Me and Sam-Sam Handle the Apocalypse

by Susan Vaught

  Still yelling . . . but better.

  Springer nodded. I thought he was shaking all over. I didn’t want him to shake.

  “It’s hot!” I said loudly, but it wasn’t really yelling.

  “There are fifteen lockers behind you,” Springer said, sounding a little less worried.

  “Thirty if you count top and bottom.” I rubbed some blood off my neck.

  “You bleeding?” Springer asked me, worried again.

  I became vaguely aware of a ring of people. Jerkface and Trisha, eyes wide, standing next to Ms. Jorgensen. Chris, seeming woozy, sorta hanging in Coach Sedon’s grip. Mr. Chiba standing right behind Springer.

  The heat in my face turned down a few degrees. I couldn’t hear blood pounding in my brain anymore. “It’s not an itch,” I told Springer. “It’s like a fire. A flameout, only not just in my brain. All over.”

  He nodded. Breathed. Breathed again like he was counting in his own head, and maybe imagining puppies, too. “Is the flameout done now?”

  I nodded. “I think so.” Then, so he’d know I wasn’t going to smash him in the face, I added, “OBWIG forever. And thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” Springer said. He pointed at the blood on my shirt. “But you really are bleeding.”

  “Chris bit my head,” I said. “I hope I don’t get rabies.”

  Mr. Chiba’s mouth twitched. He cleared his throat and said, “Jesse, please come with Springer and me. Let’s get you to the nurse.”

  “The boy’s bleeding, too,” Ms. Jorgensen said, indicating Chris’s nose.

  “I’ll get him an ice pack,” his father grumbled. “He doesn’t need a nurse.”

  I left with Mr. Chiba and Springer, heading toward the office. Behind us, the others followed. I could hear them walking, and sometimes mumbling stuff to each other, but I ignored them.

  “OBWIG,” I said to Springer, to keep myself calm.

  “Should I count OBWIGs?” he asked.

  “No, just say it back.”

  “OBWIG,” Springer said.

  “One day, you’ll have to tell me what that means,” Mr. Chiba said.

  “No, sir,” Springer and I said together.

  23

  Friday, Three Days Earlier, After School

  After the nurse finished putting some sort of weird cream on my head that didn’t smell menthol-y like Aunt Gus’s stuff or even set my skin on fire, I sat in Ms. Jorgensen’s office with the pop-and-squeeze kind of ice packs on my shoulders. They weren’t very cold, and Aunt Gus’s muscle rub would have helped a lot more.

  Springer sat beside me as we waited for my dad to get his classroom locked up and come get us. Coach Sedon and Mr. Chiba were in the office next door, babysitting Jerkface and the cockroaches. Ms. Jorgensen sat behind her desk in front of a bunch of framed pictures of her playing volleyball in college. She had her chin on her hands and was gazing at us. Her short, dark hair had gotten messed up, and she had her glasses on. They were crooked.

  “What were you two doing at the senior high this time?” she asked. “Investigating again?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Springer said.

  “When this happened before, I didn’t suspend both of you because I understand Jesse is stressed about what’s happening with her father, and you were being a good new friend and helping her.”

  “Investigating again was my idea,” I said. “Springer just went to the senior high to be sure nothing happened to me.”

  “That’s not true,” Springer said. He sounded hurt.

  Ms. Jorgensen held up one hand, and my gaze fixated on where her arm came out of the short sleeve. People weren’t as scary when I looked at them in pieces, even principals.

  “Your elbows need lotion,” I said.

  Ms. Jorgensen stopped talking and tried to look at her elbows, but looking at your own elbows is hard, unless you’re double-jointed like Mom. So she stopped, then frowned. Her elbows went back to her desk, and her chin went back in one hand.

  “What, exactly, were you checking out in South Hall and the band room?” she asked.

  “We were questioning suspects,” Springer said.

  “Suspects.” Ms. Jorgensen stared at us.

  I shifted my ice packs and glanced at Springer. “I didn’t know principals echoed, too.”

  “I think everybody does when they’re confused,” Springer said.

  Ms. Jorgensen rubbed her elbows. “Why are we talking about echoing?”

  “Because you echoed,” I said.

  “I echoed?” Ms. Jorgensen’s eyebrows pulled together like Dad’s did when he got confused.

  “See?” Springer pointed at her.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  Ms. Jorgensen rubbed her eyes. “Okay, let’s try this again. Who did you question, and why?”

  The room got too quiet. Even with all the people in offices all around us, the only sound was the whick-whick of air coming through vents. I realized the office smelled like old carpet, but I wouldn’t let myself look down to see if this office had squares I’d have to count.

  “If you two don’t want to be suspended, I really need you to help me understand,” Ms. Jorgensen said.

  Springer opened his mouth to answer and so did I, but both of us seemed to remember at the exact same moment that Ms. Jorgensen was a suspect, too. We both closed our mouths.

  “You know I’m going to find out anyway,” Ms. Jorgensen added.

  I had no doubt Nancy Newsom and Meredith Parks would sell us out in a heartbeat. But I had my doubts about Maleka and even Josh Sharp, even though Maleka had let us know that he might not be that trustworthy. I still sort of liked him.

  Thinking about all that made my shoulders tighten, and that hurt. I wished I could find a switch in my brain and just flip it to Off.

  “Can we trade questions and answers?” Springer asked Principal Jorgensen, and I had to work not to gape at him.

  “Trade—” Principal Jorgensen started to echo, stopped herself, and sighed. “Okay, if that’ll work. You go first, though.”

  “We questioned Nancy Newsom,” Springer said.

  Ms. Jorgensen eased back in her big leather principal’s chair. “Trisha’s sister’s best friend—the one who gives them rides when their parents have the cars at work. Why?”

  “It’s our turn,” Springer said. “Um, our turn, ma’am.”

  Ms. Jorgensen seemed to think about getting mad, but she didn’t. Instead she gestured with one hand. “By all means. Ask away.”

  Springer glanced at me.

  I nodded. “Okay. Let’s start with, where were you during the staff meeting on the day the money was stolen out of Dad’s desk?”

  Ms. Jorgensen sat up straight so forcefully that I actually leaned back in my chair. The ice bags slid off my shoulders and plopped onto the ground.

  Principal Jorgensen’s calm in-charge expression melted right off her face, and her cheeks got red streaks on the tops. Her nostrils flared like she could smell the old carpet stink, or maybe even the funk under the back steps where Springer and I had hidden.

  When she spoke, her voice was quiet, but so cold it made me shiver. “How did you know I wasn’t at that meeting?”

  Springer curled his fingers into a fist. I knew he was worried about getting Mr. Chiba in trouble, and so was I, so I didn’t say anything.

  We just looked at her.

  “It’s still our turn,” I reminded her. I meant to sound like a real detective, but my voice came out like a doggy whine. “I mean, you didn’t answer our question, so you don’t get to ask one yet.”

  Ms. Jorgensen took a turn of not saying anything and staring at us.

  Finally, she said, “I had an emergency.”

  Springer nodded. “We questioned Nancy because she was on our list.”

  Oh. He’d answered the first question Ms. Jorgensen had tried to ask when it wasn’t her turn. And he gave exactly as much information as Ms. Jorgensen did with her answer. Wow. Springer was good at this game. I gaze
d at him with new appreciation.

  Ms. Jorgensen jumped right back to “How did you know I wasn’t at that staff meeting?”

  “It’s our turn again, ma’am,” Springer said.

  “I’m through playing games, Springer.” Ms. Jorgensen got that weird look again, that pinch-faced one I had seen Wednesday when we talked about the stolen money. “Answer the question.”

  “I want a lawyer,” I said to Ms. Jorgensen. To Springer, I whispered, “Look out, she’s got the pinch-face again.”

  Springer nodded.

  “What?” Ms. Jorgensen yelled.

  “Suspects get a lawyer if they ask,” I said.

  Some of the red left Ms. Jorgensen’s cheeks. “You aren’t a suspect in anything, and I’m not the police.”

  I folded my arms. “Then I want my dad.”

  Ms. Jorgensen sucked in a breath. Let it out slowly and looked at Springer.

  “I want her dad, too,” Springer said. He echoed my arm-folding.

  Ms. Jorgensen didn’t look mad anymore, and the pinch-face went away until she looked mostly normal again. “How you found out about my staff meeting absence—it’s a simple question. Just answer it.”

  “If it’s simple, why did it make you mad?” I asked. “And why didn’t you tell us where you really were?”

  She stood up suddenly.

  I grabbed my ice packs off the floor. They weren’t as heavy as water bottles, but if she tried anything funny I’d chuck them at her face, grown-up or not.

  “You can’t hit a principal,” Springer whispered way too loudly.

  “I can if she tries to touch me.” I squeezed the packs in my shaky fingers. “And I will.”

  Ms. Jorgensen held up both hands. “I’m not going to touch anybody.”

  “Why have you been gone from school so much?” I hollered at her, keeping tight hold on those packs. “Do you need money for something?”

  She kept her hands up, chest-level. “You think I took the library fund.”

  “We think you’re a suspect,” Springer said.

  I didn’t know people could roll their eyes, sigh, and get a pinch-face all at the same time, but somehow Ms. Jorgensen managed this.

  A few seconds later, she pointed at me, then at Springer.

  “Look, you two just—just—stay here.”

  And she walked out of the office, leaving us all alone with the old carpet stink and the whick-whicking vents.

  “Do you think she’s guilty?” I asked Springer as I sat in my chair again and lowered my weaponized ice packs.

  “She acts guilty,” Springer said.

  “Yeah,” I said, staring at the door until it opened and Coach Sedon came into the office.

  For a moment, he just stood inside the room. There was blood on his green basketball shirt and his green basketball shorts. His whistle hung around his neck, and my brain noted that no blood had gotten on the bright silver. His hair had gotten messed up, and a bald spot was showing near the front, just off the line of his forehead. For the briefest second, I looked into his eyes.

  Brown and cold, like Chris’s.

  “Where’s Ms. Jorgensen?” I asked, almost on reflex, as my muscles tightened.

  “Staying with my son and his friends,” Coach Sedon answered.

  Silence.

  One second. Two seconds. Three seconds . . .

  Coach Sedon kept standing just inside the door. He let it shut behind him, and my breathing moved to my chest.

  “Why did Ms. Jorgensen switch places with you?” Springer asked, proving he was a lot braver than me.

  Coach Sedon glared down at Springer. “You two were trying her patience. She asked me to take a shift.” His gaze shifted to me. “I think you broke my son’s nose, Jesse.”

  “He tried to break my arms.” My voice sounded squeaky, and I thought about kicking myself.

  “I’m sorry about that, Jesse. I really am.” Coach Sedon’s tone was like a winter weather front moving through the office.

  I moved in my chair, even though I wanted to stay still. “Why don’t you make him stop being awful to people?”

  “Why do you set him off all the time?” the coach asked. Louder now. But still cold. “Spying on him. Throwing dirt and pinecones at him in the woods—even hitting him with a branch in the face?”

  “Your son’s a bully, Coach Sedon.” Springer’s fingers moved to my chair arm, like he might need to grab my shirt if I jumped up to swing at a teacher. His other fingers went to the edges of his still-healing black eye. “Chris is a bully, and so are his friends. It’s not my fault, and it’s not Jesse’s, and she’s allowed to defend herself when he attacks her.”

  Coach Sedon walked toward us too fast, and I clamped my teeth together. He pushed past my legs and stopped in front of Springer, taking up all the space between Ms. Jorgensen’s desk and Springer’s legs. Then he pointed his finger right at Springer’s nose and said, “You need to be more respectful to adults.”

  Everything inside me went so still I didn’t even think my blood was pumping anymore. I wanted to get up and move away from the coach, but I couldn’t leave Springer all alone, staring at that finger.

  Springer kept his head up, his nose inches from Coach Sedon’s chewed fingernail.

  I tried to keep my head up, too, but my chin trembled.

  “Please don’t stand over me like that, sir,” Springer said, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “You’re scaring me.”

  Coach Sedon’s mouth came open, and he leaned even closer to Springer. Another millimeter and that ragged nail would chew into Springer’s nose. “Little boy, you don’t get to tell me what to do.”

  My jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt, but Springer managed to keep talking. “I am speaking up respectfully about something that makes me uncomfortable, and I’m asking you to stop.”

  Coach Sedon stared at him.

  He stared at Coach Sedon.

  I stared at both of them.

  Coach Sedon moved his finger, put his arm to his side, but kept looming, right in front of Springer. “You think it’s fine to be a smart-mouth, to speak to teachers like this?”

  Springer’s throat worked as he swallowed, but when he spoke, he still sounded steady. “I think it’s fine to ask you politely not to stand over me like you’re doing right now.”

  Every muscle in my whole body hurt. I was so scared Coach Sedon would hit Springer and really, really hurt him. Could a grown-up kill a kid with a punch? I was pretty sure they could, and I was scared Springer would die, but as far as I knew, Coach Sedon had never hit a kid ever, at least not at school. He needed to move, though. Why was he so close to us?

  Coach Sedon’s voice dropped low, and meanness dripped off his words as he said, “Why’d you let a girl fight your battle for you, Springer? Something wrong with your own fists, you little coward?”

  “Don’t call him names,” I said at the same time Springer said, “I don’t hit people, sir.”

  “Move,” I said to Coach Sedon, forgetting about the please and thank you and everything polite. He smelled like soap and sweat and anger, and with the old carpet stench, too, my nose wanted to close up. My fists wanted to close up. My good sense was starting to close up, and I could barely hold on to it.

  Coach Sedon ignored me.

  “Why don’t you hit people?” he asked Springer. “You a chicken, or something?”

  “Move!” I said again, louder this time.

  “I don’t want to be the kind of person who stands over smaller people to scare them.” All the color had drained out of Springer’s face, but he kept right on looking Coach Sedon dead in the eyes.

  I spun in my chair and climbed over the back of it, almost turning it over to get to my feet, to get something between me and Coach Sedon, to get—away. Just, away.

  Neither Coach Sedon nor Springer moved.

  As I turned to face them, Coach Sedon’s hands curled into fists. He bared his teeth.

  “Where were you during the staff meeting w
hen that money got stolen out of Dad’s desk?” I yelled instead of screaming, loud enough to hurt my own ears.

  He turned on me, face purple-black like the old beets that had made Aunt Gus gag when she found them in the vegetable bin last month. The second he shifted his position, Springer got up and came around behind his chair, too.

  “Take it easy,” he said to me, but it was Coach Sedon who yelled next.

  “You little—are you accusing me of taking that cash?”

  “You know it was cash, not checks?” Springer asked, so quiet it came out nearly a whisper.

  Coach Sedon spun toward him and grabbed his chair like he was thinking about picking it up and tossing it aside. “I’m not a thief. And what I do with my time is none of your business!”

  “Why are you yelling at us?” I hollered.

  “Because you’re obnoxious little brats!” Coach Sedon hollered louder.

  The office door smacked open, and my father strode into the room. He walked straight to me and Springer and put himself between us and the chairs and the coach.

  “You can stop speaking to my daughter and her friend like that,” he said. “Right now, Sedon.”

  Coach Sedon walked away from all of us, straight over to the wall next to the office door. He drew back his fist and bashed the concrete block so hard I thought I heard knuckles crack.

  Ms. Jorgensen came hurrying into the office, turned a circle, then went to Coach Sedon. She grabbed the coach’s wrist and pulled the man’s still-clenched fist toward her. “I heard yelling. What are you doing? Did you hit the wall? What the—did you break anything?”

  Red-faced, sweating, Coach Sedon admitted, “I don’t know.”

  Dad cleared his throat as he moved from behind the chairs and gestured to Springer and me. “Hey, you two, come on. Let’s go.”

  Silent, Springer and I filed away from our safe spot and followed him.

  As Dad passed Ms. Jorgensen, he stopped and said, “I’m not signing off on her suspension. It’s not right or fair, and you know it. Those three next door, yes. But her, no way. She’s the victim here.”

  Ms. Jorgensen kept hold of Coach Sedon’s swelling fist and didn’t look at Dad. “Chris Sedon’s nose didn’t break itself.”

  “He would have pulled her arms out of their sockets,” a man’s voice said from the hallway. “He was trying to hurt her, and you saw that as clearly as I did.”