by Laura Goode
“This ish is bananas,” Rowie says. “B-A —”
“Cheese and rice!” Mrs. D. exclaims as shrieks begin to erupt from all the other classes emerging into the storm. “Come on, we’re taking the north stairs.” She snatches Johanna and marches our class toward the exit, but we move reluctantly, rubbernecking at the administrators who have begun to enter the scene.
People are catapulting into the bedlam, slipping and sliding around the lunchroom, veering and falling amid the teachers’ hapless protests. The white hats are all batshit trying to push each other down in the goop, and a group of burnouts form an impromptu blissed-out dance circle near the windows, obliviously gyrating in the muck. Coach Crowther tries to make his way over to break up the party — which I have half a mind to careen over and join — but totally eats it on his third step into the slippery lunchroom maw. As he writhes in the goo, I notice Marcy smirking like she knows something we don’t.
“Aren’t you going to help him?” I ask.
“Naw, I’m pretty sure they covered this in basic training. We should get moving,” she says, chuckling. “It’s about to get worse.”
“How do you —?” Rowie manages before the first water balloon hits, taking Lauren Wilshire down like she were made of Styrofoam. Shrieking, we scurry out of the line of fire as the ammunition descends like a hailstorm.
“NASTY!” Tess screeches as we try to run down the stairs. The banisters are covered in the same lardlike substance as the cafeteria floor, but mercifully, the terrorists have spared the stairs. Holding our hands up like hostages, we make our way down to the exit. There isn’t any more order outside the school: teachers don’t get training for emergencies like these, I suppose, and half the students have already started migrating over to the parking lot and driving out through the bus entrance on the other side of the school.
“Marce, you wanna fill us in here? I assume you have sources on this,” Tess says.
Marcy snorts and motions for us to draw back from the AP English crew a little, leaning in.
“Look, all’s I’m saying is I heard a little chatter about the hockey team trying out some new initiation strategies. I think the new guys had to come up with a prank that’d get everyone out of school early on Halloween,” she says.
“Oh, Lordy,” Tess says. “I hope Anders wasn’t up in this.”
“So why are we still here?” I say. “I say we follow the parking lot migration.”
“Won’t we get marked absent for the rest of the day if we bail?” Rowie says worriedly.
“Ummm,” Marcy says, “I think Project Mayhem here may have the fire alarm set to go off every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day.” The fire trucks roll up just as the alarm goes off again. I look over and see Mrs. D. on her cell phone, fighting with someone. The little ghost is fastened close to her side, taking in the anarchy around her with wonder. Wow, I think, some people have moms at times like these.
“They’ve already started to leave, Ross,” she argues, yelling into her BlackBerry speakerphone like a Hollywood agent. “You have to notify the parents so they can pick up kids who don’t have cars. You’d also be well advised to do so before the press gets wind of this.”
“Marilyn, I can’t close the entire goddamn school because some little asswipes decided to unleash a holocaust of — of — slop all over the building,” the voice of Principal Ross Nordling warbles hysterically from the other end of the speakerphone.
“Ross, you can’t expect kids to learn when they’re knee-deep in bullshit. I just heard there are animals loose in the school. It isn’t safe. I’m telling my class to call their parents.” Mrs. D. ends the conversation, pitching her phone in her purse.
“Animals?” Rowie asks.
“Tess, can I see your iPhone for a sec?” Marcy’s got that impish look in her eyes again.
“Where’s your phone?” Tess asks suspiciously.
“I need interwebs,” Marcy replies, grabbing the magic gadget. She clicks on it for a minute,43 then gives us a thumbs-up.
43. Marcedemeanor DM @ KIND11Tips: If you guys have anyone near Holyhill, the high school’s been attacked. #holyhillholocaust
“Fuck all y’all, Holyhill.”
“What did you just do?” I arch an eyebrow at her.
“Direct-messaged the KIND-11 Twitter tip line.” Tess snatches her iPhone back and reads us the tweet.
“You said the school’s under attack?” Tess’s jaw hangs agape.
“The school is under attack. Sort of.” She hangs up, grinning at us.
“Oh, man,” Tess says. “Darlene would hit the roof if this was what I wore for my local TV debut.” She giggles and taps on her iPhone.44
44. TheConTessa @Marcedemeanor: All hell’s breaking loose at Holyhill High. #holyhillholocaust
Marcy gets on her own phone and dials.
“Yo. No, you piss off, I know you’re at work. That’s why I’m calling. Look, just do me a favor and check the Twitter tip line. Naw, we didn’t get bombed or anything, but you’re still gonna wanna haul it over here. Dude, I am not trifling. Just grab whichever Botox Barbie is on duty and a camera and come here. Okay, bye.” She hangs up.
“Rooster?” I ask.
“You know it.” She grins.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” the megaphoned voice of Principal Ross Nordling reaches us. “SCHOOL WILL BE CLOSED FOR THE REST OF THE DAY.” A cheer rises from the crowd. “PLEASE MAKE YOUR WAY TO THE PARKING LOT. YOUR PARENTS WILL BE NOTIFIED AND BUSES WILL BE ARRIVING SHORTLY FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO DO NOT DRIVE TO SCHOOL. IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT THE PERPETRATORS OF THIS INCIDENT —”
In a turn of events that can only be described as absurd, Principal Nordling is interrupted by a chorus of bleating. Turning around to face it, I see several goats trying to cross the street between the school and the track, where everyone who hasn’t already busted has gathered. More goats begin to appear at the exit doors of the school, looking pleadingly at us through the glass. I meet their gaze and understand how they feel down to their bleeding marrow. They can’t get out by themselves.
“Save the goats!” I scream, hurtling into the street to rescue the lost goats from the impending fleet of arriving buses.
“Save the goats!” Rowie squeals with equal fervor, dashing into the street behind me. The poor animals have Crisco all over their hooves. I hope it’s not, like, the guts of anyone’s cousin or anything.
“Here, you’re cool. Crunch on some munchies over here,” I soothe my new cloven-hooved homie, leading him over to the grass. “Keep an eye on him,” I tell Tess and Marcy. Rowie’s already back up at the school, springing the other goats from the building and steering them toward us. I run back to help her herd them across the street; there are two, four counting the ones we’ve already guided to safety. Rowie and I both have this animal instinct. I think it’s a Hindu thing for her; I’m pretty much just a dirty hippie. Two of the goats are covered in red liquid that appears at first to be the carnage of a senseless goat slaughter but upon closer inspection reveals itself as either fake blood or red Kool-Aid.
“These guys are a mess,” says Tess, stripping lengths of lace from her dress to tie around the goats’ necks as makeshift leashes. One of the goats has already started nibbling at his lead, and another bites a chunk out of her tattered hemline. Still holding the ax and her iPhone,45 Tess looks like some sort of nightmare shepherdess from a pastoral landscape gone horribly awry.
45. TheConTessa: WTF is going on #holyhillholocaust
“Did you know goats are actually very smart?” Rowie asks as she nuzzles noses with one of the girl goats and pulls her phone from her back pocket.46 “Much smarter than sheep.”
46. WowieWudwa @Marcedemeanor @TheConTessa: what kind of sick fuck drags farm animals into this? #holyhillholocaust
“Poor little guys,” I say, stroking their heads. They baa in pleasure. “Where do you think they came from?”
“I don’t know, but I can tell you they’re not leaving wi
th me,” Marcy kicks back.
“Let’s just walk them up to the north lot to calm them down some.” Rowie follows Marcy as she walks toward her car.
“What do you mean, calm them down? They look fine to me.” Marcy nods at the quartet of goats, who seem happily affixed to Tess’s decomposing Lizzie Borden dress.
“Dude. They’re freaking out.” Rowie strokes a pair of ears as we walk.
“They’re straight chilling! You’re the one who’s bugging.” Marcy unhooks her keys from her belt loop.
“We can’t put them in the car like this.” I watch the Kool-Aid drip from the goats’ bellies.
“Oh hell no. No goats in the James,” Marcy says. “The goat stroll ends here.”
“But we can’t just leave them here. That’s just like giving them up for goat meat.” Rowie looks distraught.
“I’m not making myself party to goat slaughter unless there’s a spit-roast involved,” I say. Rowie looks at me, stricken. “I mean, um, say no to roadkill.”
“Look the eff out!” Tess throws her body against all of us as a KIND-11 van wheels narrowly by us; it seems to have entered with some urgency through the parking-lot exit.
“Hey, local media! Wrong way!” Marcy yells, waving her arms. “Over here!”
The van screeches to a stop, and a stringy-haired guy in sunglasses — Rooster Crowther — pokes his head out the driver’s side window, grinning. “Where’s the fire?”
“More like the apocalypse,” Tess calls back. A woman in a fuchsia power suit appears on the other side of the van and gives us a harried smile.
“Do you girls go to school here?” We nod.
“That’s my little sister,” Rooster says, pointing at Marcy.
“Precious. Then could one of you be a doll and clue us in as to what exactly the story I’m here to report is?” Her tone turns slightly snotty.
“Whoa, angry,” Marcy mutters.
“Shut up and let’s get 4H on TV,” I hiss at her.
“Are you effing serious?” Rowie blurts out.
“Hi, I’m Esme Rockett, I’m a junior here at Holyhill,” I introduce myself, sticking out a hand to the reporter.
“Brenda Banacynzki.” She grasps my hand briefly between fiddles with her lapel mike. “Are you afraid of cameras?” the reporter asks.
“Not particularly,” I reply. The goat covered in red refuse next to me bleats. Brenda and Rooster regard it, exchange glances, and shrug.
“Ready when you are, Bren,” Rooster says, hoisting the camera up to his shoulder.
“Kid, you’re our first interview on the scene. Do you think you can tell us what happened?” she asks me, dashing a final mist of powder on her nose.
“Uh, I’ll do my best,” I say, reaffirmed in my gladness that I didn’t wear my costume to school today.
“Darlene’s going to be even pisseder than that time Ada got arrested.” Tess frantically smooths her hair, leaving a red streak in the front.
“Smile!” Brenda Banacynzki says.
“Great, Ez, you’re on in five-four-three-two —” Rooster points a finger at the reporter.
“Good evening, I’m Brenda Banacynzki, reporting live from Holyhill High School, where unknown attackers struck today, disrupting classes and terrifying students. I’m speaking to Esme Rockett, a junior at Holyhill. Esme, can you tell us what happened?” She thrusts a microphone in my face.
“It’s hard to sum up,” I say into the microphone. “Basically some kids covered the floors and banisters in soap and Crisco and inexplicably set a whole bunch of goats loose in the building, and the fire alarm has been going off every fifteen minutes.”
Brenda Banacynzki looks slightly taken aback, but recovers. “What’s the mood at Holyhill today, Esme?”
It’s my moment. “Well, Brenda, I think a lot of Holyhill students are sick of the administrative hypocrisy that allows nonsense like this to go on while prohibiting activities that are actually conducive to academic dialogue.”
“Can you tell us more about that?” Brenda asks, a smile permafrozen on her face.
“I’d be happy to,” I say, snatching my chance amid her confusion. “Holyhill calls itself one of the safest communities in America, but the truth is it’s only safe to be rich, white, and straight here. The Holyhill administration announced earlier this year that it would not permit any hip-hop music, or really anything associated with hip-hop culture, to exist on campus. I think that policy highlights the need for a safe space at our school, a space where music and lifestyles that some consider controversial or alternative can be discussed freely, without needless threats and disruptions like what happened today. That’s why my friends and I”— I glance over at Rowie and the girls, who are gaping at me with dumbfounded mouths —“that’s why my friends and I are petitioning the administration to add a hip-hop gay-straight alliance to the list of recognized student groups.”
I can’t believe Brenda Banacynzki is going along with this, but she totally takes the bait. “Are you saying that what happened today was a Holyhill hate crime?”
Marcy steps in and grabs the mike. “Uh, hi. Marcy Crowther, captain of the Holyhill Fighting Loons drumline. No, I don’t think the incident today was a targeted attack. But students here do need a safe space, and we’d like that space to be one where students can feel free to examine the culture around us, including hip-hop and sexuality. We’ve spoken with administrators, but our application for school recognition has been denied.”
“What do you call your group, and why do you think your application was rejected?”
“Hip-Hop for Heteros and Homos is a name that playfully describes our purpose of sexual and musical inquiry,” I say. “But to discuss hip-hop, we’d need to be able to listen to it, and school policy currently prohibits that, so the administration has told us that we can’t meet on school grounds.” Rowie and Tess edge in next to us.
“Are you implying that the Holyhill administration is unable to maintain order at school or unwilling to protect the rights of all of its students, regardless of personal beliefs or sexual orientation?”
Tess’s shoulder interrupts my thought as she lunges to grab the mike from Marcy. “Hi there. Tess Grinnell. I wouldn’t go that far, Brenda. I think it’s more that Holyhill has been a little slow to acknowledge the presence of students who are interested in this kind of frank discussion. And especially as a thinking Christian, I think that should change.”
“Last question, girls — who’s your four-legged friend?”
“I’m Rohini Rudra,” Rowie says passionately, “and this is one of the goats that was brought into the school and brutally endangered today. Whoever was responsible for this incident set this poor animal free in a cafeteria that was covered in, as far as I can tell, soap and Crisco, and then pelted him and others with water balloons filled with fake blood or Kool-Aid or something. When the administration can’t prevent cruel antics like this, I don’t understand why they think they can violate our First Amendment rights by censoring the music we can listen to on campus.”
Brenda Banacynzki nods with fake TV-reporter compassion. “That’s quite the paradox. Well, girls, we’re out of time. Reporting live from Holyhill, joined by girls and goats, I’m Brenda Banacynzki, KIND-11 News.”
“And, we’re out,” Rooster says, lowering the camera.
We all begin to laugh and scream, still in the zone, pumping Brenda Banacynzki’s hand. Pops is going to flip out when he sees this.
“You girls are good talkers,” Rooster says, palming me his business card. “If the administration tries any other bullshit, give us a call and we’ll do a follow-up story.”
“Rooster, did you actually just give me your business card?” I mock-sucker-punch him in the ribs. “It was cool of you to show up, though.”
Rooster smiles wanly. “Keep your head up, Ezbones. There’s life after high school.”
“Thanks, man,” I say, pocketing the card. “Really. Thanks.”47 We give a last wave as they retrea
t back to the van.
47. SiN, later: Someday I will be Rooster’s age, and I have to remember to tell some other lost, angry teenager that high school isn’t the end of the world.
“You are un-fucking-real,” Rowie says, shoving me. I feel like her hand makes a permanent impression on my shoulder, like I’ll take off my shirt tonight and see her handprint. “You have absolutely no shame.”
“Dude, Holyhill is fuuuucked,” Marcy sings, doing a little jig. “There’s no way they can reject our application after that rant. Not to mention the fact that we were, like, right.”
“What are we going to do with Faithe?” Tess asks.
“Who’s Faith?”
“This is Faithe, with an e.” Tess pats one of the goats’ heads. “And these are Prudence, Penitence, and Chastity.”
“What does that make you? Promiscuity?” Marcy teases her.
“Mais non.” Tessie grins.
Mrs. D. appears. “Was that KIND-11 News I just saw driving away?”
“Mrs. D., it was so cool!” Marcy explodes. “We totally stuck it to the man.”
Mrs. D. does that grin-suppressing thing she always does in the presence of irreverence, like she knows she’s supposed to disapprove but can’t quite. “Then it’s probably best that I know absolutely nothing about what just happened. Can I take the farm animals off your hands? You girls should get out of here before this gets any worse. Do you have a ride?”
