Don't Care High

by Gordon Korman

  As always, though, Paul was swept up in the general tide of things. The pre-class exercises raged politely and mercilessly on, and the safety pin campaign continued to blanket the school. He and Sheldon were already known as Mike’s top advisers and, as such, they were frequently sought out for consultation on such matters as the wording of the speech, or what type of pin to wear. So Paul was taken completely off guard when he found himself summoned to see Feldstein.

  Paul poked his head timidly through the doors of Feldstein’s stairwell. His jaw dropped. The slightly chubby locker baron, his face a study in melancholy, sat amidst a vast smorgasbord consisting of several trays of cold sliced meats, cole slaw, enchiladas, fifteen varieties of cheese, several loaves of bread, an enormous hot-fudge and butterscotch-quintuple-scoop banana split, and a basket of fresh fruit. Pizza cartons were stacked in the corner, right by the potato chips, and as Paul watched in amazement, two boys carried in a three-tiered, white-frosted wedding cake, complete with silver bells.

  “Good news, Feldstein,” called one of them. “The groom didn’t show up.”

  Feldstein nodded wearily. “Just put it down there by the halvah.”

  The two boys set down the cake and hurried away.

  Paul spoke up. “You wanted to see me, Feldstein?”

  “You came into this school without a locker, and I got you one. Now I need a favour from you.”

  Paul swallowed hard. “What’ll it be, Feldstein?”

  Reaching around the soup tureen which simmered on the hot plate, Feldstein indicated the fruit basket. “Mangoes, man. I need mangoes. Four of them. Ripe.”

  “Right.” Paul ran off in search of Sheldon. He found his friend in the cafeteria line. “Shel! Shel, quick! What’s a mango?”

  Sheldon nodded understandingly. “Feldstein called in the favour, huh? I guess we should have expected it. Well, a mango is some kind of tropical fruit. That’s all I know. There are a few fruit stores around here, but they’re only good for apples, oranges, and bananas.”

  “You’ll help me, right?”

  Sheldon chuckled condescendingly. “In this life, Ambition, there are some things that a man must do on his own.”

  Paul spread his arms in desperation, “But where am I going to get four mangoes? Will he accept, let’s say, a good-sized watermelon instead?”

  A hum went up in the line from the sheer absurdity of this statement.

  “Feldstein doesn’t accept substitutions,” explained Sheldon. “Any substitutions. Once I saw him turn down a bowl of soup because it came with plain crackers instead of Ritz.”

  Paul grimaced with determination. “I’ll just have to work something out then.”

  “Good luck,” Sheldon called after his fleeting form.

  Paul made the rounds of the local fruit and grocery stores with no success. This was a mangoless neighbourhood. He had known this favour would be trouble, and here it was — another insane crisis to add to that long list of insane crises he called his life. As he walked back into the school, he pondered the advisability of visiting Feldstein and admitting failure. No. He would have to come up with something that was so valuable that the locker baron would put aside his need for mangoes.

  Then he saw Mike, and the answer burst upon him like a sunrise. He followed Mike to his locker, worked up his courage and approached him.

  “Hi.”

  A pause, then, “Hi.” This was Mike’s standard response to such a situation.

  “Listen, Mike, I’ll get right to the point. I’m in a bit of a jam, and I’d like you to do me a favour.”

  Mike looked wary. Such situations generally meant the beginning of something unusual. “A favour,” he repeated dully.

  “To be perfectly honest, I’m in the soup right now. If you do this one thing for me, I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  There was an excruciatingly long pause, during which time Mike looked at the ceiling, the floor and both walls. He alternated between three distinct blank expressions. Finally, he said, “Okay.”

  * * *

  “Sorry, Feldstein, I couldn’t get the mangoes.”

  Feldstein shook his head. “He couldn’t get the mangoes.” His voice was not threatening, just empty.

  “I got you something better,” said Paul.

  “No, man. That’s not the way it works. You see, I need mangoes. And when I need something, there’s nothing better than what I need.” Feldstein stared at the combination lock Paul was holding out to him. “A lock? I’ve got loads of locks, man.”

  Paul grinned proudly. “But this one’s the lock to 205C.”

  There was dead silence as Feldstein took this in. His eyes filled with tears. “205C?” he barely whispered.

  Paul nodded.

  “205C is… mine?”

  “That’s right, Feldstein. That completes your row.”

  Feldstein was choked with emotion. He dabbed at his eyes with the take-out menu from a local pizza parlour. Then suddenly he stood up and pushed Paul into his chair. “Here. Sit down. Have some soup. Man, this is the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. How’d you pull it off?”

  “Well,” said Paul, “I just asked Mike if you could have the locker, and he said okay.”

  “He’s a prince!” cried Feldstein. “I take back everything I said about him! I’ve been dumping on this whole Otis thing because I know that Slim Kroy and a lot of those guys from The Combo are mixed up in it. But now I’ll do anything in my power to see to it that that great guy is president again. And you, man — I owe you! Anything!” He indicated his entire restaurant. “Chinese, Mexican, Italian — you name it! You want steak? I’m a little low, but I’ll get you steak!”

  “It’s okay, Feldstein. It’s my pleasure. Come on. Let’s go complete your row.”

  When they reached the 200C’s, Mike had cleaned out his locker and was preparing to move to his new location near the print shop. Feldstein, in a great outpouring of gratitude, ran up and embraced the slight figure in the large raincoat.

  “Mike, you’re the greatest! I can’t tell you what this means to me!”

  As soon as he was released, Mike hurried away. Although he said nothing, Paul could hear the words as clearly as if they’d been spoken: There are a lot of things at this school I don’t understand.

  A chunk! sound echoed through the hall, signifying that Feldstein had officially become the first figure in Don’t Care locker history to control the coveted 200C series, the longest uninterrupted row of lockers in the school.

  Paul felt good.

  Feldstein’s reluctance to support Mike had been a sobering factor on the otherwise fabulously successful Otis campaign. Within an hour of his possession of 205C, the rejuvenated locker baron managed to acquire one hundred fifty safety pins to broadcast to the world his change of heart. He threw open his delicatessen to anyone wearing a pin and, for the first time in weeks, was all smiles and good will as he greeted his guests. He announced complete amnesty, restoring all confiscated lockers — even for Cindy Schwartz.

  Sheldon was on cloud nine, lecturing at length on how things tended to fall into place. Feldstein was an enormously influential member of the Don’t Care community, and his show of support was the completing brick in the superstructure of Mike’s power base. With regard to Mike Otis, Don’t Care High cared one hundred percent.

  By the next week, however, Sheldon felt the need to move ahead. “It’s time for a confrontation,” he announced to Paul one day over ginger ale and stale cake at Sheldon’s house. “It’s time to have a mammoth rally.”

  Paul choked. “What happened to polite and restrained? What happened to not breaking any rules?”

  “We still won’t break any rules. I envision everyone assembling in front of the school at about seven-thirty in the morning, and greeting all the staff members with our solidarity.” He cleared his throat. “And it might not hurt to tip off a few members of the local press to come by and cover it.”

  “In this city?” said Paul du
biously. “They’d never show up.”

  “Sure they will. We’re Don’t Care High. We killed the science fair and trashed Laguna. They won’t know we plan to be peaceful. And our numbers are good. I expect almost everybody to turn out to support Mike.”

  And so the word went out. The entire student body was expected at seven-thirty Friday morning to take its big stand. The spreading of the news was a very serious business, and Sheldon and Paul took no chances with the publicity.

  “It’s better to have every student hear this a million times than risk having one guy forget to show up,” Sheldon declared to the LaPaz triplets as he recruited them as P.R. representatives.

  The LaPazes, with their triple action, combed the school, leaving no stone unturned in their search for students who had not yet heard of Friday’s planned events. Feldstein, who was a great observer of the passing parade, reported that enthusiasm was running high, and that he’d yet to come across anyone who did not plan to attend. Sheldon and Paul did a great deal of mingling personally, just to make sure. Sheldon impressed upon the students that all their weeks of support would be for nothing if Friday did not go well.

  This added an air of tension to the school. The students bore down as all the minute details of the rally were worked out. Car pools were arranged, and large groups of students formed wake-up call pacts, as no one wanted to oversleep and let Mike down. Peter Eversleigh arranged to cancel his dental appointment, and Phil Gonzalez stayed home while his parents went out of town because they insisted on leaving a day early. On Friday, the sum total of everyone’s devotion and dedication to Mike Otis would be packed into an hour and a half, and there did not exist a reason good enough for missing it.

  On Thursday, excitement was running high as plans moved into the home stretch. The three final briefing sessions were held during the three lunch hours to cover the entire student body, and Sheldon resumed his old position atop an end table. Sheldon was a natural leader, Paul reflected, as his friend stirred up the crowd over the importance of tomorrow. When Sheldon took over the organization of things, Paul would easily be swept up and would follow him blindly. And under such circumstances, there would always be a last-minute twist that Sheldon would throw into the pot without consulting anyone. Paul knew that it had happened again when Sheldon announced that tomorrow morning everyone would try to dress exactly like Mike.

  “Like Mike?” Paul repeated as a hum of surprise went up from the third period lunch crowd.

  Sheldon reached into a large art portfolio and pulled out a set of enormous flash cards.

  “One,” he announced, holding up the first illustrated card. “The hair. Slick. Greased back. Two” — Sheldon moved on to the second card — “The raincoat. Big. Dirty beige preferably, but any dull colour will do. Three. The shirt. Bright colours. Pink and fluorescent green are best. Remember, Mike never wears patterns or plaids. Four…”

  Paul watched as Sheldon continued through the long, turned-up jeans with the safety pins, and the black dress shoes. Then he began to run the group through it again and again, holding up the illustrated cards. By the end of the briefing, Sheldon merely had to shout out the number, and the students would give the appropriate response in one great unified voice.

  “Six!”

  “The shoes!” chanted the crowd. “Black! Dress! No high heels or alligator!”

  “You’ve got it!” called Sheldon. “And tomorrow morning I want to see it!”

  Sheldon did not even wait for Paul’s protest before offering his explanation. “Dressing like Mike is something I thought up lying in bed last night. It’ll give the rally a visual aspect for the TV cameras.”

  “Have you called those guys yet?” asked Paul nervously.

  “Not yet. We’ll have to get together on what we’re going to say. Later, though. Fourth period lunch is starting to come in for briefing.”

  “Another episode of ‘How to Look like a Weird-o in Six Easy Steps,’” said Paul sarcastically.

  Sheldon laughed. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be great.”

  * * *

  Morale among the teaching staff was approaching the breaking point. On Thursday after classes, a delegation of teachers, headed by the semi-ambulatory Mr. Willis, filed into Mr. Gamble’s office to make its plea for sanity.

  “Look, Henry,” said Mr. Willis reasonably, “we agree with you that this Mike Otis thing is a farce. But we’re the ones who have to put up with it in the classrooms hour after hour, day after day. We’ve been taking it for a long time, but now you’ve got to give us a break. All this has to stop, and if that means making Otis president again, then so be it.”

  Mr. Gamble leaned forward. “You know my opinion on the subject, and the answer is no.”

  “But Henry!” wailed Miss Vlorque. “You don’t have to sit through seven polite, reasonable speeches every day! You don’t have to listen to seven rounds of applause! You don’t have to watch the morning sun glint off thirty safety pins! It’s like teaching tinsel! And then when the class is over and you can finally escape from your thirty safety pins, the halls are teeming with them! Safety pins! Everywhere! There’s nowhere to hide! You can’t escape them….” Her voice trailed off.

  “As you can see,” said Mr. Hennessey, “it’s affecting us all in different ways. Willis gets aggravated, Vlorque lets it push her toward a nervous breakdown, I just get mad. When they start giving me all that sincere garbage, I lose my patience. But the common denominator, Henry, is that it’s driving us all nuts.”

  “And did you hear the sounds coming from the cafeteria today?” added Mrs. Wolfe. “They’re working up some kind of ritual chant!”

  Miss Vlorque emitted a quick, nervous giggle. “They’ll probably start doing it in class! I don’t know if I can face it!”

  “Just let them try it in my class!” thundered Mr. Hennessey. “I’ll —”

  “Calm down, everybody,” ordered the vice-principal sharply. “I hear you all, and I realize it’s a problem. I figured this would all die out when we asked for new nominations. Maybe I was wrong.” He turned momentarily red. “I just can’t stand the idea of some miserable upstart out there, who’s responsible for the whole thing, laughing at us when we have to give in!”

  “Look, Henry,” said Mr. Willis, “if it was the principle of the thing that concerned us, we’d be on your side one-hundred percent. But it’s just not that important. The kids aren’t breaking any rules, and we’re fighting for our sanity. Now, we’ve talked to the boss, and he says he’ll go along with whatever we decide, so long as he gets to make the announcement. So what do you say?”

  Mr. Gamble slumped back in his chair. “All right, they can have Otis — they can have anything! I’ll have it announced tomorrow.”

  * * *

  When he returned home from school that afternoon, Paul met his mother rushing through the lobby of the building.

  “Oh, Paul — here you are! Thank goodness!”

  “You’re going to Auntie Nancy’s house,” said Paul wearily.

  “Oh, the most terrible thing has happened! Your Uncle Harry was coming home from work early because he had a cold, and just as he was driving under a bridge, a cement block fell right through his windshield!”

  “Was he hurt?” asked Paul anxiously.

  “No, thank heaven, but when the window shattered in front of him, he thought he’d been shot! And it was on the highway! You know that highway always upsets me! I’ve got to get over there right away! Poor Nancy!”

  “Poor Nancy? She’s all right! No one dropped anything on her!”

  “Yes, but it’s always the wife who has to cope with these things. Remember when Dad broke his nose? Oh, how I suffered! Anyway, there’s no dinner. Perhaps you can get together with your friend Sheridan. If not, there’s lots of cold meat for sandwiches. Oh, yes. There’s a letter for you. Why are international car experts writing to you?”

  “It’s a long story, Mom,” muttered Paul. “Don’t worry. I’ll be all right
.”

  His mother rushed off, and Paul hurried into the elevator. He let himself into the apartment and snatched his letter off the hall table. It was postmarked Bern, Switzerland, from the International Automobile Collectors’ Association. Intrigued, he opened it.

  Dear Mr. Abrams,

  We have examined the photographs you submitted, and we are unable to identify this car. We do not believe that it was produced by any auto manufacturer we know of, assuming any company would plead guilty to having turned out such a monstrous product.

  Theoretically, this car does not exist. We are then presented with two conclusions as to what the car really is: 1) it is an elaborate, homemade production built quite literally from scratch; or 2) it is some kind of sculpture built by you for the purpose of baffling experts such as ourselves. This second theory is the favourite around here, and we would like you to know that we do not appreciate the gesture. However, on the off chance that this really is a functional automobile, please send some verification of this and we will be prepared to make you an offer for its purchase.

  In an instant, the entire Mike Otis saga flashed before Paul’s eyes: a bizarre figure at the end of the hallway; the nomination; the car; the confidential file; Finch, Oklahoma; the operator saying the number was disconnected; 106 Gordon Street; and the crowning glory — that wholesome family that raised more doubts than it answered.

  Tomorrow twenty-six hundred people were going to get together at seven-thirty in the morning, dressed like complete idiots, to demonstrate on behalf of a man who no one understood beyond the fact that his only detectable desire was to be left alone. It was too much.

  Suddenly Paul had his coat on and was out the door, down the elevator and threading his way through the garbage-laden streets like a man possessed. This was it. Showdown. Maybe Sheldon had no qualms about organizing great crusades on behalf of the mystery man, but Paul Abrams could bear it no longer. He refused to live one more hour without a solution to the puzzle that was Mike Otis. And there was only one way to get it.