SEVEN
My school is shaped like an empty box with no lid.
There’s this very beautiful courtyard in the center, with four squares of grass, benches, cobblestone sidewalks that make a huge +, with White House–looking columns at the far end, and a cupola tower that overlooks the whole thing.
Before school or during lunch periods it’s crawling with students—like an awful cockroach infestation of teenagers. But during classes it’s serene, and I can never resist sitting down on a bench and watching clouds and birds fly by overhead.
I like to pretend I’m a prisoner kept in a dark, dank cell who’s only allowed fifteen minutes a day in the yard, so that I remember to really enjoy looking up. And that’s what I’m doing when Vice Principal Torres taps me on the shoulder and says, “I hate to interrupt the nice moment you’re having, but shouldn’t you be in class, Mr. Peacock?”
I start to laugh because he’s acting all superior like he always does. He has no idea that I have the P-38 on me, that I could shoot him in the heart and end his life right now just by pulling a trigger, and therefore he has no power over me at all.
He says, “What’s so funny?”
And I feel so fucking mighty knowing that the P-38 is loaded in my backpack, so I say, “Nothing at all. Care to sit down? Beautiful day. Beautiful. You look stressed. Maybe you should take a rest with me. Looking up at the sky is really healthy. I learned that by watching afternoon television aimed at women. Let’s chat. Let’s try to understand each other. What do you say?”
He just looks at me for a second and then says, “What’s with the hat?”
I say, “Been watching Bogie films with my neighbor. I’ve become quite a fan.”
When he doesn’t answer, I say, “You know—Humphrey Bogart? Here’s looking at you, kid?”
He says, “I know who Humphrey Bogart is. Now back to class.”
I cross my legs to let him know that I’m not afraid of him, and then say, “I missed homeroom and haven’t checked in yet at the office, so technically I’m on my own time. Haven’t punched in, so to speak, boss. Not yet under your jurisdiction. Right now, I’m just an everyman in a park.”
Vice Principal Torres’s face starts to turn eggplant purple as he says, “I don’t have time for double talk this morning, Leonard.”
So I say, “I’m talking pretty effectively, I think. I’ve answered all of your questions honestly and accurately. I’m always straight with you. But you don’t listen. No one listens. Why don’t you just sit down? It’ll make you feel better. It could really—”
“Leonard,” he says. “Enough.”
I say, “Jeez,” because I was really trying to make a connection. I would have talked with him openly and honestly—no double talk at all—if he would have just sat down, taken a few minutes to be human.
What’s so important that he couldn’t take five minutes to look up at the sky with me?
Then Vice Principal Torres does this really lame, unoriginal thing, which depresses me. He probably does this bit with his son, Nathan, whose elementary school picture17 is on VP Torres’s desk. Vice Principal Torres says, “Mr. Peacock, I’m going to count to three, and if you’re not on your way to class by the time I say three, you’re going to have a big problem.”
“What type of problem am I going to have?”
He raises his index finger and says, “One.”
“Don’t you think we should discuss the consequence of my possible inaction so I can decide whether or not doing what you have requested is truly in my best interest? I want to make an informed decision. I want to think. This is school after all. Aren’t you supposed to encourage us to think? Help me out here.”
He makes a peace sign, and says, “Two.”
I look up at the sky, smile, and then stand just before he says three, only because I need to shoot Asher Beal. That’s the only reason. I swear to god. I don’t want to make this day any harder than it will already be. I’m not afraid of Vice Principal Torres, his fingers, or his lame-ass counting. I assure you.
I start to walk to the office, but then I spin around and say, “I’m worried about you, Vice Principal Torres. You seem stressed. And it’s affecting your work.”
He says, “I’ve got a full slate today. Cut me a break, okay? Will you just go to class, Mr. Peacock? Please.”
I nod once and, as I walk toward the main office, I hear Vice Principal Torres sigh loudly. I don’t think his sigh is directed at me so much as it’s directed at his life—the fact that he’s so stressed and busy.
It’s like all the adults I know absolutely hate their jobs and their lives too. I don’t think I know anyone over eighteen who wouldn’t be better off dead, besides Walt18 and Herr Silverman, and knowing that makes me feel confident about what I’m about to do later on today.