Adam Selzer (12 page)

“Well, there’s not a lot I can do that would be appropriate to Mrs. Smollet!” I said. “She’d probably be upset if I showed someone’s bare ankles!”

“That’s enough, Leon,” she said. She looked as though she was ready to start breathing fire at any moment.

I was convinced that whoever had put her in charge of the gifted pool must have been smoking the pot that was growing in the woods behind the school. And I was further convinced that she herself must have been eating Drug Krispies for breakfast to think that something everybody did, and that was totally harmless, was such a terrible thing to talk about.

Dr. Brown was starting to drop the friendly routine. “Since this is really the first time you’ve been in serious trouble, we’re just going to give you in-school suspension for tomorrow and for the rest of today,” he said. “And don’t worry; it won’t go on your permanent record.”

As I have said, Dr. Brown really did not take us seriously.

“Does this mean that the movie won’t get shown to the sixth and seventh graders?” I asked.

“Well, of course it does,” he said. “Be reasonable, Mr. Harris.” Mrs. Smollet gave me a look that probably would have killed anyone under the age of twelve.

“I am,” I said. “I’m the only one in here being reasonable.”

“You already have a day and a half, Mr. Harris,” said Dr. Brown. “Mrs. Smollet suggested much longer. Would you like me to add more time?”

I sighed. “No,” I said. “I’ll go quietly. But every kid in the school is going to hear about this.”

“I don’t doubt that they will,” said Dr. Brown.

He had no idea.

I’d never been suspended before. I’d had my fair share of detentions over the years, but those were no big deal. Show me a kid who can get through middle school without getting detention once or twice and I’ll show you a kid without enough self-esteem to speak his mind.

Suspension was a whole other matter, though. People would notice I wasn’t in school, and they’d talk. I fully expected that by the end of the day, Anna, Brian, Edie, Dustin, James, and everyone else would know that I was suspended, and they’d probably know exactly why, too. News travels. And no one would hesitate to guess that Mrs. Smollet was behind it.

To serve my term, I was led into a small room near the teachers’ lounge that was empty except for a small table with four chairs. Dr. Brown told me to have a seat; then he walked out, shutting the door behind him. There were no bars, but I was officially in prison, and to top it off, in solitary confinement. According to my watch, I would be there for four hours that day and six and a half the next.

I don’t know if the room was made just for in-school suspension, but I couldn’t imagine what other purpose it served. The walls were covered with stupid motivational posters, the kind where they have a picture of an eagle or the Grand Canyon, then something like
MAKE THE RIGHT CHOICE—CHOOSE SUCCESS
under it. I was quite familiar with them; the previous year, my dad had decided that my schoolwork might improve if he put a bunch of them up in the bathroom, but I’d taken them down myself. The last thing I want to see when I’m in the bathroom is a sign that says
COMMIT YOURSELF TO QUALITY IN ALL YOU DO.
Having to spend a full day and a half surrounded by them seemed worse than spending a day in an actual prison cell.

It was a good thing I had my backpack with me, since it was just about time for lunch. I wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t packed it but had planned to get the school lunch. Would they have expected me to starve? Probably not; that would be a lawsuit waiting to happen. They’d probably have had it brought in for me by some office aide. I’d compliment them on their fine catering service.

Outside, I imagined Dr. Brown was probably calling my parents, if Mrs. Smollet hadn’t fought him for the honor. Mom and Dad had never found out about the times I’d been in detention, so this would be a new one for them. Their little Leon, the criminal. No, that wasn’t what I was. I was no criminal. I was a supposed pornographer.

No, that still wasn’t good enough. An alleged smut peddler.

Smut peddler. That was what Dr. Brown was probably telling my parents. If Smollet was there, she was probably saying I was a no-good, dirty-minded teenage hoodlum who lacked moral fiber and needed his mouth washed out with soap.

I pulled my lunch out of my backpack and ate it, just tossing the empty plastic bags and wrappers on the floor. Screw ’em. I would serve my time, but they couldn’t make me be neat.

A lot of people in history, like Gandhi and some of the founding fathers and guys like that, thought it was honorable to serve time in jail for a noble cause. That was what I was doing. I was serving time for a noble cause: the right to make a frank, honest, and artistic sex-ed video. The right to tell kids that what they were going through and doing was completely normal, and that they didn’t need to worry. If that wasn’t a noble cause, I didn’t know what was. A generation of kids who knew
that
in sixth grade could change the world for the better.

About an hour and a half went by very, very slowly. I was just starting to think that this was going to be a seriously long couple of days when the door opened, and in walked a thirty-something-year-old jerk with curly blond hair and glasses with Coke-bottle lenses. I could tell just by looking at him that he was a jerk. He was, after all, probably working for the school. That was a solid indication of jerkhood right there.

“Hi there, young man,” he said. I generally do not trust guys who call me “young man.”

“What’s up?” I asked.

“My name is Dr. Guff,” he said. “I’m the school psychiatrist.” He gave me a little “I’m here to be your buddy” smile.

My ears perked up. Pay dirt! The rumors were true—he did exist! I wished I had a camera. Despite James’s and Dustin’s stories about meeting him, I had begun to think he really was just a legend.

“I’m Leon,” I said, offering my hand. “Can I do the inkblot test?”

He laughed politely. “We don’t really do that, now that everyone knows about it ahead of time,” he said. “They just have me come in and rap with the kids who, you know, fall into some issues.”

People who say “young man” usually say “rap” instead of “talk.” It’s a good way to tell when someone’s trying to get you to think he’s cool when he’s actually, as I suspected, a jerk. If he had been taking me seriously, he would have said “they have me talk to the kids who get in trouble to make sure they aren’t planning on killing anyone or anything.” Actually, I think school psychiatrists are the only people left who still say “rap” when they mean “talk.”

“Well,” I said, “I’ve fallen into some issues, all right. I’m a martyr for the cause. Like that guy in the Goya painting who’s being shot by the firing squad.” I’d seen that picture in one of the art books I borrowed from Anna. I raised my arms, imitating him.

“Okay, good,” he said, nodding. “So you feel that you’re a victim in this case?”

“Sure,” I said. “I didn’t do anything wrong. My video is informative and artsy. This is censorship.”

“Well, I guess we can call it that, if that’s what you’re comfortable with,” he said.

“What else could it be?”

“Legally speaking,” he said, “it’s not censorship. The school is allowed to determine what’s acceptable and what’s not in this sort of case.”

“Still,” I said, “this is crazy. Have you seen the movie I’m in trouble over?”

“Yes”—he nodded—“and I thought it was very creative. You’re a very creative student, Leon.”

Say it, jerk.
I thought.
Say the part about the potential.

“You have so much potential,” he said.

Yes!

“I’ve heard,” I said. “People tell me that about every other day.”

“Well,” he said, “have you ever thought of applying your creativity to your schoolwork?”

“I did,” I pointed out. “This movie was schoolwork. And I ended up suspended for it.”

“Maybe what I’m saying,” explained Dr. Guff, still using that annoying, gentle cool-guy tone, “is that you should think about finding more appropriate channels for your creativity. It’s like in
Star Wars.
Luke has the Force, and he can use it for good or evil. Your creativity is like the Force. You determine your own destiny. Right now, you’re using it to make inappropriate school projects.”

“I’ve said this before,” I said, “and I’m sure I’ll be saying it again. There was nothing inappropriate about that movie. Saying that you can’t talk about masturbation in middle school is like saying…” I paused to think of a good comparison. “It’s like saying you can’t talk about sand in the desert. Or trees in the forest.”

If any psychiatrist believed that twelve-year-olds didn’t think about sex, then that psychiatrist sucked at his or her job.

“That may be so,” said Dr. Guff, “but it’s not my call to make.”

Aha! He was pulling evasive action! Washing his hands of the whole affair so I couldn’t complain to him.

“Well,” I said, “maybe, as school psychiatrist, you could explain the facts to them. I don’t think it’s ever occurred to Mrs. Smollet that anyone here ever thinks about sex.”

“Let’s talk about how all this makes you feel,” he said, changing the subject, pulling further evasive action. “Do you ever feel angry?”

“Actually, I feel crazy,” I said. “Do you know that just the other night I made a casserole out of applesauce and green beans?”

He chuckled. “Did you, now?”

“Sure did. And I ate it, too.”

“So you think that makes you crazy?”

“If you can think of a better word for it, I’d like to hear it,” I said. “I’m crazy, Dr. Guff. I’m crazy as a daisy. And now I’m an alleged smut peddler.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, writing something in his notebook.

“And I’d like you to tell Dr. Brown and Mrs. Smollet that this isn’t over. I can promise you that we won’t do anything violent. We won’t go on a rampage or anything, but this fight isn’t over. People will hear about this. And they won’t sit still for it. Can you deliver a message to Mrs. Smollet for me?”

“All right,” he said.

“Here it is,” I said. “Don’t mess with the weirdos in the gifted pool.”

He scribbled that down. “You do realize,” he said, “that she requested that you be removed from the gifted pool?”

That was interesting news. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I felt like he’d just kicked a stool out from under me. I wondered if she was allowed to throw me out. I hoped not. The thought of having to go to sixth period every day, every week, was almost too much. I told myself that if she could, she would have thrown most of us out a long time before.

“Well,” I said, trying to stay calm, “maybe she should be removed as the gifted-pool director. And that’s my final comment.”

After that, as far as I was concerned, the interview was over. I sat back, folded my arms across my chest, and nodded, figuring he’d nod back, gather up his notes, and take off.

But Dr. Guff didn’t quite get the message. He went right on asking insipid questions. So I decided to just have fun with him.

“Do you ever feel angry when you’re at home?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said. “You would, too, if you were eating applesauce and green bean casserole instead of just ordering a pizza.”

“How about violent?” he asked. “Do you ever feel that violence is a good way to deal with your anger?”

“Well, of course I do!” I said. “Just last week I shoved my grandmother down the stairs and then jumped on her ankles over and over.”

“Did you really do that, Leon?”

“Sure I did. You would, too, if you heard all the great noises old people make when you jump on them.”

He just nodded and kept scribbling. I hoped he was smart enough not to take that seriously, but I wasn’t certain. If he did any investigating, he’d certainly find out that my grandmothers both lived in Florida and hadn’t been anywhere near my staircase lately.

“What sort of music do you like, Leon?” He acted like he was just trying to talk about something I’d be interested in, but I knew he was seeing if I listened to music that might drive me to violence.

“Metal,” I said. “Heavy metal.” I caught him trying not to smile, and knew that that was just what he wanted to hear.

“Why’s that?” he asked. “You dig the rhythm, the beat, the tune?”

“Mostly the lyrics,” I said, knowing that I was supposed to say I didn’t care about the lyrics, I just liked the sound, which would have made me seem less disturbed. “They give me lots of good ideas.”

“Like what?”

“Like there’s this one song, by, uh…Supernatural Anarchy,” I said, making up a band on the spot. “It’s called ‘Push Your Grandma Down the Stairs.’”

“I don’t think I’ve heard of that band,” he said. “Are they new?”

“Nah,” I said. “They’ve been around for years. Their last album was called
Satan Kicks Butt.
”

“Tell me about your parents, Leon,” he said. I just decided to tell the truth.

“Well,” I said, “my dad is an accountant, and he’s really angry all the time.”

“Why is he angry?” Dr. Guff asked. “Does he drink?”

“Not really,” I said. “He gets angry at Thomas Edison.”

“Is that a neighbor of yours?”

“No! Thomas Edison. The dead lightbulb guy.” I suppose I shouldn’t have thought Dr. Guff would assume I meant
that
Thomas Edison. It wasn’t like it made any sense.

“The inventor? Why would he be mad at him?”

“For being a scumbag,” I replied. “If Dad heard you calling Edison an inventor, he’d go ballistic.”

“Uh…huh,” said Dr. Guff. “Leon, is there a word of truth to any of the things you’re telling me?”

“Actually, yes,” I said. “All the stuff about the casserole is true. So is the stuff about Thomas Edison. I told you, Dr. Guff. I’m crazy. But if you want someone who really needs counseling, go talk to Mrs. Smollet. She’s an absolute nut.”

“I can see you have a lot of anger toward her,” he said.

“Wouldn’t you?” I asked.

He sat there and stared at me for a long time.

“Leon,” he said, “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re a very smart, talented young man. But you need to control your emotions and keep yourself in line. This sort of thing is only going to get you in more trouble in high school.”

“All right, Dr. Guff,” I said. “I’ll be good.”

Five minutes later he was out the door. That was his whole message—try to be good and use your potential. I could have done his job without a day of training. It seemed like an easy career path, except that I think you’d have to give up a sizable chunk of your soul to take a job like that.

I wondered if he’d say the same thing to Brian, the mechanical pyro. If Brian used his potential to the fullest, he could probably build a nuclear reactor in his garage.