[Janitors 01] Janitors

by Tyler Whitesides

  “Max,” Spencer muttered disapprovingly as he put the pillows back—two on the bed and two in the padded window seat. Spencer hung his backpack on a hook and sat down on a chair to remove his shoes.

  It was Monday. Two lonely weeks at Welcher Elementary were over and another had just begun. Fifty more weeks until Aunt Avril and Uncle Wyatt would return from business in Thailand and claim their house back—or whatever was left of it.

  Spencer wanted a snack. He had some treats in his top drawer, but he hadn’t washed his hands from school yet. He couldn’t bring himself to snack without washing and he couldn’t wash without leaving his tidy sanctuary. For a moment he sat perfectly still. He closed his eyes, letting the school day settle behind him.

  Something wet flicked across his face. For a terrible moment Spencer thought that Dez Rylie had somehow thrown a spit wad so far that it had penetrated his sanctuary. Spencer’s eyes opened and he saw one of Max’s friends emerge from hiding, bubble wand in hand. The kid was making a break for the door, giggling wildly.

  Spencer would have zapped him if he’d had a ray gun.

  Chapter 3

  “Disgusting.”

  Miss Leslie Sharmelle gave them morning recess the next day. It was only a ten-minute break, but at least it was ten minutes that Spencer could get away from Dez’s grubby hands. The big bully had been poking Spencer all morning. His trip to the principal’s office obviously hadn’t been enough to inspire good behavior.

  Spencer cursed the seating chart after recess as Dez plopped down beside him again. Miss Sharmelle had thrown out Mrs. Natcher’s lesson plans and decided to teach algebra. Daisy Gates, who had only briefly heard about algebra, thought it was some kind of deep-sea creature. Dez encouraged the myth, giving life-sucking tentacles to the dangerous algebras. Daisy, who had wholeheartedly forgiven Dez of his cruelty the day before, was ready to believe him. But then the lecture started and Miss Sharmelle (wearing a shirt that said X + Y = XOXOXO) shot down the myth.

  Miss Sharmelle, who had previously been so exciting, suddenly delivered the most dreadfully boring lecture possible. Spencer’s head began to bob like a basketball dribbling in slow motion. The first time it drooped, he jerked up, embarrassed. He’d had this problem in his old school—falling asleep even when he really wanted to learn what the teacher was explaining. Glancing around, Spencer noticed that several others were fading too.

  Not Dez. He slouched forward with a melty handful of M&Ms. Carefully, he placed a candy up his nose. Plugging the other nostril, he exhaled hard, blowing out the M&M and catching it on his waiting tongue.

  “Disgusting,” Spencer muttered. Repulsed beyond description, he turned away from the brute. He tried to focus on Miss Sharmelle’s voice. His head bobbed again . . . and again. Spencer almost wished that Dez would start poking him again—if the bully washed his hands first.

  Finally unable to resist, Spencer put his head onto his desk, X + Y equaling Zzzzzzz.

  Chapter 4

  “Weird.”

  Spencer felt someone shaking him. His eyes were sticky and he had to squint against the light. Suddenly remembering where he was, he shot upright in his seat. The glue seal on his eyes snapped and he glanced around the classroom.

  He was alone.

  Well, not alone, because Miss Sharmelle had a hand on his shoulder, bringing him around. But all the other students were gone!

  “I’m sorry, Miss Sharmelle,” Spencer said. “I don’t know . . . sometimes I . . . I’m sorry.”

  Miss Sharmelle smiled attractively. “It happens, Spencer. Algebra affects everyone differently.”

  “What time is it?”

  “The bell just rang. I bet your classmates aren’t even in the lunch line yet.”

  Spencer shook his head in shame and began scooping his belongings into his backpack. “I won’t fall asleep again, Miss Sharmelle. I really am sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Mrs. Natcher or anything.” But then, as Spencer stood and faced her, Miss Sharmelle gasped. Her green eyes, under a pair of fashionable fake glasses, studied his cheek and forehead.

  “What?” Spencer asked, his stomach sinking. “What’s wrong with my face?”

  Without answering, she motioned him over to her desk. From her pink leather purse, Miss Sharmelle withdrew a round makeup compact, flipped open the lid, and held the mirror out for him. Although the mirror was marked with several smudges and dusted with powder, Spencer caught the reflection of his left cheek. X + Y = Z was sloppily tattooed in black marker across his face. On his forehead was another algebraic equation, and by his chin, a third one had been started but left without an answer, probably because the bell had rung.

  “Dez,” mumbled Spencer angrily. He told Miss Sharmelle that he would wash it off in the bathroom and gave her the mirror back.

  “Terrible thing, permanent marker,” she said, examining her own reflection before replacing the makeup mirror in her purse.

  “It’ll come off,” Spencer said.

  “Good luck.”

  The nearest bathroom was just across the hallway. Spencer kept his face down and walked—fast. He pushed open the door with his elbow and stepped inside just as someone flushed the toilet and turned to face him.

  Dez.

  “Hey, Doofus,” the bully said. Spencer paused, trying to decide whether he should flee immediately or attempt to get past Dez and wash his face.

  “Nice equators,” Dez smirked.

  “What?” Spencer asked, his fist clenched like a grenade.

  “Maybe you should look in the mirror, smarty-pants,” Dez answered. “You’ve got math equators written all over your face.”

  “Equations,” Spencer said. “Math equations.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You still look like a dork.” Dez snorted and Spencer was afraid for a moment that the bully would launch a gob at him. Nothing came out, so Dez shifted gears. “You thought about standing up for Gullible Gates yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “That’s why you drew on my face?” Spencer asked.

  “No,” said Dez. “Actually, I drew on your face because Nancy Pepperton thought it would be funny.” Dez dug in his jeans pocket (a difficult task when the jeans are a size too small) and withdrew a crumpled strip of paper. “She passed me this during algebra.”

  Half expecting the paper to grow teeth and bite him, Spencer took it from Dez’s hand.

  Spencer is so out. Draw something on his face. —Nancy

  Spencer crumpled the paper and stuffed it into his own pocket. He barely even knew Nancy! What did she have against him?

  “Anyway,” Dez said. “Stay out of my fun with Gullible Gates and life will be easier for you. I like to play with her mind. It’s soft like Play-Doh but doesn’t dry out as fast. Next time you think about being a hero, I’ll spell a different equator for you. It’s called Fist + Nose = Blood. Deal?” Dez extended his beefy hand to seal the bargain, but Spencer just stared, trapped.

  “Deal?” Dez repeated, unaccustomed to having his victims think before they agreed.

  “Deal,” answered Spencer finally. “It’s a deal.”

  “Why won’t you shake on it?” Dez demanded, his hand still extended.

  “Well,” Spencer hesitated, wondering if honesty would win him a face-plant in the toilet. “You just went to the bathroom and you haven’t washed your hands yet.”

  Dez exhaled a breathy puff of disbelief that turned into a mocking laugh. Spencer stood rigid, ready for anything. After a good chuckle, Dez reached out and gently patted Spencer’s cheek. “Washing’s for sissies.” He pushed Spencer aside, flung open the bathroom door, and announced his arrival in the hallway with a loud belch.

  As soon as the door clanged shut, Spencer took three quick steps to the sink and turned on the water. Dez’s bathroom hands were a sec
ond incentive to a thorough face washing. In the mirror, Spencer saw the ink equations more clearly. He must have been sound asleep not to feel Dez’s marker.

  Grateful that no one else had seen the math-work, Spencer splashed his face with water. Reaching over, he gave two solid pumps to the soap dispenser on the wall.

  Nothing.

  Spencer began pumping violently on the dispenser, but it was hopeless. There was no soap. Spencer scanned the room desperately. The next bathroom was all the way down the hall and around the corner. He would never make it without someone spotting Dez’s artwork.

  Spencer’s eyes suddenly fell on a small bottle resting on the edge of the next sink. His face still dripping, Spencer reached over and snatched it up, hopeful that it might contain something that could remove his facial graffiti. Turning it over in his hand, Spencer saw that it was actually a hotel shampoo bottle from a Best Western. Quickly deciding that shampoo might do the trick, he unscrewed the cap.

  There was the tiniest bit of gelatin-like substance in the bottom of the bottle. Spencer squirted the glob onto his palm, surprised to see that it was bright pink and looked more like soap than shampoo after all. The soap smelled fresh, if a little chemical.

  Spencer worked the pink gel to a foamy lather between his hands. He rubbed his cheek, watching X and Y melt away with surprising ease. Then he closed his eyes and lathered his whole face.

  Burning hot!

  Icy cold!

  “Yaaaaaggghh!”

  Spencer frantically began rinsing his face. The soap was in his eyes now, stinging like crazy. He plunged his entire face directly under the faucet, letting the lukewarm water flush out his eyes. Spencer reached out blindly and pumped a roll of paper towels. Blotting his face with the paper helped make the tingling sensation fade.

  Spencer opened his eyes and stared back at his reflection. The front of his shirt was soaked from his rapid and reckless rinsing. His brown hair was damp and clinging to his forehead. And his face . . . it was as red as a tomato and still burning. But at least there was no sign of Dez’s algebra.

  Spencer picked up the bottle, blinking rapidly in hopes that his eyes would stop stinging. He smelled the soap again. It was strong—definitely not Best Western shampoo. It might have been paint remover, for all he knew. Whatever it was, Spencer decided he was allergic. He was lucky to have found it first. What if some little baby first grader had washed his hands with the napalm soap?

  Feeling like he was doing the world a favor, Spencer tossed the bottle into the garbage can, where it sank out of sight beneath crumpled paper towels.

  Suddenly, a flash of movement caught his eye in the mirror. Spencer blinked, still trying to focus. The stall door was open, but he thought he’d seen something duck out of sight.

  Spencer took a cautious step toward the bathroom stall and peered in. Seeing nothing, he gently pushed the door. It swung on its hinges to reveal an empty stall, nothing but scraps of toilet tissue littering the hard floor.

  “Weird,” Spencer muttered, still blinking against the eye-tingling sensation. Dispensing another small piece of paper towel, he used it to open the bathroom door. Then he headed for the lunchroom.

  Chapter 5

  “Better hurry up.”

  Miss Sharmelle’s afternoon lessons were back up to par. The students sat on the floor for the last twenty minutes of class listening to her read aloud from some novel about the Civil War. Spencer had read the book on his own the year before, but he didn’t mind hearing it again. Anything was better than algebra.

  As Miss Sharmelle turned another page, her voice escalating with the narrative, Spencer glimpsed movement by the bookshelf. There was something crawling across the top of the books!

  Before Spencer could say anything, something sprang forward, unfolding leathery, batlike wings. It had the bald head and hooked beak of a vulture. The rest of its black body, no bigger than a softball, was covered in short, bristly hair.

  From the bookshelf, it flew in a jagged arc over the students, turning only inches away from Miss Sharmelle’s pink-streaked hairdo.

  “Ahhh!” Spencer cried, flattening himself to the ground. “Look out!”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, the winged creature arched back and dove as fast as a falcon behind the teacher’s desk.

  “Spencer?” Miss Sharmelle said, looking up from the novel. “Is something wrong?” The other kids were staring at him, some trying to suppress giggles.

  What? Impossible! Of course something was wrong! Some hideous bat thing had just come out of the bookshelf. Spencer glanced toward the teacher’s desk. The creature was hiding now. Probably waiting for the perfect moment to swoop down and scoop out everyone’s eyeballs.

  “I thought I saw something,” Spencer said. “Did anyone else . . . I mean . . . did anyone see anything?” His classmates slowly shook their heads with looks on their faces that might have condemned him to a lifetime in the loony bin.

  Finally, someone broke the silence. “Yeah. I saw something.” Spencer turned. It was Dez. “I saw some doofus put his face on the floor and shout, ‘Look out!’” This won laughter from several kids, but Miss Sharmelle killed it.

  “Spencer, what exactly do you think you saw?”

  “Well,” Spencer said, unsure how to explain it. “It was kind of hairy, with black wings and a sharp beak.”

  “Like a bat?” one of his classmates asked.

  “Yes!” Spencer said. “Kind of like a bat.”

  “Uh, bats don’t have beaks, Doofus.” This was from Dez, who clearly thought everyone was taking Spencer too seriously.

  “It came out of the bookshelf over there,” Spencer explained, rising to his feet. “It flew right down here, close to Miss Sharmelle. But when I saw it, the thing just shot down behind the teacher’s desk.”

  Instant stampede. About half the kids in the class rushed over to Mrs. Natcher’s desk, surrounding it from every angle.

  “There’s nothing here!” shouted Daisy. “It’s gone.”

  “Of course there’s nothing,” answered Dez. “Spencer just imagined it. See, Daisy. He’s got that flu I was telling you about. The only way to stop it is by doing this.” Dez stuck his thumbs up his nose and put his pinkies in his ears. Then the bell rang and he jumped up, grabbed his backpack, and ran out of the classroom screaming.

  As the students poured out of the room, Miss Sharmelle called Spencer over. “I’m a little worried about you,” she said. “I don’t know what Mrs. Natcher usually tolerates, but you’ve been kind of disruptive today. Now, I won’t tell her about this, or about how you slept through math. But I surely hope you weren’t trying to make a scene.”

  “No, ma’am,” Spencer promised. “I’m pretty sure I saw something.”

  “Well, maybe you did. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.” Miss Sharmelle gave him a heartwarming smile. “See you tomorrow.”

  Unable to resist, Spencer took a few steps forward and peeked behind the desk.

  Nothing.

  It took Spencer a few moments to gather his things; by the time he entered the hallway, most of the kids were outside loading into the busses. It would be a long walk if he missed the bus. And Spencer really didn’t want to bother his mother for a ride—assuming that the station wagon started in the first place.

  Spencer rounded a corner, heading for the main doors, and stopped in his tracks. There it was, nestled in the trash can, its bat wings sticking up over the top edge. Frozen, Spencer watched it rummage through the garbage, poking its bald head in a Kit Kat wrapper.

  “Get down!” someone shouted, and Spencer instinctively dropped to the carpet. Dez appeared behind him, waving his hands at invisible objects above his head. “Save us, Batman! They’re everywhere!”

  Dez’s sixth-grade buddies showed up laughing. “Good one, dude.” Dez stopped
swinging his arms and joined in the laughter.

  One of the bullies pointed as Spencer scampered to his feet. “That’s the weirdo from your class? What a loser.”

  Spencer looked instinctively at the garbage can. The vulture-headed creature was still there. Lifting a chocolaty beak from the Kit Kat wrapper, it ruffled its wings and flew off down the hallway.

  “Come on.” The bullies burst through the school doors. Spencer’s face still might have been a little pink from the soap that morning, but now it was bright red. Dez was telling everyone! It was bad enough that he didn’t have any friends at Welcher Elementary. But it would be far worse if everyone in the school thought he was crazy.

  Then, as if to seal his insanity, something else moved down the hallway, scuttling low to the floor. It was the size of a prairie dog but as round and bushy as a bath loofah. It had long, gray fur that was so dingy it looked like a giant mothball rolling down the hallway. The dust gopher stopped in a dirty corner where the carpet met the wall and began chowing down on . . . dust?

  Suddenly, a broom sailed out of nowhere and slammed into the corner by the dust-ball critter. Spencer jumped as the gopher ran for it. It dashed to a doorway across the hall, but the way was instantly blocked by a huge, oafish man with a vacuum.

  Hearing the vacuum rev to life, the dust-ball scurried back just as the vacuum hose came down. The suction came so close that Spencer saw the creature’s fur change direction, bits of dirt tumbling out and rattling up the vacuum hose. In an instant, the dust-ball escaped, racing back toward the lunchroom.

  Casually, as though nothing strange had happened, the bearlike janitor dragged his vacuum hose along the edge of the carpet, picking up tiny bits of paper that had fallen near the garbage can. With his other hand, he grabbed his leather belt, laden with a large ring of heavy keys and a walkie-talkie radio. His dirty white shirt came untucked as he hiked up his sagging pants.

  “Better hurry up,” the man said without looking. “Don’t want to miss the bus.”