by E. M. Kokie
OF ALL THE LAME SHIT ON PINSCHER’S BACKPACK, HIS War Is Not the Answer sticker pisses me off the most — even more than his Practice Nonviolence button, which makes me want to practice some violence on his face.
It’s not enough that I have to listen to him run his mouth all the time. But to have to see all his slogans and crap on his backpack, watch him strut around and show off, laughing like it’s all a big joke — it’s almost too much to take. Especially on Monday mornings. Especially on a Monday morning after an even more shitastic than usual weekend.
Pinscher catches me looking. One side of his lip curls up, showing his teeth, making him look even more like the dog we named him for in fifth grade.
T.J. would wipe that sneer off his face.
“Matt?” Shauna’s hand waves in front of my face. “Hey. You OK?”
“Yeah.” Pinscher says something, and the others all look at me, then laugh. “Fine.”
Shauna pries my fingers off the locker door and curls her hand around my fist. My hand throbs like I’m still strangling the cold metal, the hard edge still digging into my palm.
“Forget about him,” Shauna whispers. She moves into the space between Pinscher and me, so close I have to blink and refocus to see her face as more than a bunch of shapes. I can’t even see him around her. Her fingers slide over my knuckles, back and forth, until my hand relaxes. “Seriously, he’s not worth it.”
We stand like that, so close I can’t see anything but her. Her fingers are warm and smooth. I’d forgotten how good her hands feel. Heat races through me. I yank my hand back, remembering why I started avoiding her hands. Touching leads to bad thoughts, which can only lead to total mortification. No benefits with this friendship.
“Yeah, I know.” I rub at my neck, try to shake it off — all of it — the tension left over from Dad’s glare, Pinscher’s stupid laugh, how I can still feel Shauna’s fingers and smell her herbally clean hair.
“What’s going on?” She’s got that worried look again, like she can’t figure out how to fix me, or if I’m worth the effort this time.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “The usual.”
She’s not buying it. Means I’m in for an interrogation. I reach into my locker and push my books around, hoping she’ll wait until later or that we can at least get out of the hall first. But when I look up, ready to negotiate, she’s not even looking at me.
She’s pointedly not looking at Michael, who’s hovering down the hall, obviously watching her. Hanging near enough to Pinscher to pretend he’s paying attention, but watching Shauna. Could be we’re heading for another round of their on-again, off-again drama.
Maybe she’ll be too busy to interrogate me.
If I have to watch Shauna get back together with Michael — here, now — I really will put my fist through the wall.
“Are you going to be OK?” She’s already hoisting her backpack to run, but her forehead is creased with worry. “I can’t be late for homeroom again. Señora Rosenfeld will make me muerta.”
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Go.” I close my locker door carefully, like it’s made of glass.
“See you later?” Her brown eyes are squinty and dark. “Matt?”
“Yeah. No, I’m fine. I’ll meet you at your car after eighth.”
I’m late for homeroom, but Mrs. Rahman just waves me to my seat. Pinscher’s two rows over, playing around with the shit on his backpack. He makes a big show of peeling the paper off a new bumper sticker and pasting it onto the side of the bag. I make myself look at the wall.
The morning crawls by. Through bio and most of English, I wonder what the new sticker says. He was extra careful with it, like he was extra proud.
I make it through lunch, but take the long way to algebra to avoid, well, everyone, jumping across the threshold just as the second bell rings.
“Nice of you to join us,” Mrs. Tine says, waving me past with her bright-green review-o-rama folder. Like I’ve got a choice.
She practically dances around the room in full-out math love. It’s all review, and I actually get most of it, but Mrs. Tine is cool enough to skip past me when I’m sunk down low in my seat. She only calls on me when I look at her. Today I don’t look at anyone.
Pinscher’s two rows over and up. His backpack is on the floor next to his desk, the new sticker pointed right at me: Not in My Name, the words like a strobe light throbbing behind my eyes. Like any of them are over there for him.
All his talk and buttons and crap. His bracelets, like a girl, with the names of dead soldiers, who would have kicked his ass if they ever got the chance. And ever since Pinscher went to that rally in Philly, all he can talk about is Bush and the war. They made him stop wearing his Bush Lied crap in school, but he just tripled up with the antiwar stuff — buttons and shirts and stickers about the war, about the “troops,” like he gives a damn about them or what they believe.
Every week some new shirt, paraded around like he’s won something.
Bullshit, radiating off his backpack even when his freaking mouth is shut. War Is a Waste. Not in My Name. Iraqis Are People, Too. What the hell does that even mean?
The bell makes me jump, banging my knee on the desk. Everyone starts moving, but Mrs. Tine hovers next to me. I slack back and wait. Once the room is empty, she taps the blank page of my notebook, where my notes from class should be.
“Barely hanging on to a C right now, Matt. Don’t blow it.”
She drops my quiz from Friday on top of the blank page and walks away. A green 70 cowers next to my name in the upper right-hand corner of the page. When the school year started, Dad was pushing for all Bs. Now he’d flip for a C. But since I haven’t exactly been paying attention, I’m gonna need a miracle to get through the final and hang on to a C for the year.
The halls are too loud. I cut out the side door and walk around the outside of the building.
When I get to my locker, Pinscher’s still at his, holding court. He pulls his sweatshirt over his head. The T-shirt underneath is pristine, bright white with red letters on the front and red and black on back. Has to be new. The red words on front shout at me: Support OUR Troops: Bring Them Home . . . He turns, showing it off. All the black type on back is too small to read from across the hall, but the large red And not in Pieces screams off the shirt.
Not.
In.
Pieces.
My books scatter on the floor.
Pinscher turns and flattens back against the lockers. He’s talking, but I can’t hear him over the roaring in my head. Someone grabs my arm, but I shake him off and pull at Pinscher’s shirt.
I need to see.
I spin Pinscher around, shove his face against the lockers. My hand slaps flat against his back. Everything stops except for both of us heaving in air. I hold my hand over the words I couldn’t read from across the hall. Up close they’re huge.
I’m gonna tear them off him.
“It’s a waste, dude,” Pinscher says over his shoulder. “Don’t you see that? The money, and all the innocent —”
“Shut up.”
“I’m supporting them.” Fucking asshole. “It has to end before —”
“You have no right —”
“I have every right. It’s my —”
He struggles. The shirt rips. I’ve still got a piece of it. Not enough.
“Get off me!” he yells.
Other voices. Someone pulls me away. I shove back, but then they’re between us, someone holding on to Pinscher.
“Put your sweatshirt on,” someone says to Pinscher. Pinscher sputters. “Put it on,” he — Michael — says again.
“You ripped it?” Pinscher snarls.
I leap at him. Someone forces me back. We wrestle until Michael shoves us both fart
her away.
“Pete,” Michael says, “just go.”
Pinscher edges around Michael and starts backing toward the office, holding out a piece of the ripped shirt. “Don’t you get it? Bush lied. It was all lies. Every time we torture —”
I break free, slam Michael into the wall, and charge. Pinscher tries to get away, but I’ve got him. We stumble into the lockers. I wedge my arm into his throat and tear at the shirt until I get another chunk.
Pinscher kicks and twists.
I won’t let go.
The shirt rips all the way to Pinscher’s neck.
The others grab at me, but I shake them off and swing.
“My nose!” Pinscher clutches his face. Blood seeps between his fingers, floods his mouth and chin. “You broke my —”
My fist misses his jaw, gets his shoulder. T.J. wouldn’t have missed.
He swings back, but I punch the side of his head, then his neck. We fall.
I swing wildly, both fists. Blood everywhere.
Hands grab at me, pull me. I clamp my knees around Pinscher and keep swinging.
Pinscher covers his face.
T.J.’s voice tells me to go for his ribs. Dad eggs me on.
A roar, and I’m knocked off Pinscher, slammed into the wall. My head bounces off the floor. I spring up, the way T.J. taught me to, aiming for the nearest body. A crash, then glass everywhere.
Pinscher’s crawling. I dive for his legs.
Words keep coming. Dad’s words.
Wuss.
Show him.
Make him.
Fight.
Harder.
Hoisted up by my arms, I kick out, but I can’t find the ground.
I fight, but they’re too strong.
I’m hauled back until my feet hit the ground hard, vibrations running up my legs. Ears buzzing.
“Cut it out.” Coach Simpson. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Stop.” From the other side. Mr. Lee. “Matt, stop.”
I suck in air. Can’t breathe. Gulp in more. Like I was drowning. Now I can breathe.
“Get him out of here.”
They pull me down the hall.
Pinscher’s Practice Nonviolence button is on the floor. I kick it as they drag me by. It skitters all the way down the hall.
MY ASS IS NUMB FROM THE HARD PLASTIC CHAIR ACROSS from Principal Pendergrast’s office. He parked me here to wait for Dad. Two hours ago.
With nothing to do but wait, I can’t get the feel or sounds of the fight out of my head.
That first perfect punch in slow motion, a hazy comet trail following my arm all the way to Pinscher’s face. The sound of my fist hitting his nose, the crunch, like smashing crusty ice with my foot. Every drawer or door closing sounds like my head hitting the floor. The tangy, metallic smell of Pinscher’s blood surrounds me, making me thirsty and sick.
But when I roll my shoulder or flex my hands, it feels good, like the burn after working out so hard your body is at its limit and you know you’re alive. I haven’t felt this alive in months — since last April, when T.J. was home on leave.
It felt good to hit someone. I can’t say that out loud, but it’s the truth.
The door to Principal Pendergrast’s office opens. He mutters all the way to the lead secretary’s desk and then back around the counter to where I’m sitting. He waits for me to move my leg out of the path of his scuffed-up loafers before continuing past to the cabinet in the corner. His thinning hair still clings to his head in carefully spaced strands, but his chin, jaw, and upper lip are shaded dark with end-of-the-day stubble. He looks like a cartoon character — his face shaded darker to show the hard day he’s had.
“You, Mr. Foster, have absolutely nothing to smile about.”
Pendergrast’s intimidation strategies have nothing on Dad’s. And no matter what I do now, I’m gonna get suspended. I fold my arms and lean back in my chair. I stay that way, even when my shoulder starts to burn, and stare at his shoes, pretending I can’t hear him.
“You think this is funny?” Pendergrast leans in closer. “Do you? Yo, Earth to Mr. Foster.”
I’m not looking at him.
Mrs. Danner, the nice secretary, makes this sound, and then I’m looking at her over the counter. It’s like in sixth grade, when she caught me daring her son, Jared, to spit out the bus window on the field trip to Gettysburg. She flicks her head, and then I’m looking at Pendergrast, despite my plan to ignore him.
“Your language alone requires a suspension under the nonharassment policy. We do not tolerate that word, as you well know.”
“What word?” I was spewing words. I don’t even remember what.
Pendergrast plants his hands on his hips. Oh. Shit. I must have called Pinscher a faggot somewhere in there. Not for the first time, I wonder if Pendergrast takes “that word” a little personally.
“Well?” He waits for me to say something for myself. I don’t think he wants to hear what I think.
Whatever. He starts talking. I stop listening. Pendergrast acts like there’d have to be some sort of meeting or vote or something before suspending me if only I hadn’t called Pinscher a faggot. Yeah, right. As soon as I had a hold of Pinscher’s shirt, I was gone.
“You hear me?” Pendergrast nudges my shoe. I look at him, but I have no idea what he was saying. He throws his hands in the air and shifts to start over. Please let it be the short version. My head is pounding, and my stomach is trying to eat itself.
“Peter is seriously injured. You broke his nose, and you’d better hope nothing else is broken. Tim, Michael, and David got pretty banged up, and Steven’s going to need stitches in his arm. And that is all before we get to the display case you’re going to pay for.”
I feel a little bad about Michael. He’s OK, at least compared to a lot of the other jerks Shauna’s dated. Stevie’s OK, too. I have nothing against either of them except they got in my way. But Pinscher? Pinscher not so much. I actually feel pretty satisfied with breaking Pinscher’s face.
“Listen.” Pendergrast sags into the chair next to me. “You’re lucky you’re not down at the police station right now.” He leans so close I can smell his nasty breath. “By rights, you should be. I know Peter and some of the others have been pretty vocal lately. And it’s been a rough bunch of months for you. But you’re not helping yourself by rising to their bait at every turn.”
Every turn? He has no clue how many times a day I have to swallow it all down. Most days it’s all I can do just to keep from ripping Pinscher’s head off.
“I am sure, if the roles were reversed, you would want to express your views on”— he pauses, afraid to say “war” to me maybe —“political issues without getting the crap kicked out of you. Right?”
There’s no point in arguing. No matter what I say, no matter what happens, they’ll never get it, not with everyone snowed by Pinscher. They fall all over him, him and his father, the big-deal professor.
“. . . learn to roll with it a little more. It may not be fair, but I don’t think I have to tell you that life is not fair.”
No, he doesn’t.
“Seems like you came in this morning spoiling for a fight. At least, that’s what I hear.” From who? “Want to tell me why?”
No way.
“We can help, Matt. But you’ve got to talk to us.”
I’d be in a world of hurt if Pendergrast said anything to Dad. And besides, the parts not really about Pinscher would sound dumb.
Pendergrast scratches his chin. It sounds like sandpaper, the fine kind Mr. Anders gives me for the edges of woodwork or for going over custom cabinets before I stain them.
“OK. Well, there are about three weeks left. You have a chance to salvage this semester if you buckle down . . .”
Right. I’ve fallen into quicksand; the harder I try to concentrate, the less I can. I haven’t opened a book in months.
Pendergrast taps my chair. “Matthew, whatever troubles you’ve had in the past, and despite not
being the most dedicated student, you’ve never been a discipline problem until this year. And I get that there are extenuating circumstances, but not even . . . those excuse your behavior today.” He waits, maybe for me to pour out my soul. Not gonna happen. “We’re running out of options with you. My voicemail’s probably full of worried parents and school-board members, wanting me to assure them that you’re not a danger to anyone. And right now, I can’t do that.”
I push my cut-up knuckles against my leg to keep my face blank.
“I know it’s been tough. But I’d hate to see you get so far off track that you throw away your chance to graduate with your class. If you can get through these last few weeks without incident, get through finals, you could start fresh next year.”
Like that would solve anything. Break my ass? What for? Another year of torture?
“. . . I know that this time Peter may have started it.”
Bullshit. He waits for me to say something, but it’s got to be a trick. Like to get me to start talking. I’m not stupid. No way Pinscher admitted anything.
Pendergrast sighs, shakes his head, and leans back in his chair, moving away from me. Apparently the touchy-feely part of our chat is over.
“Even if Peter instigated it,” he continues, “that doesn’t make it acceptable to get physical, or to escalate it. You need to figure out how to resolve these kinds of things without violence — walk away or talk it out, anything not to turn to violence. You can’t solve things with your fists, Matt, especially when you are bigger and stronger than the other guy.”
“Says who?” Dad’s voice booms from the doorway.
My ribs and back scream from being jolted to attention, but I hold myself still and straight in the chair. Pendergrast stands up and motions to his office, but Dad’s not going anywhere yet. He towers over us, all six two of him, not one regulation salt-and-pepper hair out of place, not one piece of lint on his clothes, not one wrinkle except on his leathered face.
“Seems to me if the other guys started it, and I’m pretty sure you just admitted they did, then it seems to me they just learned the important lesson.” Dad’s bottom lip juts out for emphasis, like he has just now convinced himself of the truth of the statement. “Don’t talk trash to guys who are stronger than you, especially when the trash you’re spewing is utter, unadulterated bullshit. Sounds to me like they got what was coming to them.”
