Alibi Junior High (3 page)

I’ve been on
lots of buses all over the world. City buses, country buses, new buses, buses so old you’re sure they’re not safe. I’ve ridden on buses full of rich businessmen and buses full of people so poor you can almost feel their hunger.

One time I rode for hours on a long, winding dirt road through the mountains—one wrong move on the driver’s part and we would have tumbled hundreds of feet to our deaths.

All those experiences should have been enough to prepare me for this moment, but right now I feel more uncomfortable than I’ve ever felt on a bus, any bus, anywhere. I’ll take that terrifying ride through the mountains over this anytime.

A school bus lives in its own special time zone, a time zone unlike any other. It’s a place where time doesn’t exactly stop; it
just slowly decays like a dead deer left by the side of the road.

When I first walked up the stairs of the bus everyone stared at me. Except the few people with open seats—they just gazed straight ahead, avoiding eye contact. I could feel them willing me not to sit with them, sending out strong vibes for me to keep moving along.

It looked like there was an open seat at the back of the bus but when I got there the whole seat was missing. I turned around to look for another and realized they were by then all occupied. I just stood there, feeling like the loser in a kids’ game of musical chairs.

Normally if a bus is full you get off and wait for the next one. I don’t think that’s going to work here. School buses seem a lot like quicksand, easy to walk into, not so easy to get out of.

The bus driver barks, “You gotta sit down!”

I can see her in the rearview mirror, staring at me from under her Yankees cap. She’s really mad but I’m not sure why. It’s not my fault the bus is full.

Everyone turns around and looks at me.

“You have to sit down! I can’t drive the bus until you sit down.”

Some guy in the front yells, “Don’t sit down—I’ve got a first period history test!”

Everyone starts to laugh. I know they’re laughing at the joke but it somehow feels like they’re laughing at me. Maybe they are.

“Will you please sit down!”

I look around the bus wondering where she expects me to sit. I shout, “There’s no place to sit!”

She turns around, clearly getting more aggravated. “Just triple up! Come on, you’re going to make everyone late.”

I look at the seat next to me. A guy wearing a leather jacket mutters, “Don’t even think about it.”

I move down the aisle. Everyone keeps glaring at me. Nobody wants me to squeeze next to them; it’s easy to see why.

I’m walking past Cell Phone Girl.

The driver shouts, “Just sit down already!”

I plop down on the edge of her seat. She lets out a heavy sigh, looks up from her phone and mumbles, “Perfect…just perfect. I get to sit next to the psycho new kid. Just don’t touch me. You hear me?”

She doesn’t move over, not even an inch; she just continues with her mindless texts. I sit there with only half my butt on the seat, my legs in the aisle, and my patience stretched to the max. I throw my backpack on the floor. I can’t believe I’ve got to carry that thing around all day.

The bus pulls out into traffic. It’s even harder to sit like this once we start moving. I’m struggling to stay in place while trying my best not to touch Cell Phone Girl. I think it would be easier to walk on my hands to school.

“You’re going to have to move over.”

She looks up. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no room.”

“Yes, there is. Move over.”

She rolls her eyes. “Hey, I didn’t ask you to sit here.”

“True, but
I’m
asking you to move over.”

She smirks and raises her eyebrows. “And
I’m
telling
you
there’s no room.”

My hand darts out and snatches the cell phone from her grip. It takes her a moment to realize what just happened.

I eye the open window and hiss, “Move over or your cell phone’s leaving the bus before you.”

She moves her arm in an attempt to grab back her phone but I quickly flip the phone from my right to left hand.

“Try that again and it’s definitely going out the window.” Just to let her know I mean business, I start flipping the phone back and forth between my outstretched hands with blinding speed. The hours I’ve spent practicing with my nunchucks make this flashy exhibition amazingly simple.

“Gimme back my phone!”

“Move over first.”

Cell Phone Girl looks over at the small, dark-haired girl sitting next to her.

“Do you believe this psycho?”

The girl doesn’t say a word; she seems hypnotized by the fly
ing cell phone. There’s a slight smile tugging at her lips and her eyes are opened wide.

Cell Phone Girl huffs, “Move over so I can get my phone back.”

The small girl scoots over as close as she can get to the window, Cell Phone Girl moves over with her. This finally allows me enough room to get my whole butt on the seat.

I give her a sideways glance and sarcastically say, “That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“Gimme back my phone.”

I place it in her hand and she grabs it like a fumbled football, pulling it close to her body. She stares straight ahead and sinks into an angry frozen silence. I guess she’s decided I’m not one to be messed with.

Two guys next to me are arguing about some video game—I guess there’s a right way and a wrong way of doing level fifteen. I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about.

A hat sails by me.

Someone shouts, “Hey! What did you do that for?”

The bus driver barks, “Knock it off back there!”

Two girls are laughing hysterically behind me. It doesn’t seem possible that anything could be that funny. One of them keeps saying, “Did he really say that?”

I realize that Cell Phone Girl’s leg is gently pressing up against mine—the whole leg, from the hip to her ankle. Was it always like
that? I don’t think so. Is she trying to intimidate me? Trying to get me to move away from her? Move myself back to the edge of my seat? Well, if she is, it’s not going to work.

I
t worked.

By the time we get to the school, my leg muscles are cramping up from holding on to my small sliver of seat and my right butt cheek is so numb it might as well have been pumped full of Novocain. I smell like perfume from when Cell Phone Girl ‘accidentally’ spilled some on me. She’s called me names that I’ve never heard before and hope I don’t ever have to hear again.

I’m the first to stand up when the bus stops at the sidewalk, the first down the aisle, and the first out the door.

The morning sun
blazes off the mirrored front doors, blinding everyone who approaches the school. Walking toward the building is like walking straight into a ten-thousand-watt lightbulb. I’m beginning to feel like a moth.

I study my shadow, stretching from my feet and reaching for the school. It always seems so confident, this silent dark knight of mine. If something gets in its way it will just bend and blend over it. I envy my shadow.

The door swings open just as I’m about to reach for it, and it slams against the wall. Some guy in a brown sweatshirt bolts past me. He’s laughing and running from a bigger kid who’s trying to shoot at him with a water pistol. A blast of cold water hits me right in the face; it’s shocking and I do a weird little twitch.

A group of guys in the corner laugh. They’re standing together like a small tribe. One of them imitates me; he twists up his face, blinks his eyes, and jumps backward. They all laugh harder.

Great, I’m in the school for less than a minute and I’ve managed to get myself shot. I put my head down and set off toward the office.

“Yo!”

Jenny and I were at the school yesterday and they told me I should report to the office first thing in the morning to go over a few things.

“Yo!…Yo!”

I’m not really sure why we couldn’t have gone over stuff yesterday. I was there, they were there, but hey, why not wait until tomorrow?

“Yo!”

Is somebody ‘yo’-ing at me?

I hear running behind me. Judging by the sound of the shoes pounding on the tile floor I’m guessing it’s a fairly large man, maybe two hundred and fifty pounds, around thirty years old, most likely a former athlete with a past knee injury. There’s something desperate about the way he’s running. Those are definitely aggravated footsteps. I sense danger.

I wait until he’s within my zone, then I pivot on the ball of my left foot, look over my shoulder, and ready myself for an upward strike with the heel of my right foot. He’s a large man so my first
kick will be directed at his nose; it’s stunning and painful and normally stops even the most aggressive attacker in his tracks.

My mind is focused and my muscles are tensing, readying themselves for battle. I’m about to pull the trigger when I notice the uniform. It’s the school security guard. I ease off and stand down. I was one second from laying him out on the floor. My guess is that’s something they’d frown upon around here.

“Hey! Didn’t you hear me calling you?” He’s just as large and aggravated as I thought he’d be, maybe even more so.

I raise my shoulders and hold out my hands, palms facing up. “I didn’t know you were calling me.”

“Who else would I be calling?”

I look around the crowded hall. “I don’t know…there’s about fifty other possibilities.”

“Don’t you give me any of your lip.”

“I’m just answering your question.”

He jabs me in the chest with his finger. “You’re giving me lip.”

I don’t know. Maybe I should have laid him out on the floor when I had the chance. I’m guessing it would have set a school record for the quickest suspension, but right now it feels like it would have been worth it.

“Do you go to this school?”

“Yes.”

“How come I’ve never seen you here before?”

“It’s my first day.”

He looks skeptical. Then he takes out a small notepad from his top pocket. On the outside flap of his pocket I notice his name tag: S. Boyle. “What’s your name?”

“Cody Saron.”

He writes down my name, then studies my face like an artist readying himself to paint a portrait. Other kids are stopping to watch us.

“Well, Mr. Cody. Why don’t you follow me to the main office.”

Great. That’s all I need, to be escorted to the office by an overstuffed goon in a cheap, tight uniform.

I give him my best smile. “That’s okay. I know where it is. Anyway…aren’t you supposed to be watching the door?”

I’m guessing that this was the wrong answer. Two little veins on his temples suddenly throb to life, and his eyes get this incredibly fierce, wild look to them. Clearly, this guy has some kind of an anger-management problem. Maybe he abuses steroids; I’ve heard that bursts of rage are a common side effect of steroid abuse. I’m thinking that’s what the
S
on his name tag must stand for: “Steroid” Boyle.

He starts poking me in the chest again. “Listen, don’t you go telling me what my job is. My job is to watch out for the safety and well being of the students. This isn’t a mall. You can’t just walk in off the street and start wandering around.”

I hold up my hands again, palms up. “Who said anything about wandering? I was on my way to the office.”

“Not without me.”

I give up the fight, which seems to be drawing more attention to me anyhow, and fall in for my escorted trip to the office. Steroid Boyle plods down the crowded hall, parting kids like a snowplow. I walk quietly beside him and find myself thinking about my dad. He wouldn’t have let anyone talk to him like that. I’ve seen him shut bigger guys up with just a look.

My dad likes to talk about “respect.” He says there’s two ways of getting it: you either earn it, or you take it. I’m not earning or taking anything; I’m being led around like a puppy.

Everyone is staring at me, whispering, wondering, and most likely creating vicious stories. All I wanted to do was to slip in quietly and quickly blend in. Instead, here I am, part of an odd two-person parade, consisting of a chest-thumping gorilla and his reluctant sidekick, the boy who envies his own shadow.

Our journey finally ends at the office. Two women are busy with paperwork behind desks. A tall counter separates us from their workspace.

Steroid Boyle clears his throat to get the younger woman’s attention. “Good morning, Jane.”

She looks up from her work, clearly tired, bored, and not in the mood. “Hey, Steve. What’s up?”

So the
S
stands for Steve, not Steroid. I guess I’ll just have to think of him as Steroid Steve from now on.

“Caught this guy sneaking into the school.”

My head snaps up. I try to keep the anger out of my voice but it’s difficult. “I wasn’t
sneaking
in. I just
walked
in the front door. How’s that sneaking?”

He leans over the counter. “Guy’s got a real
attitude
problem, too.”

My voice rises, coming close to a shout. “
Attitude problem?
What are you talking about? You’re the one with the attitude!”

A woman’s stern voice calls out from behind me, “Mr. Saron!”

I recognize the voice from yesterday. It’s Mrs. Owens, the school’s assistant principal, a humorless, middle-aged woman who wears dark suits, crisp white blouses, and styles her brown hair in an amazingly tight bun.

Slowly, reluctantly, I turn myself around and greet the cold woman with as much warmth as I can muster. “Hello, Mrs. Owens.”

I give her a smile but she doesn’t return it. I have doubts that she ever really smiles.

“Why don’t you step into my office?”

Steroid Steve gives me a little nod and smirks. I really should have kicked him in the nose.

I follow Mrs. Owens into her dark little office with its drawn blinds and shelves full of dusty old books. She sits behind her large polished desk. I’m about to sit in one of the brown leather chairs opposite it but she glares at me.

“Will you please shut the door.”

“Oh, sorry.”

I close the thick wooden door, notice an old Yankees pennant hanging on the inside, and return to the leather chair; the cushion makes a hissing sound when I sit down.

Mrs. Owens has some papers spread out on her desk and we sit together in silence as she reads them. The minutes stretch on. I look around the room. There are no photographs of her family on the walls or on her desk, just diplomas and books. When my dad and I used to case our prospects he would say an office like this indicates a complete lack of any real social life. I glance at her left hand: no wedding band.

I wonder if I’m expected to talk first. It’s kind of odd that we’re just sitting here like this. I watch her reading for a while, debating if I should say something.

Finally I say, “Mrs. Owens?”

She looks up at me; the expression on her face might as well be a huge question mark.

“Um, you wanted to see me?”

She gives me a dismissive wave of her hand and returns to her papers. What’s that supposed to mean?

I watch as she continues to read. More time passes. I’m not getting all this. Why am I here if she doesn’t want to talk to me?

Finally she looks up. “Well, Mr. Saron, how are you?”

“Um, fine, Mrs. Owens.”

“I’ve been reading over your transcripts.”

My transcripts, right. I forgot all about them. Why didn’t she tell me that’s what she was reading? My dad created this whole new background for me; it’s somewhat privileged but basically normal.

“Mr. Saron, I’m impressed. You’ve attended private schools in Argentina, France, Japan, and for the last three years, England. Not only that, you have excelled academically in each of these different scholastic environments. Very nice.”

I mumble, “Thank you,” and avoid eye contact. Even though my dad and I went over all of this for a few hours our last night together, the less I talk about it now the better. You never know when some small little detail will trip you up.

“However, there are a few things I’m concerned about.”

I look up. What is she talking about?

“Many of your past schools have noted that you require a great deal of discipline, that you can be unruly and have trouble with authority figures. Is that true?”

What? Where did that come from? What is she talking about? We didn’t put anything like that in the transcripts.

“Tell me, is it true, Mr. Saron?”

“Um, no, it’s not true.”

She leans forward and looks me in the eye. “Why do you suppose so many of your teachers would mention a discipline problem if it wasn’t true?”

That’s a good question. Did she make that stuff up or did my dad put it in my records? Why would my dad do that? Then I remember how he’s always stressing the importance of hard work and discipline. Yeah, that’s it. He put it there to make sure everyone pushes me hard and keeps me honest. That’s my dad.

“Excuse me, Mr. Saron, did I say something you find amusing?”

“What do you mean?”

“That smirk on your face. I suggest you wipe it off.”

I didn’t realize I was smirking.

“Sorry, Mrs. Owens, but really, I wasn’t smirking.”

“It sure looked like you were to me. Let’s get a few things straight here. Number one, we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence. You fight and you’re automatically suspended. Understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Absolutely no weapons of any kind are to ever enter our school. Violation of that rule will get you kicked out of school permanently. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

No weapons? That’s just great. What happens if someone comes after me at school? Is Steroid Steve going to protect me?

“We have a code of conduct on the first page of our student handbook. You’re expected to read it, know it, and follow it. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Mrs. Owens just stares at me for a while. I feel like she’s sizing me up, arriving at some kind of a conclusion.

“I certainly hope that you and I are going to get along. I like to run a tight ship. I do not want any trouble from you, young man. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She rises to her feet. “Oh, one more thing. I’ve been wondering—you’ve always attended private schools. Why the switch to a public school now?”

I remember the blue car, running through the café, the huge explosion, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh, the dead and the dying, the severed arm, the waitress’s lifeless eyes.

“Um, well…my dad’s got some problems with his business, so we had to make some changes.”

She walks around her desk and mumbles “Sorry to hear that,” before extending her hand and giving me what I can only assume is a smile. “Let me be the first to say, welcome to Northridge Junior High.”

Another hour passes before I’m able to get out of the offices. I’m sent to my guidance counselor, Miss DeNitto, an extremely hyper little woman who drinks way too much coffee. She’s also one of the most unorganized people I’ve ever met. The first five minutes of our meeting is spent looking for her glasses.

After we find her glasses, which were next to the coffee maker, she hunts for and finds with slightly less difficulty my class schedule. I’m impressed. Judging by the state of her desk, which is piled high with folders and paper, I had serious doubts that she would ever find it.

We spend at least fifteen minutes in her closet-size office, going over every little detail of my schedule. She shows me the teacher’s name, the name of the class, the location of the class, she highlights the number of the classroom. She even brings out a map of the school and highlights a route for me to follow so I don’t get lost.

I’ve just spent a week traveling around the world, following plane, train, and bus schedules, yet I’m being treated like the most difficult journey I’ll ever have to undertake in my life is the one between Spanish and history.

Miss DeNitto gives me a huge smile. “Any more questions about your class schedule?”

“Uh, no, I think you’ve covered just about everything.”

I look at the schedule and it hits me that I’ll actually have to go to all these classes. Every single day I’ll be expected to be someplace at a certain time. I’ve never had to do anything like that before. I try to imagine what it will be like and the only thing that comes to mind is a sink slowly dripping in the night, driving you insane.

I stand to leave.

“Mr. Saron, we’re not quite done here. I’m required to go over the student handbook with you.”

I sit back down.

We go over the handbook, page by page, or should I say Miss DeNitto goes over the handbook. I sit by her side and grunt at the appropriate times. It’s endless, simplistic, and incredibly boring. That sink has started to drip.