Motorcycle Roadkill Page 3

  I can see it coming as he reaches for my hand. He's a crusher. Everything about him tells me as much. It's not just a firm, confident handshake. His grip tightens and the ends of my fingers turn purple. I draw in a deep breath and bite the inside of my lip.

  "Welcome to Crenshaw's Creek," he says, as his mouth makes a smile, but his eyes say "watch out." He finally lets go and I resist the urge to recoil or flex my hand. You can't show weakness in front of people like him. It only makes it worse.

  He either wants us to have a seat or wants to demonstrate some sort of weird Kung Fu chop with his arm. He settles behind his desk and an urge to laugh aloud swells in my chest. It occurs to me he looks like he's trying to reprise the role of Rooster Cogburn from the old John Wayne flick. Here comes the gunfighter pose again. From now on, I think I'll just refer to him as “Rooster”.

  “It sure is horrible about Reverend Sheldon,” he says.

  “What happened to Reverend Sheldon?” I ask, but before Rooster can say anything, Dad flashes me the look, his patented death stare. Apparently, Reverend Sheldon is a conversation that's off the table

  "Ya know, I think the Grants go to Calvary Hill. Perhaps, you've met David? He's quite an outstanding young man,” Rooster says, but it's more of an effort to change the subject. The tone he saves for this David is off the charts.

  "I'm sorry. Is he a teacher here?"

  He chuckles. "No, David's our football captain."

  "Oh, I'm not really into sports.”

  He gives me a blank stare, as if he's unsure of what to think. "We'll fix that, once we get a little Cougar blood in you. Crenshaw's Creek's as big of a football town as they come."

  Dad chimes in, as if he's interested. "Is that so?"

  "Pastor, our Cougars have been to the playoffs the last eight years coming. Won it all three times. And we're bringing it home again this year."

  Dad drones on about Calvary Hill and Rooster somehow finds a lead into a Vietnam story. After a few seconds, I don't even hear them anymore. The theme song for Charlie Brown plays in my head, as a fantasy about ducking out of this town overtakes me. I can see myself heading down the highway, with a backpack slung over my shoulder.

  I'm almost to Nashville in my mind, when it occurs to me that Rooster's talking directly to me. “Caleb, there's two rules here: no drugs, no fighting.” I don't abandon my daydream altogether, because—let's face it—Nashville's a lot more interesting. So, I go on making eye contact with Rooster and nodding every so often.

  After several minutes of my ritualistic nodding, Rooster pulls a laminated sheet of yellow paper from his folder and hands it to me. It's a map. I think. You can tell he drew it himself. It looks like the kind of thing that would keep him holed up in his bomb shelter all weekend, with his battle helmet and a box of ink pens. I'm sure he sat at his desk, swigging whiskey, while he worked out compass coordinates and flashed back on war trauma. But someone needs to tell him that latitude and longitude don't do a junior much good when he's trying to find his Geometry class.

  He gives me a look—I I know that look. Dad gets that same look when he wants Mom to fluff him up about how wonderful his sermons are. Pride beams from his eyes. He wants me to tell him how wonderful the map is.

  I take my cue. “Ya know, this is a really good map.”

  “Well, thank you, young man. Actually, I drew that map myself.”

  When your dad's the pastor, you've been in enough Easter pageants to fake surprise when it's necessary. “Really? It looks so professional.” Hopefully, this little skit earns me a few points.

  “Old army skills come in handy sometimes.” He reaches into his drawer and finds another map. “This one will help you find your way around town. Take my advice and steer clear of the shaded areas.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Let's just say there might be a Cougar on the loose.”

  Rooster glances out the window, then down at his watch. “I should probably take y'all on a quick tour.” He comes around the desk and holds out his arms, making a grand gesture like he's about to show us the Great Kingdom.

  He begins his tour, "now, we were just in the offices." He actually says that, as if I may not have known that otherwise. "The offices are located in the front of the building."

  He crosses a foyer that is a glare of fluorescent lights and opens one of two double doors to the cafeteria. The stink of bleach leaks out into the hallway. It's a large empty room, where the table and chairs fold up and collapse into the walls. The walls are flat white, save for a sports mural on the wall on one of them. A ferocious cougar in a blue sweater lunges through a ring of fire toward 3-D letters that spell "Crenshaw's Creek".

  "These doors on the south wall lead into the servery. Shortly before lunch, the doors open and the students form a line. The doors on the east wall take you into the gymnasium, " Rooster says.

  Dad points toward the adjacent wall, where the doors lead into the gymnasium. Near the doors is a cage with black bars. The cage stands about six feet tall and six feet wide. "Is that where you put all the trouble makers?"

  Rooster glances toward the cage and takes Dad's question too seriously. "No, sir. The Board of Education has strict guidelines about the kind of discipline we may administer. We use it for pep rallies. Our mascot climbs into it and we roll it out into the center of the gymnasium. It's part of our Cougar protocol."

  "Oh, well how about that!" Dad does his excited voice.

  He's about to take us into the bathroom to make sure I have a correct understanding of how the toilet flushes when the bell rings. He looks toward the foyer, as students begin to roam the halls. Now, his animals are on the loose and the tension in his face becomes evident. He doesn't want to cut his grand tour short, but there's never been a sheriff in any old Western that can hole up in his office while the townsfolk are moving. There could be outlaws among them, who need to see that justice is swift and mercy is tenuous.

  Rooster tries to continue with his tour, but his inner-anguish is apparent. It's hard to guess what deviant acts his hallways are witnessing without his relentless supervision. He stammers, trying to think of what to say next, as everything about his posture says that he wants to leave.

  "Thank you for your tour," Dad says. "Caleb has the map. I'm sure he'll find his classes just fine."

  “Oh, there's no way I can get lost with this map,” A few more stars go on Caleb's scorecard.

  "Yes," he says, re-composing himself. "I should really tend to the hallways now. You can't let the animals run the zoo, ya know?"

  Dad chuckles politely. Rooster shakes his hand again and I brace myself, because my hand is about to get crushed again. To my surprise, my fingers live to swell another day. He doesn't shake my hand, but instead gives me a chummy pat on the shoulder as he walks away.

  "Well, it looks like you'll be okay from here," Dad says, getting ready to leave. I feel relief at once.

  Dad ambles along toward the parking lot, as a new reality settles around me.

  Chapter 6

  Shoes squeak against the waxed linoleum, like a chorus of rats trying to chew their way out of Hell. A blue denim sea emerges in front of me, as the faint smell of printer ink and memo-graph ribbon looms in the air. Never has there been so much flannel and oversized belt buckles assembled in one place. Dozens of blank faces stare at me with an aliens-have-just-landed expression. And no one says 'hello'.

  The classroom is nearly full, but it's so quiet that you can hear the humming of the fluorescent lights. The other kids have found their seats and everyone stares at me. A sinking feeling worms its way through my gut, as the teacher's desk is empty. It means I have to stand here like a dog tied to a fence post until someone arrives, adds me to the roster, and everything.

  A deadpan voice calls out to me. “Hey, kid. May as well pop a squat.” An enormous oaf of a young man gawks at me. He's crammed into his tiny desk in such a way that reminds me of a bear on a tricycle—nothing friendly about him. He glares at me like I'm an
idiot, as he cocks his head toward an empty work table at the back of the room.

  A boy with coke bottle glasses sits alone at the rear table. He doesn't look up as I approach. “Hey, man... Anyone sitting here?”

  He holds out his hand, making a have-a-seat gesture, as he continues to stare at the table.

  "Hey, I'm Caleb." My extended hand goes unnoticed.

  He raises his chin, but his eyes remain fixed on the table. "Ha...hey. Ya...or Da...ad's the na...na...new prea...cher.”

  "Yeah, he is. What's your name?"

  "Ja...ja...jimmy." His stutter becomes apparent. It's clear why he's so shy, so withdrawn.

  "Good to meet you." He looks up at me. He's the kind of guy that could easily be the talk of the halls, if he'd pick himself up a little bit. He has spooky blue eyes, like Paul Newman, and the kind of smile they put on toothpaste commercials. But his charm stays hidden behind a veil of shyness.

  As I take the empty seat, the classroom becomes a chatter of hushed conversations. I'd eavesdrop, but their thick country accents make it hard to figure out what they're saying. They're like a page out of a Mark Twain novel, mumbling on slowly in a round-a-bout fashion.

  “Hey, Grant. Wait up.” A voice carries into the room from the hallway. All at once the room grows quiet. Papers rattle and shuffle. Kids shift their attention to the floor. It's like someone just sucked the air out of the room. Laughter spills from the hallway, but no one cracks a smile. They remain quiet.

  The bell rings and a tall, beefy kid with scraggly brown hair comes strolling into the room. He's at least a head taller than me and easily a hundred pounds heavier and wears a blue jersey with the number 14 on it. He stares right through me, sneering at Jimmy, like something he scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "Hey, guys! Look who it is!" Jimmy's cheeks redden and he hangs his head. "It's Jah...jah...Jimminy!"

  The mongrel kid who told me to “pop a squat” climbs out of his seat, as another jersey-wearing thug slips into the classroom. "Make 'im spit it out, Grant," Mongrel says.

  “Grant?” I whisper to Jimmy. It's hard to believe this bumbling idiot is the 'outstanding young man' that Rooster speaks so highly of.

  Mongrel and Number 26 remain nameless, but the three of them together form a tall blue line of terror. Number 26 is an inch shorter than Grant, but still plenty tall. He's thin, but has a set of shoulders like he spent the summer bailing hay. He wears a blond crew cut, the kind they give cadets at boot camp. Mongrel is the shortest of the three, but he's about as wide as the doorway.

  "Ha-hay, Scoot.... I, uh, I.... Da..on't tal...talk va...ery ga...ga...good," Grant says, mocking Jimmy's stutter. Clearly, Number 26 goes by 'Scoot' and I'm content to call his friend 'Mongrel'.

  Scoot cracks up laughing. The temperature seems to rise a few degrees. My heart is beating extra hard and it feels like someone's sitting on my chest.

  "Shuddup!" Jimmy's voice is suddenly loud and clear.

  "Hey, look at that," Grant says. "You can understand him when he's pissed off."

  “Easy now,” I tell myself, glancing around the room for a willing ally. No one makes a peep. There's not a single set of wandering eyes, as the other students keep their heads down.

  Grant cracks his knuckles and draws a deep breath through his nose. He stalks forward, staring at Jimmy like a cat hunting a mouse. Scoot and Mongrel stagger along behind him, giggling.

  He stops in front of me, breathing heavily. He looks down at me. “You're in my seat.”

  “Oh.. I.. didn't know.” The chair squeaks loudly against the tile as I jump to my feet. I'm half a mind to try on my Dirty Harry face, but it's not like it would do any good. At five-seven and a buck twenty I'm not exactly intimidating.

  He steps forward, bumping his chest against me. “You can't just show up here and take my seat, kid.”

  My fingers curl around my pencil. More than anything I want to stick it through his eardrum, but I know it won't play out that way. I'm the outsider here, and these three guys are a team. I'm outgunned and outnumbered.

  “Where's Rooster Cogburn when ya need him?” I try to make light of the situation.

  “What? You think you're funny?”

  “Hilarious once I get warmed up.”

  “La...leave him... alone,” Jimmy says.

  “What you say, Jimminy?”

  The next thing I know I'm slumped against the wall, my feet splayed out in front of me. "Hey, watch it!" Someone yells. Jimmy's feet dangle above me, as Grant holds him in a bear hug. His mouth gapes open, making a silent gasp. His glasses slide from his face as his head flails about, fighting for a breath.

  All at once, Jimmy throws his head back in an attempt to get air and his head crashes against Grant's nose.

  “Oh!” Grant winces. He lets out a groan, as he flings Jimmy like a rag doll.

  Jimmy's body slams against the wall, followed by a thud. He lands next to me, as his books scatter across the floor. Grant towers over him with clenched fists and a glare that says "move and I'll end you."

  Jimmy shrinks into a ball, pulling his arms over his head.

  “You boys settle down!” A man's voice calls from the doorway.

  Grant sneers, as he lets out a hollow laugh. He reaches down, grabbing Jimmy by the collar of his shirt. He gives him a shake and shoves his head against the wall.

  “Oh!”. Jimmy lets out a shriek.

  “Hey! Cut it out!” I shout.

  A teacher in his late forties stands at the front of the room. He carries a briefcase in one hand and eats an apple with the other. “Let him go, Grant.” He sets his briefcase down and leans against one of the tables. “Walk it off, Grant.”

  Grant lets out a hollow laugh as he lets go of Jimmy. He takes a step back, glancing down at him through squinting eyes. “This ain't over, Jimminy.”

  He staggers around with his arms held out at his sides—looking like he's ready to rumble in the World Wide Wrestling Federation.

  The teacher holds out a hall pass, as strides toward the front of the room. “Walk it off.”

  It takes a second for it register with me what just happened. Two students assaulted. One teacher stands witness. And the thug gets a hall pass out of the deal.

  "Walk it off? That's it?" My voice echoes to me with a high-ranged pissed off quality to it.

  The teacher's eyes fall on me. He studies me for a second. "You're new."

  "He practically kills this kid and you just tell him to walk it off?"

  “No point in being dramatic, kid.” The teacher takes a quick glance around the room—doing a head count—before they come to rest on me again. "What's your name?" He doesn't have the thick country twang that the locals have.

  "Caleb... Mathew Calloway." And it's suddenly clear just how out of the place my Yankee accent is on the set of Hee Haw.

  "Caleb, I'll give you the same quick overview I give everyone else. My name's Samuel Glover. I run my class like a newspaper. I spent some twenty years as a copy editor for a newspaper in Chicago before I decided to enter the Mind Factory. We're all colleagues here. Any questions?"

  Dozens of questions bounce around inside my skull, but they're not the kind that I expect him to give a rat's ass about. He can tell me what he's doing here for starts. You don't go from Chi-Town big cheese to teaching in this miserable little place without something going terribly wrong in your life.

  But Glover and his staff of junior reporters are the least of my worries. My name's not even in the grade book yet and I've already made an enemy—And it's not like I've seen the end of this. Guys like Grant always come back for more. So, yes. I have questions, but there's only one that flies out of my mouth: “Yeah. You always just stand there while some jock kicks the crap out of a kid half his size?”

  It's not until everyone turns to stare at me that it occurs to me what I just said. The words just kind of slipped out. Glover snickers and takes a chomp off his apple. He nods his head for a moment and starts talking with his mouth full. “Where ya from,
Caleb?”

  I climb to my feet and hobble toward the chair. "Cleveland."

  “You're gonna make a heck of a reporter, kid. Not afraid to ask the really tough questions.”

  “Really? That's your answer? You just stood there... and watched! What kind of.. Man, what's wrong with you?”

  “Look, kid. I can't be all things to all people, but it sounds like you have a theme developing: 'Bullying In Schools'. But why do you think it happens?”

  There's a dozen and one things that I want to tell him. I want to tell him that he needs to be fired—that he's a horrible teacher—that whatever went wrong to bring him to this godforsaken place isn't getting any better. But I've already made one enemy—three if I count Scoot and Mongrel. I can't afford to get on Glover's bad side.

  “Don't really know why it happens.”

  “Well, congratulations! You've got your first assignment. If it's good, we'll run it in the school paper.”

  “Well, la-di-da,” Mongrel mocks.

  “Well, can I sit here?” I point to the empty chair. “Or do I need to write a story about that too?”

  He nods, takes another chomp off his apple. “Go on, pop a squat. Like I said, we're all colleagues here.”

  “Ma...Ma..at.” Jimmy's voice is barely audible He's still slumped against the wall with tears running down his cheeks, but his eyes meet mine. “Thank you,” he whispers, as he buries his face between his knees.

  Glover strolls from his desk to a work table and drops a stack of newspapers on it. “What we're looking for is effective journalism. What kinds of questions are these writers asking? How do they open up inquiry?”

  Chapter 7

  The lunch bell rings, and all I want to do is get the heck out of here. I wanna go outside, sit down on the curb with Rooster's crazy-ass map, and figure out how far it is to the bus station. I need to get out of this school, out of this town, out of this sad circle of hell, so bad that it's all I can think about.