The Twenty

by

Cole Parker

colepark@gmail.com

I’m in the ninth grade—high school. Fifteen years old, with all the trauma that brings. Is any fifteen-year-old immune from the anxieties and frustrations, annoyances and fears I feel every day? I hope there are at least some; no one of my delicate years should be as stressed as I am.

My school is at the corner of Twentieth Street and Avenue Twenty, and some unimaginative, creatively-challenged high muckety-muck had named it The Twenty. Makes you want to stand up and salute, doesn’t it? Not! Probably the same guy that decided it would be whimsical to use numbers for both streets and avenues. I hope he had a fitting and suitable ending to his years of naming things. Boiling oil comes to mind.

But that’s diverging from the point of this. “Get on with it,” I hear all the time from my father. He hates my dithering. He’s a straight-ahead, shoot-from-the-hip, no-prisoners-taken-alive sort of man. He’s also 120% in my corner, which I should thank him for more often than I do. He’s a force of nature who’s always there for me and takes the roughest edges off my life; he helps make it tolerable.

I appreciate his ferocity in protecting me, though it comes with a codicil before he steps in: I have to have done all I can to solve my own problems. But that just makes sense to me; I should be doing it for myself as much as possible. Still, knowing one has backup when needed is so reassuring—for when things get out of hand. Something that happens when you’re 15 and not fully grown and mature.

Anyway, I mentioned the school’s name to show how silly high school can be. I had no problem with the name. It was what went on inside The Twenty that got my nuts in a twist. And some of the people there, too. There were two people specifically who caused me considerable angst.

My name is Tanner Thompson. Some lazy kids call me TT, and some ruder ones change that to Titty. Not a name any self-respecting guy my age wears lightly. But what are you supposed to do? We’re not allowed to fight. Take a swing at someone, and, hit or miss, you’re gone. Just read the school rulebook. It’s right there in print. No fighting. Take your problems to the principal. It’s his job to sort things out. It’s in the handbook, and he’s told us in assemblies that’s what he’s paid for. Bullying, fighting, disrespect of teachers, destruction of school property, too many absences, not turning in homework, misuse of cell phones, offenses against the dress code—while not endless, the list of no-nos is quite lengthy as is the list of penalties that accompany them. Those first two—bullying, fighting—call for expulsion.

So, what do I do when I’m bullied? I follow the rules. I go to the principal.

“What’s your problem this time, Tanner?” He is wearing his overly patient face and using his insincere voice that rings with resignation. I’m used to that. I plow on regardless, feeling that it won’t accomplish anything more this time than it has in the past.

Mr. Deitrick is a short, pudgy man of insignificant bearing. He is sitting behind his large, wooden, highly polished desk wearing a suit and tie, his graying hair brushed and combed such that every hair is in its place. His chair is an upholstered executive chair with a high back and padded arms. The chair’s back, and so his, too, faces a large window overlooking the 20 by 20 intersection, meaning the light is in my eyes. Like I’m not already as uncomfortable as a nudist at a Quaker prayer meeting.

I am sitting on a hard wooden chair with a straight-up-and-down back, no arms and no padding. I am wearing the school uniform—that is, the same clothes we all wear: blue jeans, a tee shirt with no words or pictures and sneakers. My reddish-blond hair, worn long, isn’t professionally cut—we can’t afford that; my mother wields the scissors, and since she’s been doing it since I was in first grade, by now it isn’t as grotesque as it was in my early years—and I’m in a fidgety mood, as I always am when confronting Principal Deitrick. I’m a little tall for my age and way too thin. I’d like to say I’m cute, but I’m not. Unprepossessing, ordinary: those are the cards life’s dealt me.

“I’m here for the same reason I seem to be here every time, Mr. Deitrick. My problem is Kenny Aight. He’s still bullying me. I want so badly to hit him, but I know I can’t. He’s smaller than I am, he has a ton of friends, and it’s against the rules. I don’t like coming to you any more than you like seeing me here, but you’re supposed to fix this. It says so in the student handbook, and you haven’t.”

He stands up. Quickly. “Are you criticizing the way I do my job? Is that what you’re saying? Because I know how to deal with malcontents and complainers. You’d best not be saying that.”

I can’t meet his eyes when he rants. I wait till his vitriol is spent, then say, “I’m just telling you I’m being bullied. Tell me how to stop it, and I’ll do it. I don’t know how. I’ve tried being nice to him; I’ve tried ignoring him; I’ve tried avoiding him; I’ve tried glaring at him. Nothing works. Am I supposed to just put up with being bullied? I thought I was supposed to tell you and you’d handle it.”

“Just what is he doing that you call bullying?”

I refrain from expressing a frustrated sigh. “I’ve told you before. I’ll tell you again. He calls me names. He tells people I’m gay. He trips me in the halls. He’s let the air out of my bike tires so often I started taking the school bus. He wrecked some of my artwork that was on the wall in the art room. He’s made me miss my bus.”

“And have you seen each of these things, or are they just things that have happened and you’re blaming him? Do you have witnesses? Or are you simply trying to get him in trouble?”

‘Yes. I have witnesses who saw him doing this stuff. Actually, he usually does it when I can see. He likes that. He enjoys bullying me. He does it in front of other people, too. He likes to see me humiliated, humiliated because I can’t stop him. I’ve told you this before.” I am getting emotional; my voice is rising. “Next time . . . I’m sure there’ll be a next time, and at some point, I’ll probably hit him. Even if he is smaller. I’m having a hard time not hitting him.”

“You do that, you’ll be out on your ear, and good riddance, mister. I don’t need to waste my time hearing this day after day, either. Just figure it out. I’m not paid to solve your problems. Now, beat it.”

And so I leave. Again having made no impact at all. Frustration level: rising.

Over dinner my dad asks me how my day went. I tell him. I don’t expect him to come to my aid. He expects me to figure things out by myself. I’ve tried. Heaven knows I’ve tried. And drawn a blank.

He’ll help if I ask. I’m not that desperate yet, though.

There is a big to-do planned today for the school’s twentieth anniversary. Probably the same wag who named the streets and school named the celebration: The Twenty at Twenty. God help us all! The mayor will be at the school along with other dignitaries. The cheerleaders will rally the crowd, and the mayor and principal will speak to all of us and anyone else who wants to come. The speeches will be held in the auditorium. Other activities will precede the addresses, activities for and involving us students. I am part of it. I’m on the tumbling team, which is the school’s excuse for gymnastics; it is kind of a pre-gymnastics team. We run and do somersaults and perform cartwheels and calisthenics and up-and-downs and all sorts of things we are capable of doing and nothing we aren’t.

Maybe the school just didn’t want to dig deep for funds for real gymnastic equipment.

Those of us who are performing are in the locker room changing into our tumbling outfits, which are just our regular gym shorts and team tees. The entire school student body is in the gym, sitting on the bleachers along the walls waiting to watch us perform before heading to the auditorium. The cheerleaders dance, the marching band plays a few pieces, and then we tumblers run out in formation and perform as a group. The last thing we do is twenty leapfrogs. I am the last to go. As each boy on the floor is jumped over the final time, he gets up off all fours and runs off the floor to the showers. I leap over the last boy, he skedaddles, and I am left alone on the floor. I am supposed to bow gracefully to the crowd, then run to the showers myself to thunderous applause.

Except, that isn’t to be. I do my bow, the kids all cheer as they’re supposed to, but then the tumbling coach grabs a mic and pulls me to the middle of the floor and talks enthusiastically about the team and the tumbling program, how much fun it is, and how we need more members. Then he says, “Tanner here is one of our best tumblers. He’s your age. I’ll let him ask you to join us.” Then he hands the mic to me. I’m so unprepared!

My worst thing, after being bullied, is speaking to a crowd. Large or small, I always freeze up with those expectant eyes staring at me. I feel like a fool. Now I have no choice; I have to speak. I can’t just stand here looking dumb. But I’m sure not going to say a lot. Hoping I won’t stumble around and look as stupid as I feel and spout gibberish, I take the mic and say the first thing that comes into my head. “Guys, there would be nothing better for this, our 20th anniversary, than for our team to get 20 new members. Come see the coach. It’s great fun, and a super way to make new friends. You’ll have a great time; believe me!”

Whew. Didn’t know I could do that! I hand the mic back to the coach and sort of trot to the door to our locker room and showers. I even manage a wave to the students, who are filing out of the gym now.

I didn’t think it had taken that long, but I am the only one in the locker room when I enter. Everyone else has already showered, dressed and gone. I strip off and head to the showers. And stop. I find the showers still running even though no one is there, but what is there are my clothes. Spread out directly under a shower. Soaked. Completely, totally wet. Unwearable.

I just stare for a moment, shaking my head. Had to be Kenny. No one else hates me, or if not that, takes such delight in bullying me. Sighing, I decide to put my gym clothes back on. What else can I do? I can’t go to the speeches in wet clothes, probably couldn’t even get them on, but I can’t go dressed in my sweaty tumbling costume, either. I do have some personal pride. But not going to the auditorium is no big deal at all. I’ll happily miss the speeches.

I walk back into the dressing room and just catch sight of Kenny. He is standing at the door leading out to the hall. And he has my gym clothes and the last of the pile of towels in his arms.

“Hey, fag,” he yells, seeing me, naked me. “You queers like to show people your dicks, don’t you? Well, here’s your chance. I’ll leave these out in the hall. Come and get ‘em!”

I snap. There’s no other way to say it. I’ve been angry with him for a long time, and this time, he’s gone too far. This is pure, unadulterated meanness. Without clothes, I’ll now have to wait in the locker room all day; no one will come here till the speeches are over, and then it’ll be after school, and everyone will leave. Who knows what might happen then?

I can’t go out in the hall. The entire student body is walking down that hall from the gym to the auditorium, and I’m naked. I’m stuck because of stupid, spiteful Kenny.

I’m just not going to accept it. Not anymore. I’ve never been this mad before, and, well, as I said, I snap.

My head is so full of anger, I’m actually seeing a red haze. I’ve read about that in stories but thought it was make-believe. I don’t hesitate. I walk to the door to the hall, push it open and step out.

Kenny is about ten feet away, still holding my clothes, laughing with his friends. I walk up to him. He sees me coming and jeers at me. “Hey, naked boy, come out to show off?” Then, louder, “Hey, everyone, look at this. Tanner forgot to get dressed today!”

I grab him by his tee shirt, get a good grip on it and pull him up off the floor. His grin disappears, and the look in his eyes goes from loving the moment to abject fear.

Then I sock him in the face. Hard. And drop him. I see blood and realize, just that suddenly, that the noisy hallway is dead silent. It stays that way for a few seconds, and then a large hand grips my arm.

“What the hell?” a voice asks, and I turn to see Mr. Cafferty, a math teacher, has taken hold of me. “Into the locker room,” he says, and almost drags me there.

We’re inside and he lets go, and I collapse. Right down to the floor. I’ve heard about what happens when you’re too high on adrenaline and then it abates. Now I’ve experienced it myself.

“Get dressed,” Mr. Cafferty says. “You’ll need to see the principal, but he’ll be busy for a while. Then he’ll probably expel you. I’ll stay in here with you till then. You can explain to me what just happened. But not naked. Get dressed.”

“I can’t,” I say. “Kenny took my clothes. They’re probably lying out in the hall now.”

“Wait here,” he says, and leaves, returning a minute later with my gym clothes and the towels. “Here, put these on.”

I’m not sure what’s going on in my head. I still don’t feel right. And what I say next is proof of that. I’ve never disobeyed a teacher before.

“I’m going to shower first. I didn’t have the opportunity before. Thanks for retrieving my clothes.” And then I just walk away from him to the showers.

It is later in the afternoon when I meet with the principal. Mr. Cafferty and I waited a long time in the locker room. I don’t know whether he is on my side after all the talking I’ve done. Some of it was accompanied by my tears. I hate that, but when you’re telling someone things about yourself that you’re not a bit proud of, like not being able to deal with Kenny without resorting to violence, and dealing with an intransigent principal, I get emotional, and at 15, that can result in tears even if you do hate them and what they make you look like. At 15, you still don’t have total control of your emotions. Well, at least I don’t. Mr. Cafferty was a good listener, and so I probably said too much. I don’t know if he is on my side but do know at one point at least he felt sympathetic. I could read his eyes.

For the last hour in the locker room, neither of us says a word. I use the time to do a lot of thinking.

His cell phone rings, and, finally, we are summoned to the principal’s office. Earlier, Mr. Cafferty had phoned the man’s secretary to tell her he is keeping me in the locker room until the principal has a chance to see me. After the call, he tells me that Kenny was taken to the hospital, but that was all she knew. I ask Mr. Cafferty if I can get my phone from my locker before we see the principal. We have to leave our phones there during school hours. He lets me do that. As I said, I feel sympathy coming from the man. I put the phone in my pocket but use my fingers to dial my dad and leave a message: 911!!

We go to the office. Mrs. Olson, the principal’s secretary, greets me. We know each other because I’m the one who brings the attendance sheet from my homeroom to her each morning. She’s an older woman, thin as a rail with gray hair and a constant smile. She told me once she started work at the school when it first opened; she’s been here for twenty years, or five years longer than I’ve been alive.

Mr. Cafferty doesn’t seem in any hurry to go into Principal Deitrick’s office, so I ask Mrs. Olson a question. “I’ve seen you write down something in a book every time I come in to see the principal. Do you keep track of who’s meeting with him?”

“Every day,” she says. “Every meeting.”

I smile at her, then ask if she knows how Kenny’s doing. “Yes, they called me. He has a broken nose. They set it and released him with a couple of pain killers. He’s been approved to come to school tomorrow, or he can stay home if he wants.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Olson,” I say, and she reaches over and touches my arm. “I don’t know why you hit him, or were naked in the hall. You’ll have to tell me about that sometime. But I do know you, Tanner. Whatever it was, I’m sure it wasn’t your fault.”

Damn! That support and just her eyes when she says that bring tears to mine. I hate that. I’m a sobbing sister today! But this is bad: I don’t want watery eyes when meeting the principal!

Mr. Cafferty escorts me into Principal Deitrick’s office. The man is sitting in his large chair, scowling. He points to the single chair in front of it. I sit down. He looks up at Mr. Cafferty. “You can go,” he says.

Mr. Cafferty is still standing, and he pauses for a moment, then says, “You should probably have a witness in case Tanner goes berserk again and you have to physically restrain him. I think I’ll stay.”

Well, so much for thinking he was on my side! He remains standing off to the side. I can still see him peripherally, but I focus on the principal.

He speaks to me. “You’ve done it now, Tanner. No hedging or arguing or whining. No more tales about how poor little you gets bullied by a kid half your size. This is fact: you hit another student today. Sent him to the hospital. Broke his nose, concussed him. He’ll probably have to remain hospitalized for who knows how long. You’ll probably be sued, have charges filed with the police, certainly have to pay Aight’s hospital bills. Couple thousand bucks or more, I’d guess.

“Anyway, I have no choice but to expel you. You’re out. Mr. Cafferty can escort you to your locker in the hall and locker room. Gather your stuff. I’m glad to be rid of you.”

As he says that, I can hear a commotion outside the office, and then the door bursts open and my dad comes in.

When my dad makes an entrance like this one, it’s quite something. He’s six-foot five and weighs well in excess of two-hundred pounds. None of it is fat, either. Principal Deitrick takes one look and picks up his phone. He tells Mrs. Olson to get security here, stat!

My dad looks at Mr. Deitrick, then at Mr. Cafferty, then at me. His eyes soften when he does that last part. Then he regards Mr. Deitrick and they harden again. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he demands.

“You’re Tanner’s father, I suppose?” Deitrick asks.

“I am.”

“Well, I’ve just expelled your son. He’s in bad trouble. He hurt another student, sent him to the hospital, a little kid who couldn’t defend himself against your son. Also, Tanner did this while out in the corridor naked. Naked! Everyone passing by saw him, and they saw him hit Kenny Aight.”

My dad glares at Deitrick, then looks at me. “Is this true?” he asks me.

“Yes,” I say. “Kenny’s bullying finally got to me, and I stood up for myself. I’ve tried many times to get this man—” I point to the principal “—to stop Kenny from bullying me, and he never did. It just got to be too much. Kenny put my clothes under the shower, soaking them, then took my gym clothes and the towels so I had nothing to cover myself with. Then he stood in the doorway holding my gym clothes, taunting me. I snapped. I walked out and hit him. Then Mr. Cafferty waited in the locker room with me till we could meet with Mr. Deitrick. Mr. Cafferty was nice enough to retrieve my gym clothes from the hall where Kenny had dropped them or I’d still be naked.”

My dad looks at Mr. Deitrick again, but before he can speak, the door opens and the school’s security guard, wearing his uniform, walks in. “What’s goin’ on in here?” he asks. As usual, he sounds belligerent.

My father turns to him. The guard is about six-feet tall, maybe 170 pounds. Maybe 55 years old. Maybe an ex-cop. My father towers over him. “We’re having a discussion,” he says. “You’re not needed.”

“Yes, you are,” Deitrick says. “Get him out of here.”

Dad turns to Deitrick. “Just how is he supposed to do that?”

Deitrick and the guard look at each other. Then Dad says to the guard, “Wait outside.” He takes a step toward the man, who turns around and goes back out, closing the door behind him.

“Now, back to business,” Dad says. “Tanner has told me about coming to you about the bullying he’s put up with. He says you’ve done nothing about it. I’ve read the rulebook. It says bullying will not be tolerated. It’s an expulsion offense. Yet you’ve done nothing about it. Now you’re expelling Tanner for breaking a rule once while you yourself have broken one several times. In your wildest dreams, do you think you can get away with this?”

Deitrick opens his mouth, but words don’t come. Then, finally, he says, “Tanner lied to you. He’s never complained to me about being bullied. Not once.”

I gasp! “He’s lying,” I say. I’m astonished. “He’s sitting here lying to you!”

My dad’s face turns red. I am suddenly worried he might take matters into his own hands. He has a temper, and my dad, angry, isn’t what we want here. I stand up and grab his arm. “Dad, I can deal with this. Step back.”

Surprising me, he does. I turn to Mr. Deitrick. “You can’t get away with that. Mrs. Olson has records of me coming in here.”

Mr. Deitrick tries a smile. It is very weak. As is his voice when he says, “Oh, sure, you’ve come in here several times for a number of trivial things that were a waste of my time. You never once said anything about being bullied.”

I can’t believe this! Wow! It takes me a second, time to try to clear my head of the shock of hearing him lie so brazenly. And then, before I can say anything, I’m beaten to the punch.

“Uh, Mr. Deitrick, you yourself a few minutes ago admitted that Tanner had spoken to you about being bullied.”

That’s Mr. Cafferty! I was wrong! He is on my side.

Mr. Deitrick doesn’t sound weak at all when he hears that! “Mr. Cafferty, you be very careful. You’re making this up! Remember, you work for me!”

Mr. Cafferty smiled. “Tenure, Mr. Deitrick. No more can you fire me than you can kiss my ass. I’ve been here twenty years, have tenure, and you sound very much to me like a man on his way out.”

Mr. Cafferty is our acting principal now. He told me when he was appointed that his first act as principal had been to expel Kenny Aight. Then he told me his second was to advise me not to hit anyone again. He said that and then laughed. He patted me on the back, smiled, and said I’d displayed patience over and above the norm. He said he was proud of how I’d handled myself.

I am much happier at school these days.

One night soon after the Twentieth Anniversary brouhaha, over dinner, Dad asks me how my day was.

I grin and say, “A girl at school stopped me in the hall. She said she saw me busting one on Kenny, and she liked what she saw and wondered if I’d go to the movies with her. I asked if she meant she liked seeing me hit Kenny or liked seeing me naked. She said naked, and her eyes were sparkling. I told her I’d never been on a date before, and that I was in the process of figuring out if I was gay or straight. I probably needed to have sex with someone to know for sure. She said she was in the same boat, the never having had sex part, and maybe we could spend some time after the movie losing our virginities. We’re, uh, going to see a film Friday night.”

My mom looks disturbed. My dad grins. My mom really doesn’t get guy stuff all that much.

“And right after that,” I continue, “Jimmy Kwan came up to me and asked if I’d like to hang with him after school some time; he said he had some great video games, and no one was home at his house till his parents got home late. I asked if it was true what I’d heard, that he was gay, and he nodded and grinned. I told him I’d never had sex with anyone and had been wondering if maybe I was gay, and he said he’d had a crush on me for some time, then saw me naked in the hall, and he’d sprung wood big time. Then he asked me to come to his house after school. He said I could find out how much I liked gay stuff.”

Dad laughs, and Mom says, “Tanner!” and I reply, “I might be late for dinner tomorrow. I hope I am!”

THE END