Homerooms and Hall Passes

by Tom O'Donnell

  As he passed through the reception area, Albiorix heard a student—a seventh grader named Sam Keller—complaining to Ms. Rhee, the security guard.

  “. . . Yeah, I definitely left it in my locker yesterday,” said Sam, “and then I get here this morning, and it’s just gone. I mean, the lock was on it.”

  “Okay, can you describe the piece of jewelry to me?” said Ms. Rhee, as she wrote in her notebook.

  “It’s not jewelry,” said Sam, a little self-conscious. “It’s, like, a cool pendant. Of a shark’s tooth. It cost me thirty bucks.”

  “So you think somebody broke into your locker overnight and stole it?” said Ms. Rhee.

  “Yeah,” said Sam. “Or maybe early this morning?”

  As Albiorix edged past them out the door, he noticed Mr. Driscoll standing in the corner, by the water cooler, staring him down. Albiorix gave a weak wave and pantomimed swinging a hockey stick. Mr. Driscoll frowned.

  Albiorix rejoined his companions in their third-period gym class in the gymnasium. He walked in just as Thromdurr reached the top of a heavy rope that was suspended from the rafters. Ms. Dumas, and most of the rest of the class, looked flabbergasted as she stared at a stopwatch.

  “That’s three point five three seconds,” said Ms. Dumas.

  The class moaned in disbelief.

  “We have a new, new school record, beating the one previously set by Valerie four minutes ago, which, of course, beat the one set by Melissa shortly before that.”

  “Ha!” said Thromdurr, dropping to the ground. “I have conquered your puny gymnasium rope. All kneel before Douglas!”

  “No need to gloat, Doug,” said Ms. Dumas. “But I’ll admit it’s impressive, considering last week you couldn’t even do a single push-up.”

  “Worry not,” said Thromdurr. “My rippling muscles are nothing compared to my juicy brain.”

  “Huh,” said Ms. Dumas. “Next up we have . . . Stinky Smith.”

  Devis stepped forward and cracked his knuckles. “You might want to keep that record book open, lady,” he said.

  “Don’t call me ‘lady,’” said Ms. Dumas. “Just climb the rope, Stinky.”

  Devis nimbly shimmied to the top of the rope.

  “Are you kidding me?” said Ms. Dumas, staring at her stopwatch. “Three point four nine seconds.”

  The other students groaned again.

  “Yeah. That’s a new school record,” said Ms. Dumas, shaking her head as she wrote it down.

  Devis did a somersault, landed on the floor, and gave a low bow—without ever catching any of Albiorix’s increasingly obvious nonverbal cues to perhaps take it down a notch.

  The party regrouped by the edge of the mats as the next kid, George Stedman, struggled to climb the rope.

  “Devis,” whispered Albiorix, “didn’t you see me gesturing at you?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Devis. “I thought you were choking.”

  “Well, if you thought I was choking, then it’s even worse that you didn’t react!” said Albiorix.

  Devis shrugged. “Albiorix, I say this as a friend: signs aren’t your thing. Now, the bard in my old party? That guy had some great signs.” Devis flashed a few: wiggling hand antlers; two fingers down the cheeks like walrus tusks; popping his whole fist into his mouth.

  “My point was that we probably ought to be a little more subtle,” said Albiorix.

  “What are you complaining about?” asked Sorrowshade. “This is finally a middle-school class we aren’t all terrible at.”

  “Yeah, but you can’t be too good,” said Albiorix. “It makes people nervous.”

  “To perform at any level less than my very best would be a betrayal of my paladin’s oath,” said Vela, placing her hand on her heart, “and perhaps a lie.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Albiorix, throwing his hands up. “You are really expanding the definition of a lie here.”

  “I tried to take my time, sorcerous friend,” said Thromdurr. “Yet even my laughably sluggish pace was inadvertently faster than anyone else’s. This strange world is severely lacking in upper body strength.”

  George Stedman’s feet were still dangling six inches off the ground as he huffed and puffed and sweat beaded on his forehead. He would never reach the top.

  “You have to remember, these kids don’t climb down ropes into dungeons all day,” said Albiorix. “They do other stuff, like write five-paragraph essays and look at their phones.”

  “Sure,” said Sorrowshade, “and it’s made them all as weak as you.”

  Thromdurr and Devis snickered.

  “Ha ha,” said Albiorix, who endured a fair bit of good-natured ribbing about being physically pathetic compared to his Bríandalörian companions. “Anyway, Flanagan bought the fake birth certificate. Armando Boort is now officially a student at J. A. Dewar. So I am the smart one, after all.”

  Devis shook his hand, Thromdurr cuffed him on the back, and Sorrowshade gave him something that was at least approaching a smile.

  “I’m glad you will not cease to exist, Albiorix,” said Vela. “But I will not—”

  “Lie?” said Albiorix, who’d already thought this through. “You won’t have to, my friend. If you ever need to talk to me in front of anybody else, you can just call me A. That works as a nickname for Albiorix and Armando. See? Smart one, over here.”

  “A?” said Vela.

  “That’s a weird nickname,” said Devis.

  “You’re called Stinky!” said Albiorix.

  “Short for Stinkhauser,” said Devis. “Completely makes sense if you know the context.”

  “Very well,” said Vela, bowing her head. “It is not a lie to call you A.”

  “Great,” said Albiorix.

  “Armando Boort?” called out Ms. Dumas, checking her list. “New Kid, you’re up.”

  Albiorix climbed the rope more slowly than the others in his adventuring party, yet still far faster than the average Suburban eighth grader. And he did have to admit: it felt good not to be objectively terrible at something related to school.

  Yet that feeling of triumph was destined to be fleeting. As the bell rang, the five brave companions proceeded from the gymnasium toward their most harrowing middle-school challenge yet: math class.

  The cafeteria is the hub of middle-school life. For twenty-five minutes a day, students may speak freely as they enjoy such delicacies as “chicken fingers with French fries” or “quesadilla with French fries.” Here, while their teachers are distracted negotiating their own complex social hierarchy, rival student factions compete for the best tables, and those hoping to make a name for themselves attempt various “antics,” “shenanigans,” and “high jinks” to impress their peers. . . .

  —Excerpt from The Codex of Cliques

  “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?” WHISPERED Devis, breaking the bleak silence as the party trudged toward the cafeteria for lunch.

  “Algebra I,” said Albiorix.

  “No way. That had to be higher than one,” said Sorrowshade, massaging her temples. “That felt like it was at least a thirty-five.”

  “It was worse than when we battled the Kraken of Krence,” whispered Vela, “and were forced to retreat in disgrace.”

  “I think you’re all exaggerating,” said Albiorix. “It was just math class.”

  “If it was math, why were there letters?” asked Thromdurr, grabbing Albiorix by the shirt. “WHY WERE THERE LETTERS?”

  “I think the letters are actually numbers . . . I think,” said Albiorix. He had understood marginally more of the class than the other Bríandalörians—algebra bore a passing resemblance to the alchemical formulae wizards in the real world used to transmute various substances into gold. Regardless, Albiorix had still failed the quiz Mr. Botello had given, and he had been unable to answer any of the homework questions correctly. Just like the others.

  “I don’t like to be negative,” said Sorrowshade, “but if we have to pass that class, we’re all doomed.”

  The whole party
(even Sorrowshade herself) turned to Vela, who usually countered such dire pessimism with some words of encouragement.

  The paladin merely shrugged and held up her sun-shaped holy symbol. “I’ve prayed to the Powers of Light for a ray of hope, but wherever we are . . . the gods of Bríandalör cannot hear me.”

  “Guys, Vela is making Sorrowshade sound optimistic,” said Devis. “That can’t be good.”

  “It is funny,” said Thromdurr. “I never thought I would go out like this.”

  “Trapped inside a fantasy role-playing game, where academic failure effectively means death?” said Sorrowshade.

  “I had hoped to be mauled by wild pigs,” said Thromdurr, “the traditional death of a berserker of the Sky Bear clan.”

  “I kind of figured it would be a poison gas trap or, I don’t know, maybe a bad case of gout that finally got ol’ Devis,” said the thief.

  “A paladin will gladly give her life in the service of a higher good,” said Vela, “but to perish by flunking math seems sort of . . . meh.”

  “I didn’t even get to kill the stupid minotaurs and avenge my stupid family,” said Sorrowshade. “So unfair.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Albiorix, “I know we haven’t been doing great in school, so far—”

  “We’ve failed every assignment,” said Devis.

  “Mr. Botello took me aside to ask me if I have suffered a head injury,” said Thormdurr. “Indeed I have suffered many, but not enough for Algebra I to make sense!”

  “Sure,” said Albiorix, “but those five-paragraph essays are really coming along. I think we all made some really good points about cats today. And remember the rope-climbing in gym? Sure you’re all moping now, but that was only fifty-five minutes ago!”

  “It’s not enough,” said Vela. “The rules of Homerooms & Hall Passes say we can’t flunk a single class.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t even work that way,” said Sorrowshade, with a faraway look in her eyes. “Maybe nothing happens if we fail a class and we’re just . . . stuck here. Forever. A fate worse than death.”

  The adventurers once more fell into silence as they entered the cafeteria and took their places in the line, soon to face the grim choice of hamburger or fish sandwich. Keeping up party morale didn’t usually fall to Albiorix. He tried to think of other low points in their adventures, times when they had been close to giving up. It seemed that just when a quest felt most hopeless, a friendly gnome or a helpful unicorn would appear to cast a healing spell, or to provide the party some crucial piece of information or perhaps a magic amulet to warn them against the dangers ahead. Maybe they couldn’t do it on their own, thought Albiorix. Maybe they needed help.

  He cast his eyes across the cafeteria, searching for any sign of the middle-school equivalent of a friendly gnome or magic amulet. And there—alone at the wobbly table near the flagpole—he saw her.

  “June!” said Albiorix, sitting down beside her.

  “Armando,” said June, who had chosen fish sandwich but looked like she regretted it.

  “I need you to tutor me, and four other students you don’t yet know, so we don’t fail,” said Albiorix.

  “Wow, and I thought you were just here to ask for the ketchup,” said June. “Which subject are you having trouble with?”

  “All of them,” said Albiorix.

  June cocked her head.

  “Well, except gym,” said Albiorix.

  “Armando,” said June, “I’m very flattered, really, but full disclosure: I’m not exactly a star student. If school was sports, I’d be what you would call a utility player.”

  “Are you going to flunk any of your classes?” said Albiorix.

  “What? No,” said June, insulted.

  “Then you’re good enough for us!” said Albiorix.

  “I don’t know, dude. This seems like a big time commitment and I lead a pretty busy life.” She held up her phone to show Albiorix the Oink Pop loading screen.

  “Then perhaps we could offer you something in return,” said Albiorix. “Would you like to learn how to sword fight, or pick locks, or concoct deadly poisons?”

  “Hmm. Well, I think I’ll pass on those three,” said June, “but yeah, maybe there’s something. So who are these other four mystery people?”

  “Valerie Stumpf-Turner, Melissa McElmurray, Douglas Schiller, and Stinky Smith,” said Albiorix, pointing them out in the cafeteria line.

  “Well, I guess I don’t have any friends here,” said June. “Why not four randos who are apparently failing every subject in school? Sure, Armando. I’ll do it.”

  “Thank you, June,” said Albiorix. “You may have just saved my life for a second time today.”

  “Saved your life?” said June. “You’re a little dramatic, you know that?”

  “We should start as soon as possible,” said Albiorix. “Time is of the essence.”

  “Okay, I’m going out to dinner for my mom’s birthday today, so how about tomorrow?” said June. “You and your friends can come over to my house after school, and I guess I’ll do my best.”

  And so the wizard Albiorix returned to his companions and relayed the good news to them: their academic woes were soon to be over. June Westray would teach them. And indeed their spirits were lifted. And they laughed and chatted among themselves until they noticed an emissary standing beside them. Albiorix recognized the girl as Sophie Sorrentino.

  “You,” said Sophie, pointing her finger at Sorrowshade.

  “Me?” said Sorrowshade.

  “Nicole says you’re sitting with us at lunch,” said Sophie.

  The Bríandalörians gave each other nervous looks. Vela stared at the floor. Thromdurr shook his head. Devis let out a long whistle. Albiorix frowned. There were many things that Sorrowshade, gloom elf assassin of the Forest of Tears, did not suffer: fools, flattery, minotaurs. But the thing she despised most in the world was taking orders.

  “Nicole who?” hissed Sorrowshade, her eyes narrowing.

  “Ugh. Like you don’t know,” said Sophie with an eye roll. “Nicole Davenport.”

  Sorrowshade started toward Sophie, perhaps to decapitate her with the cafeteria spoon that had suddenly appeared in her grip, but Albiorix put a hand on the elf’s sleeve. Sorrowshade turned to stare at him. Albiorix nodded and gave a little shrug that he hoped conveyed the general sentiment “Please don’t hurt anyone.”

  “All right,” said Sorrowshade through gritted teeth. “Lead the way. To Nicole Davenport.”

  And so Sorrowshade took her place at what was widely acknowledged to be the best table in the whole cafeteria: whichever table Nicole Davenport and her clique were sitting at.

  “I like your style,” said Nicole, not looking up from her phone.

  “My style?” said Sorrowshade.

  “I mean, not your style-style,” said Nicole, waving dismissively to Sorrowshade’s clothes. “But it was amazing how you destroyed Evan Cunningham when you made fun of his breath in first period.”

  “I pinpointed his weakness and used it to inflict maximum damage,” said Sorrowshade, throwing up the hood of her sweatshirt. “It is what I do.”

  “Yes, yes!” said Nicole. “Evan is such a little twerp.”

  “Yeah, he’s a twerp,” said Madison Gray. “We hate Evan.”

  “We hate twerps,” said Sophie.

  “Um, is there an echo in here?” said Nicole.

  Madison and Sophie gave simultaneous, joyless laughs.

  “Anyway, Melissa,” said Nicole, still scrolling through her social media feeds, “I’m going to be besties with you.”

  Sorrowshade was taken aback. “Friends made are friends buried,” said the gloom elf. “I walk through life alone.”

  “That’s totally your brand, and I love that about you,” said Nicole. “But I need somebody around here who will tell it like it is, who’s not just, like, some pathetic sycophant who’s totally afraid of me.”

  “We hate pathetic sycophants,” said Madison.

  “
Clearly,” said Sorrowshade.

  “Anyway, no presh or anything,” said Nicole, still rapidly hearting photo after photo on her phone. “If you don’t want to be my friend, I could just, like, make it my mission to destroy you or whatever.”

  “Many have tried,” hissed Sorrowshade. “They are no longer breathing.”

  Nicole paused and looked up from her phone. Then she burst out laughing.

  “Isn’t Melissa the best?” said Nicole to Madison and Sophie, who both nodded rapidly, with fear in their eyes.

  “Nicole,” said Sorrowshade, “what exactly do I have to do to be your . . . bestie?” The gloom elf could barely bring herself to spit out the word.

  “Anybody who knows me knows I hate fake people. Just be real, Melissa. Be you,” said Nicole, “But, like, dress better.”

  “The clothing in this realm is ridiculous,” said Sorrowshade.

  “OMG, yes!” said Nicole, “Nobody at this school has any sense of fashion. I mean, look at what Evelyn Roy is wearing.” She pointed to a girl at a nearby table, who sported a bright pink-and-purple jacket.

  “Ugh,” said Madison.

  “Ugh,” said Sophie.

  “Indeed,” said Sorrowshade. “That garment resembles a toxic cave fungus warning you not to eat it.”

  Nicole burst out laughing again.

  Meanwhile, across the noisy cafeteria, the other Bríandalörians—who sat far enough away from one another to deny the appearance of socializing—made a new acquaintance themselves: June Westray.

  “. . . and that’s when it accidentally got changed to Stinkhauser,” said Devis.

  “Stinky,” said Albiorix, “I think you might be boring our new friend June.”

  “No, no,” said June, “I could definitely listen to another fifteen or twenty minutes of this. Please, Stinky, tell me your middle name has a whole origin story too.”

  “Oho,” said Devis, blinking, “was that a joke, June? That is honestly very refreshing. I’m used to spending all my time around people with no sense of humor at all.”