“Too bad Mr. Gillette took away your picture. Come on, let’s see if he’ll give it back.”
When we reentered his classroom, Mr. Gillette was straightening the desks, preparing his room for the next group of students. He was muttering something that was mostly inaudible, but included, “ . . . a bunch of boneheads.”
“Mr. Gillette?”
He turned around, startled.
“May I please have the picture I gave to Sara?” I asked.
My teacher glared at me. “Mr. Baron, in case you haven’t figured it out by now, I happen to take a great deal of pride in my classroom. I expect each one of my students to put forth his or her best effort—including you! I am also aware of what your father does for a living, and to be quite honest, I find it to be an unseemly profession. But that’s just my opinion. In any case, I will not tolerate you disrupting my class by distributing this garbage while you should be reading.”
He fished out the photograph from his coat pocket and scrutinized it.
“Imagine,” he said with a look of contempt, “grown men parading around in their underpants, grunting and growling, pretending to beat each other. If there is any lower form of entertainment—”
“May I have it back, sir?” Sara asked gently. “Please?”
Mr. Gillette frowned. “Certainly not!”
With that, he ripped the photograph in two. Then he tore the pieces once more.
Sara gasped in disbelief.
“Now go on to your next class!” Mr. Gillette shooed us away with the back of his hand.
I couldn’t believe what he’d done. How could he be so thoughtless, so cruel? My heart pulsated with rage. Without thinking, I shouted, “You had no right to tear that picture! I gave it to Sara.”
“Mr. Baron! This is my classroom and I make the rules here, not you,” he growled, shoving his index finger in my face. “And I will do whatever I want. Next time, you will think twice about bringing that schlock in here.”
Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump! Thump-thump!
“Get out of here, both of you. Unless you wish to add insolence to your misconduct.”
I remained standing there for a few seconds, desperately fighting back the tears that I could feel surfacing. The last thing I needed was for Sara to see me cry.
“I’ll get you another one,” I told her.
She stared at the shreds of paper in our teacher’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that,” she said under her breath.
Ignoring her, Mr. Gillette tossed the scraps into the trash can and continued straightening his desks.
Out in the hallway, Sara broke down crying. “I despise that man!”
“It’s okay, don’t worry about it,” I said. “Besides, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have taken that picture out in the first place.”
“He thinks he’s such a great teacher,” sniffed Sara. “Well, he may know a lot about literature, but he doesn’t know a thing about working with kids.” She shuddered and wiped away her tears with her hand.
It pained me to see her so upset. Her crying also magnified my growing headache.
“I’d like you to meet my father sometime,” I said. “He’s not home right now, but I’ll try to work something out, okay?”
“Sure.” Sara smiled. “I’d like that.”
“We’d better hurry to class. We don’t want to be late.”
“Okay.” She wiped her eyes again. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
At around five thirty in the evening, I heard a car pull into the driveway. I peeked out my window and spotted Mrs. Petrosky getting out of a silver Honda.
I slipped my homework in my math book. I figured I wouldn’t get back to it until after she left. I’m sure my mom expected me to sit in on the conference.
Even though I knew Mrs. Petrosky had arrived, I decided to wait until she rang the doorbell before I met her. I didn’t want to appear anxious or nervous about her visit. I’ll let my mom welcome her in.
It seemed strange having a teacher come to our house, especially one I hardly knew. Even stranger to me was what she thought was so all-fired important that she felt the need to make the trip here. Why didn’t she talk to my mom during regular school hours? After all, my mom had offered to meet with her in the classroom.
I’d find out soon enough.
The doorbell rang. I heard my mom greet her.
A moment later, there was a knock at my door. My mom poked her head inside my room. “Jesse, your teacher’s here.”
When we entered the den, Mrs. Petrosky was snapping pictures like crazy from a disposable camera.
“Please forgive me,” she said, slightly embarrassed. “It’s just that I’ve never been inside a real celebrity’s home. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not,” my mom replied, but I knew better. She’s always been uncomfortable around camera bugs and autograph hounds who constantly pester my father whenever we go out in public as a family.
Mrs. Petrosky snapped another picture, one of a replica of my father’s ACW heavyweight title belt, which hung above the fireplace mantle, before she acknowledged my presence.
“Hello, Jesse. It’s good to see you,” she said warmly, even though I’d spent my first and last class periods in her room.
“Please sit down,” my mom said.
Mrs. Petrosky remained standing, gazing at the photographs hanging on the walls. She took a picture of a photograph of my father posing with Jason Cage and Sean LaRue, the Midnight Raiders.
“Mrs. Petrosky?” my mom called.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I got a little carried away. You have such a fascinating place, Mrs. Baron,” she said, gazing around the room. “By any chance, will your husband be home any time soon?”
I’d already told her at school that he wouldn’t be home until Friday.
“No, I’m afraid he’s out of town . . . working.”
Mrs. Petrosky giggled. “Yes, of course. Working.” She slipped the camera inside a large tote bag.
She sat next to my mom on our green leather couch. I sat across from them on the matching love seat.
“Mrs. Baron, I want you to know that I’m one of your husband’s biggest fans. I never miss Monday Night Mayhem. As a matter of fact, back in February, a friend of mine and I had a chance to see him wrestle the Black Mamba live at the Alamodome when the ACW came to town. Your husband won the match, of course.” She flashed my mom a wide, toothy grin.
“Thank you, Mrs. Petrosky. Now, about Jesse . . . ”
“Do you suppose it would be possible for me to get your husband’s autograph? I brought my autograph book with me.” She took out a small book from her tote bag. “I know he’s not home at the moment, but maybe if I left it here, he could sign it when he gets in. Then Jesse can return it to me at school.”
My mom forced herself to smile. “Yes, I guess that can be arranged. Now, about Jesse . . . ”
“I also brought a picture that I’d like your husband to autograph, if that’s all right.”
Mrs. Petrosky pulled out an Angel of Death 8x10 glossy from her tote bag. It was a copy of the one I’d given Sara that Mr. Gillette ripped up. They sell them at all ACW events. I wondered what Mr. Gillette would think if he knew that Mrs. Petrosky had the same photograph. Would he rip it up, too?
My mom placed the photograph and the autograph book on the coffee table.
“Mrs. Petrosky, on the phone, you told me that you had some suggestions on how to help Jesse be more successful in school,” she said with growing exasperation.
My teacher didn’t respond. Her eyes were deeply fixated on the walls.
“Mrs. Petrosky?”
“Hmm?”
“You told me that Jesse hadn’t done well on his history test, that he had received the lowest score in the class.”
“Oh . . . yes,” my teacher replied, finally waking up from her trance. “Well, to be perfectly honest with you, Mrs. Baron, Jesse’s wasn’t the lowest gr
ade. Actually, there were a few others who scored lower. But those students are, for the most part, troublemakers who don’t care about their grades. Three of them are currently on suspension for trying to mug a couple of girls out on the blacktop.”
The “three of them,” of course, were the Three Stooges—Manny, Chester, and Hugo.
“Luckily, Jesse stopped those boys from hurting the girls,” my teacher added. She patted me on the knee and smiled.
“Is that how Jesse got involved in a fight?” my mom asked.
“I wasn’t in a fight,” I protested.
Mrs. Petrosky chuckled nervously. “Jesse didn’t exactly get in a fight, Mrs. Baron. From what Coach Johnson told me, Jesse merely ordered those boys to leave the girls alone.”
My mom had a confused look on her face. It was pretty clear that the version of the events my teacher had related on the phone was different from what she was now saying.
“Is Jesse having difficulty adjusting to his new school?” My mom probed for new information since there seemed to be a discrepancy between their initial conversation and this one. “Because we have moved quite a bit, due to my husband’s job. Unfortunately, Jesse’s been in so many schools over the years that by the time he gets used to one place, we have to move again. But we’re planning to make San Antonio our permanent home. My husband and I both grew up here and . . . and . . . Mrs. Petrosky?”
My teacher’s eyes had begun to rove again, and my mom knew she wasn’t paying attention to her.
“What do you want us to do, Mrs. Petrosky?” she asked loudly.
“Hmm? About what?”
With frustration in her voice, my mom cried, “About Jesse! Didn’t you tell me on the phone that he was doing poorly in your history class? That he had failed your test on the Texas Revolution?”
Mrs. Petrosky said, “Well, that’s understandable, Mrs. Baron, given that Jesse has been in my class for such a short time.”
“I told you, Mom,” I said.
Ignoring me, my mom continued. “Is there anything Jesse can do to make up his failing grade? After I got off the phone with you, I thought it might be a good idea to take Jesse to visit the Alamo and some of the other Spanish missions in the city. I remember visiting those places many times when I was a child. As a matter of fact, my parents even bought me a Davy Crockett ‘coonskin cap that I wore all the time.” She smiled sheepishly.
By the glassy look in her eyes, I could tell that Mrs. Petrosky had begun to drift off again. She was barely listening to what my mom was saying.
At last she reentered the conversation. “I’d like to offer a suggestion that could erase the ‘F’ Jesse received on his test.”
“Of course,” said my mom eagerly.
I sat up, all ears. I figured she was going to ask me to write a report about the Alamo or about some Texas hero. After I failed a major science test when we lived in Omaha, my teacher had me write a research paper on the life of Thomas Edison to make up my low grade.
Mrs. Petrosky paused and collected her thoughts. She cleared her throat. “My class falls under the umbrella of social studies, Mrs. Baron. And as I’m sure you’re aware, social studies branches out into many different areas besides history—for instance, the community, let’s say.” She reached across the coffee table and picked up the 8x10 glossy photo of my father. “If the Angel of Death and perhaps some of the other ACW wrestlers were to make an appearance at Lanier Middle School—we could call it ‘career investigations’—then Jesse’s ‘F’ could easily be replaced by an ‘A.’” She grinned like the proverbial cat that had just swallowed the canary.
If my mom didn’t see through her, I sure did. Suddenly it became crystal clear what her plan was and why she had come here. It was all a setup. She wasn’t concerned about my doing poorly on that history test. She hadn’t called my mom to discuss my “problems” at school. It was a ruse to meet my father—to see where her favorite wrestler, the Angel of Death, lived.
“I–I’m not quite sure it can be arranged,” said my mom, flustered. “You see, all public appearances by ACW wrestlers must be approved by the organization’s management. You would have to contact their offices.”
Mrs. Petrosky frowned. Not about to be swayed, she said, “Surely there are exceptions . . . under special circumstances. An ‘F’ is not easy to make up, especially when Jesse has enrolled so late in the year. I’m simply offering an alternate solution, Mrs. Baron.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This was blackmail, pure and simple.
Produce the Angel of Death, lady, or the kid fails the class.
“I can write a report on Davy Crockett or William Travis or any other Texas hero, if that will help,” I offered.
My mom looked at my teacher hopefully.
But Mrs. Petrosky pretended not to hear me. She rose from the couch, indicating that the conference was over. “Talk it over with your husband, Mrs. Baron. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement.”
My mom stood and walked her to the foyer. “I will, but please try to understand, I can’t make any promises.”
Mrs. Petrosky gave her a used car salesman smile. “I only have Jesse’s best interest at heart. You understand that, don’t you, Mrs. Baron? I just want him to succeed.”
My mom nodded weakly.
Mrs. Petrosky reached her hand into her tote bag and grabbed her camera. “Do you mind if I take your picture?”
Before my mom could reply, Mrs. Petrosky snapped two quick shots. “Thank you, Mrs. Baron. It was a pleasure to meet you. You have a lovely home.” She opened the door and let herself out. “I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Jesse,” she said with a wiggle of her fingers.
In St. Louis, my friend Eric and I once attended a carnival that was set up on the parking lot of an old shopping center. There was a man running a game where he slipped a ball into one of three cups. Then he shuffled the cups around, and for a dollar, you could guess in which cup the ball was. If you guessed correctly, you’d win a stuffed Tweety Bird or Sylvester doll. Together, Eric and I must’ve spent over fifteen dollars trying to guess which cup had the ball. Neither one of us won. Even as we walked away, dejected and broke, the man kept challenging us to try it one more time.
Watching Mrs. Petrosky getting into her car, I had the sinking feeling that, once again, I was being conned.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“Dad!”
I rushed through the airline terminal to meet him. He arrived with another wrestler—a man named Carlos Montoya. Wrestling fans never recognize Carlos Montoya in public, though. He wrestles under a mask and is better known as El Azteca Dorado—The Golden Aztec. For that matter, without the skeleton face paint and his wrestling attire, fans don’t immediately recognize my father, either.
“How are you, champ?” he said, handing me his duffel bag. “Where’s Mom?”
“Over there.”
I pointed to a row of chairs. My mom had remained seated even after my father’s plane landed.
“What happened to your head?” I asked.
He had a huge gauze bandage on his forehead, held down with two strips of tape.
“Oh . . . Butcher Murdock,” my father replied with a shrug, as if that was all the explanation needed. And indeed, it was.
I’ve seen my father fight Don “Butcher” Murdock bunches of times. Their matches sometimes involve Murdock smashing him over the head with a metal folding chair.
My father’s forehead generally opens up and streams of blood flow out. The bleeding, though, is seldom the result of the chair shots.
Wrestlers use a technique called “blading” or “juicing” to achieve that effect. Earlier in the day, before they wrestle, they swallow several aspirins. This helps thin the blood in their systems. Then, just prior to their match, they hide a small razor blade, usually in their wristbands or in their tights. At a strategic point during the bout, when a wrestler is struck with a “foreign object,” he slips the blade out and scrapes his forehead with it, sli
cing into tiny vessels. The combination of the thinned blood, the perspiration, and the physical energy of the match itself causes the blood to gush out. According to my father, it stings like crazy, but it’s not nearly as painful or as devastating as it may appear to the audience. Frank Collins calls on certain performers to blade from time to time in order to add realism to their matches. Unfortunately, my father’s forehead is permanently disfigured with thick, ugly scars from countless blading jobs. I wouldn’t want to go through life looking like that.
We walked over to my mom.
“Hello, Molly,” my father greeted her.
She sighed, then with some reluctance, rose to her feet.
“Hi,” she said without emotion. Gently, she ran her fingers across his bandage, but didn’t say anything about it. Long ago, she accepted those kinds of injuries as part of the job. Finally she reached up and kissed him lightly. “Glad you’re home.”
He pulled away and turned to his friend. “You know Carlos, don’t you?
“Buenas tardes, señora.” Carlos Montoya took her hand and kissed it. “Gusto de verla otra vez.”
“Igualmente, Carlos,” my mom replied with the first smile I’d seen on her all day.
We headed toward the baggage claim area in uneasy silence. Even Carlos could sense that there was tension between my parents. Or perhaps my father had confided in him—discussed his home situation. They’ve been friends ever since Carlos joined the company about a year ago. We stood quietly, watching suitcases and bags clumsily ride the carousel.
“There’s ours,” I said, breaking the silence. I reached over and grabbed my father’s luggage—two large suitcases and a garment bag.
We remained standing there a few moments longer and waited for Carlos to retrieve his bags.
“Let’s go eat somewhere,” said my father. “I’m starving.”
My mom groaned. “It’s past midnight, Mark, and I’m tired. Didn’t you eat anything on the plane?”
“Of course I did,” he replied sharply. “If you consider a bag of pretzels and a Coke dinner.”
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