Mr. XX

By the sixth parent, Mr. Grant was ready to toss it in for an evening of Little Caesar’s, the new Ryan Murphy gorefest on Hulu.

Where their offspring were relentlessly candid, contemporary millennial parents were adept in prefatory prevarication. I’m an adamant opponent of censorship. This isn’t a racial thing. We take our child’s education very seriously. Our daughter’s needs always come first.

He’d scheduled Anthony Cardell last. Despite the common perception, big pitchers actually tended to have the biggest ears, and Wil warily regarded the last stragglers in the gymnatorium.

“First, I want to stress Nate is a joy to have in my classroom,” Mr. Grant said. “He’s a quick learner, and he knows how to share, which is pretty huge in this day and age. I know being a single parent can be tough, but you have every reason to be proud of Nathan.”

Cardell smiled, eyes opaque behind the gym glare off the tall man’s lenses. “But.”

“Yeah,” Wil nodded. “There’s always one, right?” He reached into the computer bag on the varnished floor beside him, and handed him the drawings. “Now, I want to preface, this kind of thing is not unusual among elementary school-aged kids.”

“Mr. XX,” Cardell sighed without looking down at the looming figure outside the crudely disproportionate school. “Right?”

“Sooo, you know about this, then.” Wil chided himself for feeling somewhat relieved. He’d recalled vividly the expression of both the cop who’d delivered the long-delayed news about his little brother and the detective who’d come himself to explain why a six-year-old was so senselessly murdered. Wil never relished being the one to drop the bomb.

In a piece of blasé stagecraft, the man hooked an arm over the back of his folding chair. “I mean, kids have imaginary friends. Right?”

“Mm, yeah – normally starts at preschool age, when their cognitive abilities are developing more rapidly, and they can use a relatable ally to help hone their socialization skills and problem-solving skills. An imaginary friend can provide comfort when they feel lonely or anxious.”

“I’ll have to admit, after his mom died, it was a colossal adjustment for both of us. Well, me, anyway – Sammi died pretty much right after Nate was born, so he never really bonded with her. This Mr. XX stuff started when Nate was about three, and I guess I just thought of it as part of the deal, you know? I’d started working at home during COVID – lot of remote technical stuff – and my bosses were great about me continuing to work at home. My sister helps out by taking him a few days a week. She has three – three kids, herself, all around Nate’s age.”

“Good,” Wil replied, somewhat weakly. “Now, imaginary friendships can foster a fertile and creative mind, and I see that in Nate’s work and relationships. And that’s kind of the thing. As I said, Nate makes friends easily, and seems like a very happy little boy. Usually, these imaginary friends start to fade after the child forms strong, real-life friendships. But Mr. XX – Nate speaks of him as if he were real, and, well, look at him.”

“Pretty dark shit,” Cardell concurred. “Look, though – I put parental controls on the streaming, and try to keep my eye on his screen time, but doesn’t it make sense an imaginary friend might be kinda big and spooky, like a protector?”

Wil breathed. “Except Mr. XX is no friend. At least according to Nate. He’s described him as, well, mean. Critical of his positive achievements, constantly undermining Nate’s confidence and esteem, urging him to act out, which Nate’s thankfully resisted. I began to think maybe Mr. XX was some kind of manifestation of your son’s low self-esteem, and talked to him about how Mr. XX was just imaginary, an imaginary friend. No, Nate said. Not an imaginary friend. An imaginary enemy. You have any idea why he might struggle with his self-confidence?”

Wil realized he’d schlogged into perilous territory, and braced for defensive rage. Instead, Cardell frowned. “With his mother gone, I’ve tried to stress positivity and encouragement. I may even go overboard sometimes. My sister-in-law’s the same way, and her kids are absolute angels, like sisters to Nate.” He looked straight into Wil’s eyes. “You think it’s possible that this is some kind of bullying from the older kids?”

Wil paused. “Well, I guess it’s possible, though Principal Mahall and the district have instituted some pretty effective anti-bullying measures. You pick Nate up every day, right? I’ve seen you in the loading zone. I hate to plant any further anxiety, but you think there’s any possibility Nathan’s being—“ Careful now. “--approached by a stranger or, and I hate to ask, a neighbor or even relative, after school?”

Cardell found his jacket. “I got it, Mr. Grant. We’ve got it. Nate speaks very highly of you, like you’re a superhero. Which I kinda guess you gotta be to be a teacher, right? I think we got this one, though. Right?”

“Right,” Wil echoed, and it was abruptly Miller Time.

**

“You are not asking me to disclose student information.” Nikki framed it as a statement, snapping the lid from her Tupperware with an exasperated hiss and shoving the yellowed plastic bowl into the lounge microwave.

“I have a problem, and all I want is a little context, OK?” Wil popped the tab on a Diet Pepper, the ideal pairing with cold double pepperoni pizza. Most of the Amelia Rayburn crew generally left the USDA guidelines in the hallway. Mrs. Underwood shook her head as she carefully monitored her rigatoni. “I don’t see how that’s an invasion of privacy.”

“Oh, you don’t.” The second-grade teacher impatiently punched the cancel button and yanked the door open to retrieve her entrée. It was the XL Tupperware – Nikki appeared to leave USDA’s MyPlate with the Food Pyramid in the realm of theoretical science. “I mean, this isn’t some sibling shit – these are the boy’s cousins, right.”

“All I’d like to know are if Alison and Andi are, ah, adjusting well to the new semester – you know, if there seem to be any family issues.”

Nikki dropped into her chair, jostling Wil’s soda. “I had Nathan last year, as you prolly know. Precious little man, smart as a whip. Few little bumps, but nothing to write home to Mahall about.”

“He ever tell you about Mr. XX?”

“That imaginary buddy of his,” she muttered. “Yeah, we talked about it some. You seen the drawings, I’m guessing. I just figured it was the creepy pastor.”

Wil leaned in. “His minister?”

“His what? No, dude – the CreepyPasta,” Nikki snorted. ”We had the Goosebumps. Well, now they got the CreepyPasta, all this Internet shit. You never seen it. Like freaky, fucked-up campfire stories -- Momo, Eyeless Jack, Slenderman. He’s the worst – ‘bout 10 years ago, these two 12-year-old girls up in Wisconsin stabbed one of their classmates like 19 times, ‘sposedly to ‘appease’ this Slenderman. So that’s why I was concerned about this Mr. XX – enough to sit Nathan’s daddy down. Mr. Cardell listened to everything I said, thanked me, and then told me—“

“I got it.”

The large young woman blinked. “Uh huh. I mighta looked into it farther, but you remember how that city truck almost took me out last November in the drop-off zone.”

Mr. Grant perked. “Yeah, I think I remember them hauling you off to St. Mark’s with your kids bawling and screaming. At the time, you were delirious, kept telling me and the paramedics somebody’d pushed you in front of the thing. You tried to laugh it off when I came to see you. Oh, shit, you’re not saying it was Cardell?”

“Oh, fuck no,” Nikki said. “You seen Nathan’s dad – he barely comes up to my chin. This dude was ‘way too tall…” She stopped, took a beat, and looked hard into Wil’s eyes. “All right. You’re gonna think I’m ready for the psych ward, but I was too embarrassed to push the issue. Or I ‘spose too scared. Day I came back in February, I noticed Nathan in his corner, looking like he was about to bust out crying. After class, I told him it was fine, everything was OK, I was gonna be OK. He just looked at me, real serious, tears in his eyes, and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ and just ran out the door. I mean, Wil, no child pushed me into the street. All I saw…all I could see, like in the corner of my eye, was a… a shadow.

“So you gotta know, Alison been doing some artwork last few weeks, and lately, guess who’s popped up a couple times. Uh huh. Mr. XX/Slenderman/CreepyFuckingPasta. Just hanging out in the backyard, at the park, like some faceless spooky-ass uncle you disinvited from Thanksgiving but keeps showing up anyway.” The PA system chimed, signaling an end to child-feeding. “Lost my damned appetite now, plus you need some hot food for a change. Little nutrition.”

**

Wil appropriated afterschool monitor duty for the rest of the week, to the unanimous approval of his colleagues excepting Nikki, who registered her dissent with a single silent shake of the head as she passed his open doorway during Story Time.

Normally, Pickup bouyed the teacher. A half-hour détente between teacher and parent, where grievances, politics, resentments, and happily, most parents were left at the curb.

The long yellow curb – not quite long enough for mid-afternoon thru-traffic already peeved at forgetting for the eighteenth time this semester to detour over to Main – was generally considered offside. An environmentally controlled, Bluetooth-DJed depressurization zone between the office or sales floor or line or the mani-pedi and the evening cacophony to come. But today, Wil wove through the gauntlet of freed youngsters and waiting and besieged pedestrian parents toward the elephant gray Rogue humming sedately where the yellow paint ended.

Rapping on the window seemed aggro, so he stopped a peaceable three feet back at the edge of a skimpy lawn guarded by a pair of ostensibly benign gnomes. The plump redhead behind the wheel nonetheless jumped as her peripheral kicked in. Then she summoned that expectantly cool millennial half-smile that seemed to cover everything from yappy baristas to, really, anyone much who stumbled unbidden into their personal space. The front passenger window glided down as if by her will.

“Sorry, Mrs. Isley,” Wil stammered with a self-effacing shrug. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s just, you know, it’s not the greatest neighborhood,” Alison and Andi’s mom murmured. “You’re Mr. Grant, right? Nate’s teacher? I mean, I just met with Mrs. Underwood last week. Is there a problem?”

“No, no. I just wanted to talk to you for a second about Nate, if it’s OK.”

“Suurre,” Isley drawled.

“I just wanted to know if you’ve noticed anything, I dunno, unusual about Nate, lately. I had a conversation with his dad about some kinda red flags in his behavior, but I’m still a little concerned about some of his esteem issues.”

“Anthony’s a great dad, you know, considering everything that’s happened. Not like it’s really your business, but Nate was a tough delivery, and even before those bastards knocked down Roe v. Wade, we have our suspicions the obstetrician went out of his way to save Nate over the risks to Sammi, and that’s how the eclampsia and sepsis got her. Anthony and Sammi were high school sweethearts, and Nate – god bless his sweet little heart – was a kind of ticking clock thing for my sister. Anthony was like a zombie for two or three months after Sammi died, but you couldn’t meet a more devoted father.”

Something pulled at Wil’s guts. “You have any idea if on some level, Nate might blame himself for your sister’s, uh, passing? I mean, he’s awfully rough on himself, excessively self-critical. And there’s Mr. XX--“

 “The fuck has that got to do with anything?”

Wil jumped back, nearly tripping over the yellow curb. “Well, certainly, imaginary friends are nothing unusual, and usually nothing to worry about…”

“And what’s that got to do with Nate? This was like 20 years ago, and why’d Anthony even bring up his creepy old fantasies?”

“Wait. Wait. Are you telling me that Mr. XX was your brother-in-law’s imaginary companion?”

DeAnn Isley gripped the wheel. “Are you telling me that Mr. XX is Nate’s imaginary friend?”

“More like an imaginary enemy. Undermining Nate at every turn, damaging his confidence and ego.”

She waggled feeling back into he fingers. “Here’s the thing, Anthony’s dad was a real asshole. He was basketball coach at Millington Junior High, and one of those alpha types. Nothing Anthony did was ever right, he was an embarrassment, he’d never achieve anything. I was hoping he’d got past all that a long time ago. But I wonder now…”

“About Nate?”

“Some weird shit’s happened over the last several months, and, well, I’ve had to kind of limit Nate’s time with the girls. He’s been telling Ally and Andi these spooky stories about Mr. XX and Mrs. Underwood and some T-ball coach of his –guy had a coronary after their last practice, Nate was really broken up over it. I suggested to Anthony he monitor his online activity. Then one night, around Labor Day, I saw, ah, some person in the bushes, I think spying on him and the girls. They’re losing sleep, and a couple times when I’ve checked in on them, I’ve seen or think I’ve seen this same guy out in the street.”

“Tall guy? Like maybe unnaturally--”

Isley licked her lips, then looked past Wil. The window almost caught his fingers on the rise, and the back door nearly toppled him as a pair of ginger-haired girls piled in with a chattering summary of their day. Their mother stared at Wil as she ordered the girls to belt up.

“I just wanna help,” Wil called as she crimped the wheel and began to pull out. The car braked hard, Mrs. Isley leaned over the passenger seat, and he could read her response over the protests of the two second-graders.

Don’t.

**

It was Friday, the last day of Wil’s current Pickup stint, when he spotted Anthony Cardell’s black Liberty dead parallel to the school entrance. They locked eyes for a second, then Cardell looked off toward the buses maneuvering into the far drive, and Wil actually took three or four steps before feeling Mahall’s invisible leash tug him back to the benches where moms and a scattering of dads were savoring their last few minutes of afternoon screen time. And where Nikki looked up from a silly chorus with “her girls” to level an icy blast of reproval. Wil looked away, as luck would have it right into the face across the street.

The featureless face. Or so it seemed, as a low branch of a tall red maple obscured the top of the lanky, towering man’s head. The Millington Junior High School sweatshirt hung limply on his torso, though by Wil’s calculations, it had to be a Large XXXXXX-Long that would look like a muumuu on Shaq. A plumbing truck cruised through with a double-tap of the horn to the ancient volunteer safety guard, who waved heartily back dwarfed by the slender fellow behind his right shoulder. The guard mimed a jovial greeting as he shepherded a knot of first-graders across the street and past the dark specter sporting school colors.

Anthony Cardell’s school colors. Again, Wil started forward, and the figure stepped, no, glided, a few feet toward the street. Wil froze, and the tall man stopped in front of the oblivious guard.

“I’m sorry.”

Wil pivoted, nearly colliding with Nathan Cardell. The little boy looked contritely up at his teacher, then to the figure beyond the waiting SUVs, then to the black Jeep and the man inside. Who now glanced, Wil thought frantically, between the presumed Mr. XX and the boy whose entry into the world had taken his Sammi senselessly out of it. Consciously, of course, Cardell had to know Nathan was blameless, as had been the boy who’d never quite passed muster with the man who’d brought him into a painful universe.

“Don’t worry,” Nate smiled, absurdly patting Mr. Grant’s leg comfortingly. “I’m going to tell him to stop being such a bully – he hates it when I have friends or people try to help me. I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”

And Nate launched across the school lawn. The enemy of my enemies, Wil thought before he slipped the invisible leash and raced toward the curb. Cardell seemed sealed in his vehicle, his eyes wild but his limbs seemingly paralyzed.

Nate disappeared between a white Expedition and a red CRV, and Wil screamed agonizingly. When he looked up, he spotted the child, intact, under the arm of a shambling, white-haired, arthritic angel in an orange vest. Wil slumped against the hood of the Honda, heaving and sobbing and laughing in gratitude before thinking to look beyond the World’s Greatest Crossing Guard and the little man strong enough to take on his father’s demon. 

Who seemed to have fled the scene. Wil glanced up and down the street, through and around the flow of peeved drivers who’d missed the Big Show. He barely felt the shadow, the dark colossus beside him, the hand or something made in that fashion, that propelled him forward. The Ram, now – that was so close and swift and final that Wil could nearly taste it.

And then the fingers – this time curiously more material – slammed the teacher back into the side of the Expedition with a glimpse into a horrified millennial’s face. Wil flailed at the force dragging him back between the SUVs and banging him back over the curb. On his back on the concrete, he stared up into the broad, exasperated face that scowled back down.

“See,” Nikki growled. “This is what happens.”