pimples around her mouth,” Aaron said.
“She must have covered them over with makeup,” Phillip replied. “If we were closer I bet you’d see them.”
Aaron sat through the rally, enduring each of the program’s presentations along with a running sarcasm commentary from Phillip. When it came time for the cheerleaders to take center stage and perform a few numbers, Aaron was watching Karissa closely.
“She seems to be limping,” Aaron said, elbowing Phillip. “Look.”
Phillip stopped the commentary and watched. Karissa was bouncing around with the rest of them. “Looks fine to me.”
“Keep watching. She favors the right leg.”
Phillip watched. “I don’t see it. You’re imagining it.”
“No, she does! Watch.”
They both observed the cheerleading routine. The students were forming a pyramid, and when it completed, the observers in the bleachers stood, applauding. It reminded Aaron of the crowd in the theatre the night before, standing and screaming its approval for a very different reason.
“See?” Phillip said, begrudgingly standing. “Looks normal to me.”
As the cheerleaders dismounted the pyramid, Karissa reached down to her calf, rubbing it.
“There!” Aaron said, pointing. “She’s in pain!”
They watched as another cheerleader came to Karissa to offer help, but Karissa waved her off, returning to her feet and walking to the sidelines with the other girls. She had a slight limp.
“Just pulled a muscle,” Phillip said. “It happens.”
Aaron rolled his eyes. Phillip didn’t seem even remotely willing to consider that something might be going on — something worse than they realized.
“Heard anything more about Ryan?” Aaron asked.
“Nope,” Phillip replied. “You?”
“Nah. His sister left school for the day.”
“Maybe she’ll have news tomorrow.”
The pep rally concluded, and Aaron and Phillip made their way home. The afternoon played out as it usually did, with an hour of game playing, followed by a plate of cookies from Aaron’s mother and homework.
Despite trying to concentrate on algebra, Aaron was troubled.
“What if it’s not fake?” he asked Phillip, who was reading a book for an English class.
“It is,” Phillip replied, not looking up.
“No, what if it really isn’t? Would you stay involved?”
Phillip lowered the book. “First of all, it is fake. They couldn’t do those things and get away with it, we both know that. Second, we made a promise to help them out.” Phillip pulled up his shirt sleeve, showing the scar to Aaron. “Remember? It wasn’t just a secrecy oath like the first time. We promised to work for them.”
“What did we promise exactly?” Aaron asked. “I recall something about adherence. What is adherence?”
Phillip whipped out his phone. “Doing what is required,” he read. “Loyalty.”
“Why didn’t they just say loyal?” Aaron asked.
“Adherence sounds fancier. The fancier it sounds, the more important it is.”
“And there was something about giving anything they asked.”
“Don’t forget performing whatever they wanted,” Phillip added. “Like I said, we promised to work for them.”
“Or else?”
“As I recall, it was something like, ‘the School shall have my life’.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they can kill you,” Phillip replied. “If you don’t do what they want, they can kill you.”
Aaron shook his head. What Phillip was saying seemed accurate, but all he could remember was the pain in his arm, inside the box, with Herrod holding him there while he repeated the oath.
“Do you think they’re serious about the oaths?” Aaron asked.
“Probably not,” Phillip said, trying to return to his book. “It’s a scare tactic. They can’t just kill people. Just like the show, it’s all staged.”
Aaron looked down at the equations in his algebra book, but his mind was far from math. He had a nagging in the back of his head that told him something wasn’t right.
“I think,” Phillip muttered, “that it’s teaching them a lesson, if nothing else. So what if Ryan has to go to the hospital. He deserved it; you remember what a prick he was. So what if Karissa pulls a muscle while she’s stupidly bouncing around at a dumb pep show. She’s a mean person; she deserves it too. They both do. So do Curtis and Dirk. There’s a show the day after tomorrow, and I’m hoping both Curtis and Dirk are on the agenda.”
Aaron thought about Phillip’s words. Something made him want to differ, if just to play devil’s advocate. Instead he found himself agreeing with most of the sentiment.
“Me too,” he said, returning to algebra.
Chapter Eight
“Oh!” Mrs. Morrison said, suddenly surprised.
Aaron looked down at the keyboard, checking his fingering, wondering if that was the cause of his piano teacher’s gasp. His shirt sleeve had pulled up slightly, and he saw that part of the scar on his forearm was exposed.
“Is that a tattoo?” Mrs. Morrison asked.
“Oh,” Aaron replied, a little embarrassed. “Yeah. Got it at a carnival.” He pulled on his shirt sleeve, trying to cover it.
“Can I see it?” she asked hesitantly.
Aaron felt anxiety, worried that somehow he’d been caught. She doesn’t know what it means, he thought. Just act casual.
He lifted his shirt sleeve so she could see the entire scar.
“It’s slowly fading,” Aaron said. “They said it would only last a few days.”
“How interesting,” Mrs. Morrison replied. “It doesn’t look like a tattoo at all. It looks more permanent.”
“Yeah, it does,” Aaron replied. “But it was much more distinct yesterday, so it’s definitely disappearing.”
“Why did you choose that tattoo?” she asked. “Any significance?”
“No, I just liked the look of it,” he replied.
“But it’s so specific,” she said. “It looks like an S and an R, combined.”
“Yeah, I kind of liked it,” he replied. Feeling his explanation was inadequate, he added, “and there’s this girl I like. Her initials are S and R.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Morrison said. “Well, that explains it! I won’t pry any further. Let’s try again from bar 33.”
Aaron turned his attention to the sheet music in front of him, locating the reference, and brought his hands into position, ready to strike the keys. He felt embarrassed at having to explain the scar, and he wasn’t sure he’d provided an adequate lie, but Mrs. Morrison seemed to have bought it. He tried to forget about it and focus on the music.
As the lesson drew to a close, Mrs. Morrison discussed schedule. “I’d like to move it to Tuesday, just for next week. Would that work for you?”
Tuesday. If he remembered right, he and Phillip were committed to do more recruiting on Tuesday. “No, Tuesday isn’t good. I have something I have to do.”
The School of Revenge Page 7
