Pockets

Pockets

(contains strong language)

He writes his name on the board in cursive – Jason Gardner – like we’re brainless tots who can’t remember from one week to the next. The new English teacher. Hmph! It’s his second week at Brinker High, and all the guys are wondering how far we can push.

He stands all stiff in front of the class, staring at us blankly like he’s forgotten the speech he’d planned. Wearing a gray suit that fits him too loosely, he’s trying to look older than he is. We can see a pimple or two underneath that half-beard of his.

The classroom smells of rotten apples like the janitor failed to pitch the trash. The typical Monday chatter is MIA. A girl bites her fingernails. It’s so weirdly quiet we hear the chomp of her teeth as the nail breaks, and she spits it out. Noah Langton, the class nerd, drums his pencil on his chair. Mr. Gardner yells, “Stop!” And Noah does so immediately. A fluorescent light bulb buzzes, close to burning out.

The blind on the one window gapes open. An odd gray-green color darkens the sky. Big black clouds hurtle across the view. Wind rattles the glass. A mass of something hard smacks into it. A girl screams then lets out a cackle. The teacher glares at her, and she mutters, “My bad.” He swaggers to the window and draws the blind, which he hasn’t done before. Last week he’d rolled it up, in his words, to “lighten our mood with sun.”

Why? Why are we now hunkered down in the dark?

Gardner paces from one wall to the other, searching for words to explain his project of the day, I suppose. Kids are eyeing each other funny.

Nobody laughs. The guy alongside me is scratching his scalp so hard it’s like he wants to make it bleed so he can escape to the nurse.

Hank Cannon, who spent a year in juvie, extends his legs out into the aisle and snickers; can’t wait to trip someone walking past. His ankles are crossed and locked. He’s decked out in a blue dress shirt and a striped, gray tie he hasn’t worn before. His hair is slicked back with goo.

Drama geek Sarah Trudy twiddles her dangly bracelets over and over around her skinny wrist.

Mr. Gardner writes the word “pockets” on the board. I’m at the front of the room, and after skipping breakfast, the alcohol smell of the dry-erase marker turns my stomach to puke.

I don’t think his purpose is to embarrass us. Gardner is a new guy straight out of college. Cut him some slack. He probably thought this prompt thing was a rad idea and wanted to try it out. He didn’t expect to be entertaining a bunch of deadbeats like us.

His writing prompt is kind of involved and requires too much setup if you ask me, but at least he has our attention. The prompt is: “What’s in your pocket? Show us one thing.” There’s a lot of flak, you know, like, “Oh, man, it’s baby show and tell!” He adds another layer to the thing when he says, “You can write about what you have in your own pocket or write about what someone else has got. If you don’t have a pocket in your clothes, then use the pocket of your purse or book bag. One minute to prepare. Then, in pairs, you orally tell the story of whatever it is you chose. It can be true or made up. Afterward, we write.”

Cross-eyed Kelton West produces a dirty Kleenex. He gets snickers and catcalls, and his face gets all beet red. Says he’s got allergies and can’t avoid the snot.

Sarah whips out a lip gloss. A guy behind me says she’s begging to get kissed. She goes off bawling then mumbles it was a gift from a cousin, who moved away last month.

Pimple-faced Tim Johnson’s got on a black nylon jacket. “Do I have to?” he asks. “Fine.” He digs into his jacket pocket and produces a condom. Even snotty Kelton chortles. We all know Johnson has never done it, but he’s hopeful. He shrugs and says his father forces him to carry it so he’s sure to have safe sex. Hopeful, my ass! With zits all over his back, he’s as ugly as a log. Hopeful? Better call it desperate.

Loser Hank Cannon is next. He straightens his tie, zips open his backpack pocket, and hauls out, shit, shit, shit! A freaking gun! A couple of girls scream. Sarah and Kelton hit the floor and cower under their desks. Sitting in a row diagonally across from Cannon, I fold my arms and hold my breath, feel myself slink down in my seat, trapped.

“I was planning to off myself this afternoon,” Cannon boasts. He gets to his feet and aims the gun at Mr. Gardner. “Maybe I’ll off you instead. Give me one good reason I should let you live. Why should I let any of you live?”

Sarah continues bawling, so Cannon kicks her calf and yells, “Shut up!” He aims the gun at the nape of her neck. “Get off the floor. Now!”

Kelton, too, without being told, scrambles back to his chair.

“Okay, son,” says Gardner, like he’s unexpectedly aged a decade or two. “Put that thing away. You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Save it! Don’t tell me who I want to hurt. This dumb wad class in this piss ant school! All of you dumbasses sitting quiet, staying obedient, oh, how you’re gonna squirm!”

“Why don’t you give me the gun? What’s your name again?”

Kelton mutters, “Hank Cannon.”

“Shut the f up! I didn’t say you could talk. I didn’t say any of you could.”

Gardner tries again. “Hank, fun’s over. Give me your gun.”

“You’re wrong. The fun’s barely getting going. As I pick off every last one of you.”

A girl, half crying, whimpers, “I don’t want to die.”

“Too bad. The world is a shitass hole. You! Get down on your knees and pray! Pray real loud so the whole class hears. Quit stalling!”

She plops down on her knees and recites, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”

Where’s the punk going with all this crap? Why doesn’t he waste us all and get it over with? The anticipation makes me wanna pee my pants.

Gardner takes a step forward in an attempt to close the gap between him and Cannon.

“Back off. Now!” He aims the gun at the teacher’s groin.

“Hallowed be Thy name . . .”

“Shush! Enough of that bull!” Cannon shouts to the girl.

“Can I get up, please?”

“No.”

Gardner slithers to his desk and removes his suit coat. “Okay, Hank, is it? Tell us what’s bothering you.”

“What’s bothering me? I’ll tell you what’s bothering me. This raunchy class. Your asswipe assignments. Homework. School. Family. Life. The whole lot sucks, okay?”

Then he lunges at Sarah and sticks the gun in her ear. She flinches and begs, “Please? Please?”

“Please what? Put you out of your misery? You! You’re part of the misery. Remember how I asked you to a movie once? I remember. You sneered and walked away like I was one big joke. You and your big ugly nose. No boobs. I was doing you the favor. Bitch!”

“I’m sorry.”

“‘I’m sorry,’” he mimics.

“Leave her alone,” Johnson cries.

“Shut up, Condom Man! Like you’d know what to do with a girl. But hey, you’re part of the misery, too. Remember how I pleaded for a ride to the hospital? And you were all, ‘Nah, dude. Get your own wheels. I paid for my ride working a six-dollar-an-hour job.’ You said, ‘Try working instead of slacking like the whacko, lazy doughhead you are.’”

“I didn’t say no such thing.”

“Shut. Up. Moron!”

Gardner says, “Okay, Hank. What if Sarah agrees to go out with you?”

A bunch of kids say, “Yeah.”

“And what if Tim agrees to give you a ride?”

Tim croaks, “I will. I will this time.”

“Would that solve things? Would that give you a bit of peace?”

“Peace? You lame-mouth dumbshit. What do you know about peace?” He cocks the gun and moves closer to the teacher’s desk. So close, I can see and smell Hank’s sweat.

Gardner backs up and hoists both arms in the air. “Okay. Calm down.”

The girl who’s reciting the Our Father whispers, “Thy Kingdom come, Thy Will be done . . . “

Then a boom of thunder jolts the clouds. All the kids, including Cannon, turn heads toward the noise. Gardner lopes down the aisle, pounces, and tackles Cannon, pitching him to the floor. We hear Hank’s shoulder whack the leg of a desk.

“A-hole!” Cannon, who’s flat on his back, points the gun at Gardner’s chin.

“On Earth as it is in Heaven . . .” The girl prays on.

Staring down a gun barrel doesn’t deter Gardner. Straddling Cannon’s waist, he grabs the dude’s hand. They grapple for the gun, which is still wedged in Cannon’s fingers. Both guys’ hands are wrenched around it. Their arms twist back and forth like in an arm-wrestling video. The room is dead quiet except for the wrestlers’ groans.

I should get up and fling myself on top of them. But my butt is glued to the chair. My legs feel stiff and weak, as weak as my will to get myself killed.

Cannon rolls Gardner onto his back. Hard to do, when you’re wielding a gun in one hand.

Gardner raises a knee and smacks Cannon on the jaw. Cannon falls backward into two empty desks and winces, pauses for a split second, catching his breath and giving Gardner the chance to spring up. Cannon too hops back up, fast. He whacks the teacher’s cheek with the butt of the gun. Gardner tugs on the hem of Cannon’s shirt, which has come out of his pants. The tugging knocks the punk off-balance. Gardner punches the dude in the gut. Cannon wobbles, grunts, and lets loose of the gun. It slides on the floor under my chair.

As they struggle some more, I think, it’s now or never. I snatch the thing and zero in on Cannon. Slowly, slowly, as time stands still, I pull the trigger.

Click.

I blink and pull the trigger again.

Click. Nothing.

“Give us this day our daily bread . . .”

Now Cannon is laughing like a maniac. He slides down the wall and then rolls around on the floor, chuckling and holding his stomach. “Ha, ha! Joke’s on you guys. Think I’d bring a loaded gun to school? Ha, ha, ha!”

“You gutless pig!” I toss the gun and plunge on top of the guy. I belt him over and over in the mouth, drawing blood. He’s wrenching under me with a scared, wimpy expression on his puss. I’m socking him again and again even when I hear pounding at the classroom door.

“Prick! I’ll kill ya!” I shout.

Two thick hands tug at my collar. Two more hands yank at my arms. Our security guard, Jorge Marquez, and the teacher wrench me off of Cannon.

“Calm down, calm. It’s over,” Gardner says.

“Ain’t over,” I yell. “Let me at him.” I try to pry Marquez’s fingers off my wrist. “Let me beat the crap out of him.” I’m huffing and puffing like I’ve just galloped a hundred miles.

Marquez is not too bright. When he retrieves the gun, he asks, “Who belongs to this?”

The guys all motion to Cannon while Gardner plunks me down into his swivel chair. Sweat drips from my forehead, and my knuckles ache.

Cannon is cracking up like a hyena. He’s lost it. “It wasn’t loaded. It wasn’t loaded,” he hollers between guffaws. “I had you. I had you all!”

Gardner says, “I want Hank Cannon arrested.”

Marquez surveys the room. Then he fingers me. “You. Come here.”

Sarah yells, “But Wheaton tried to help.”

Johnson says, “The hell he did. He beat the guy to a pulp.”

The bloody nose I gave Cannon is dripping down his dress shirt. He holds his palm under the blood and laughs louder as Marquez says to him, “It’ll be expulsion for you, kid.” The guard cuffs Cannon with silver bracelets we didn’t know he had.

“Expelled? For a joke? The gun wasn’t loaded. Ask Wheaton. He knows. But he tried to kill me anyhow.”

Marquez motions to me. “You, Wheaton. You’re next.” He fishes for something in his pants pocket.

“Me?” I glance from student to student and beg for support. “What did I do?”

Marquez binds me with a nylon zip tie. I stumble as he pushes me behind Cannon. A glance at the window shows it’s storming big time. Sheets of rain pelt the glass panes like the heavens are sending a Biblical flood. All at once, the room is alive with chatter. Sarah is on her phone, blabbing, “I thought I wouldn’t survive.”

Noah says to Johnson, “You should have given the guy a ride to the hospital. His sister was bleeding out back then, you know?”

Kelton says, “I dialed security from under the desk. Took him long enough.”

A girl asks, “Ya think we still have homework?”

As I shuffle out of the room behind Marquez and Cannon, the girl reciting the prayer mutters, “And forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those . . .”