Topic: School

Author: Chris Dunn

As the familiar windows with the rounded-corner panes like giant cathode ray tubes slip past one after the other, each step bringing me closer to the reckoning I both dread and desire, I steel my courage with desperate gulps of oxygen, hoping still that this might yet be a dream - that I might still be saved from the sacrifice for which I volunteered. I walk close to the wall to delay the reveal for as long as possible, some sixth graders gathered at their designated pre-school rally point by the north doors, have taken noticed and their whispered and pointed jeers prod me forward despite my faltering steps. The road behind me is closed. There will be no retreat.

Unable to contain himself, and by now, well aware of the fate that awaits him, Marty charges ahead, bolting around the corner before I have a chance to stop him. I pull up short as I hear the wild hoard lay into him as they’ve done every day this week, rabid fourth graders with no mercy or restraint finding joy in tormenting a young pup for being different. I stare at the blacktop as I catch my breath by the sloping corner wall eyeing the driveway to my right that exits onto Laboiteaux away from the carnage I hear to my left. Perhaps, I could run. But, no. There’s nothing else for it but to plunge in. No matter how slowly you pull at the bandage there will always be that tearing moment of ripping release. I turn the corner.

Marty is fighting to make his way to the safety of the first graders running wild outside the other building, heedless of the proper dread a school day should impose on their boundless joy, but too many of my classmates ring around him for him to make any progress forward in the vicious scrum. They taunt and poke, pulling at his protective cap while showering him with abusive nicknames and unclever puns. I hear him, without judgment, throw me to the wolves that tear at his limbs. “You should see my brother!” he declares.

The implication is immediately absorbed by the mob, its import never in doubt for a second. They release the smaller billy goat gruff and turn as one gleeful firing squad to stare up the cold asphalt at larger prey. One of their own? Can it be? I see the sheer delight in Tony Peters’ eyes as they fall on me, seeing the out-of-place baseball cap sitting atop my head and instantly comprehending its purpose and the hidden bounty beneath. Like a frenzied shark, he thirsts for the kill, and this boy is one I’d call my friend. As a single solid organism, its sole purpose to revel in this moment of estrangement, they swarm towards me, fresh mockeries already on their tongues. Marty casts a quick glance back to see me engulfed as he races to freedom. I do not blame him. This was what I wanted.

There had been a time, the night before when I could have said no. The haircut had been proceeding as usual. I sat in the dining room, a towel pinned around my neck, mother administering my standard cut – shaggy but still in conformance with the standards of Catholic school: out of the eyes, off the collar and ears. I could have kept my fool mouth shut, but in my mind the echoes of my brother fourth graders tearing down my brother-actual day-in/day-out hammered me. My pleas for them to cease were futile. All efforts at reason and diplomacy had failed. But there was one thing I could do. One way to make the madness end and assuage the guilt I felt at my helplessness to stop my fellows. As mother paused to adjust her grip on the scissors, I met her eye. “Is it too late to ask for a buzz?”