Chill (5 page)

I thought I better find Chill. I went directly to the mural. Chill was already hard at work as if nothing had happened.

“I know it was you,” I told him quietly.

“Could you hand me the blue?” he asked.

“It's not cool, Chill,” I told him.

“You think the green would be better?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

He walked over and picked up the blue himself.

“I was going to call the station. I was going to call the police,” I said.

“I heard Mr. Sfinkter was picked up and released,” said Chill. “The station has no idea how it could've happened.”

“They'll find out.”

“If they do, they do,” Chill said, shrugging.

“Why'd you do it on the day I handed in my book?”

Chill looked at me, confused. He shook his head and kept working.

“You know some people are still going to look at him like he's a flasher, whether he did it or not.”

“He may not expose himself,” said Chill angrily, “but he exposes every kid that comes through his class. Holding them up to ridicule and insult, highlighting every fear, exploiting every weakness and downplaying any good.”

“That's not what he does for me.”

Chill shook his head again. He looked at me with something like pity in his eyes.

“He's just preparing us for a world that you don't want to deal with. A world where everyone doesn't dote on you, encouraging
your strong points,” I said, looking at the mural, “while overlooking your weaknesses.” I looked at his leg.

“Do you honestly think we can ever dream of accomplishing half of what these people did?” I said, pointing to the painted icons. “That's the reality that he's preparing us for. Maybe you should be thanking him instead of setting him up.”

“And what reality is he preparing you for, Sean?” he asked.

Before I could respond, Ms. Surette called us from the other side of the curtain.

“Chill, Sean.”

I went charging through the tarp. “Ms. Surette, can I return to class?”

“Is everything all right?”

I looked over at Chill, ready to spill it all.

“Everything's fine,” I said instead. “It's just the finishing touches, and I'm in the way more than I'm helping.”

“Is that okay with you?” she asked Chill.

“That's fine,” he said.

“Okay then.”

“Thank you,” I said and left.

I'd just made the corner when I heard Ms. Surette say, “That was a strange thing that happened to Mr. Sfinkter, wasn't it?” I stopped.

“Yes,” Chill said.

“I saw the drawing on the news last night. It was an incredible likeness.”

Chill said nothing.

“I heard that the two of you don't get along,” she said. She waited for Chill's reply. It didn't come.

“Anything you want to talk about?” Ms. Surette asked.

“No,” said Chill.

“If there's a problem, I'd like to know about it,” she said. It was obvious she wanted an explanation.

“He belittles everybody,” said Chill finally.

“I haven't seen that.”

“He's not that way with the teachers. It's when it's just him and the students that he shows himself,” Chill told her.

“Maybe you should give him more of a chance. All I've seen is a very nice,
charming man. Maybe you're misreading him or being a little oversensitive.”

The silence hung heavier than the tarp. I leaned in to make sure I wasn't missing anything.

“Yes, Ms. Surette,” Chill said mechanically.

I took some pleasure in hearing Ms. Surette reaffirm what I'd been trying to tell Chill. And myself.

“Good,” she replied. “Now, can I see the mural?” she asked.

“I would rather no one saw it until the unveiling, if that's okay.”

“Many great artists preferred to work in secrecy,” she said. “That would be fine.”

“Thank you,” Chill said.

“But no more problems with Mr. Sfinkter, all right?”

“Of course,” Chill said.

Mr. Sfinkter wasn't as jovial with the students as he'd been with the teachers. He was already in his seat when we arrived. He stared at Chill when he came in, his eyes following him to his seat.

After the bell, Mr. Sfinkter said nothing while the class sat in silence. He looked each one of us over.

“As I'm sure you've all heard,” he began, “there was a bit of a misunderstanding last
night. A local station, run by complete incompetents apparently—something that is reflected in their on-air personalities—ran a composite sketch of a man that looked a lot like me. It was an error.” His eyes settled on Chill when he said this. Chill didn't flinch. “And they'll be apologizing for it,” he told us.

“A lesser man than myself,” he continued, “would hold a grudge and even sue the station and make sure that the employees in any way responsible would be fired.” He again looked at Chill. This time Chill flinched. I knew it was the thought of his mom losing her job that did it.

“But I am not a lesser man. Children who are allowed to daydream become adults with sloppy work habits, and that station seems to be full of them. These people are to be pitied. For that reason, I'm going to forget about the whole thing and advise each of you to do the same.”

And that was the last that was said about it, by anyone. Until we were out of class, of course.

When the bell rang, I approached Mr. Sfinkter's desk.

“Sir,” I said, “I was wondering if you had a chance to look at my book.”

“What?”

“My book.”

“I was a little busy last night, Mr. Fitzsimmons. When I read it, I will let you know. In the meantime, don't pester me or I'll toss it without a glance.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. Turning, I saw Chill at the back of the class, helping Sara with her books. I looked at Sara. She was smiling at Chill as if she was sharing in a private joke and promising not to tell.

I doubt that Chill told her about doing the picture. I doubt he told anyone. But word spread faster than poison ivy at summer camp, and this time without my help. Nothing could be proven because the sketch had mysteriously disappeared after airing. It seemed Chill couldn't really get into trouble, but among the students his popularity grew.

For the final weeks of the semester, we dissected
Romeo and Juliet
. We were shown that if they'd only listened to their parents, they'd have lived long, full and happy lives. Chill worked hard in isolation on the mural. Judging by the amount of paint that he was taking from the art room, there was more left to do than I thought.

I never asked Mr. Sfinkter about my book, and he never offered a report.

It wasn't until the second to last day of school, the day before the mural was to be revealed, that I approached him.

We'd been allowed to study in class as Mr. Sfinkter prepared the final examination.

After the dismissal bell rang, I approached his desk.

“Sir,” I said.

“Not now, Mr. Fitzsimmons. I have work to do,” he said.

“I was just wondering if you've had a chance to look at my book,” I asked.

“Did you not hear what I said? I'm working.”

“But tomorrow is the last day of school and you said you'd—”

“I said what?” he snapped.

“You said you'd read it, even give it to—”

“Here I am at work, preparing examinations for your fellow students, and you're bothering me over some whimsical promise I made months ago!”

He reached into the drawer that he'd set the manuscript in the day I gave it to him.

“Your arrogance in thinking that I would put your hobbies above my work and the needs of your fellow students has made any notes that I've made so far null and void! Your immaturity and complete lack of empathy show that you're incapable of writing anything of substance.

“Since these are traits that cannot be learned, I can tell you with all certainty that you are not now, nor will you ever be, a writer. Take your scribbles and get out of my sight.”

My dreams drained from my body, leaving a shell that tingled with numbness.

“Now!” he yelled. I grabbed the manuscript and quickly exited.

As I made my way down the hall, I heard a sound behind me. I quickened my pace.

“Sean,” Chill yelled. “Sean, wait.”

I could hear his foot lifting and dropping as he tried to match my pace.

“Sean!”

I didn't stop. The only time I slowed was to toss the manuscript in the garbage.

I sat dead in my afternoon classes as the biology teacher rambled on about the Venus flytrap.

“Carnivorous plants have existed for thousand of years. The Venus flytrap attracts its prey with a sweet-smelling sap. The insect is drawn to it and then the jaws snap shut and the digestion process begins.”

I tried to pay attention. I thought that maybe being a botanist might be more realistic than being a writer. But I couldn't focus.

When I left the school, I saw Chill going to the mural to do the finishing touches. He must have had special permission to work late.

The first thing I did when I got home was delete all my stories from my computer. It was time for a fresh start. I didn't know what I was going to start at. All I knew was it would be something more realistic than writing.

At dinner with my parents, I was still thinking about what I should do with my life.

“Mom, how long do you have to go to school to become a nurse?”

“You're thinking of becoming a nurse?” Dad asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

“I thought you wanted to be a writer,” said Mom.

“It's not very realistic is it?” I told them.

“Who says?” Dad asked.

“Everybody,” I said. “Including you.”

“When did either of us say that?” Mom asked defensively.

“You said it'd be hard.”

“Hard,” Mom said. “Not impossible.”

“You never really encouraged it though, did you?” I said.

“We read your stuff all the time when you were younger,” Dad reminded me.

“But you haven't recently,” I replied.

“You haven't shown us anything recently,” Mom said.

That was true.

“How are we supposed to show an interest if you never share anything with us?” Mom continued.

I wasn't sure how to answer. I was confused, to say the least.

“Well,” I started slowly, “I wrote a book.”

“A whole book?” Mom said. She seemed surprised and even proud.

I looked at Dad. He had the same expression as Mom.

“Where is it?” he asked.

“I threw it away,” I told them.

“What? Why would you do that?” Mom inquired.

“I don't know,” I said. At that moment I didn't know.

“Didn't you save it to your computer?” Dad asked.

“I deleted it.”

“Well that wasn't very smart,” Dad said.

“Calling him stupid isn't going to encourage him, dear,” Mom said.

“I didn't say he was stupid. I said his actions were. And sometimes smart people can do dumb things.”

I wouldn't have called myself a smart person at that moment, but I'd definitely have said that I did some
really
dumb things.

How would I ever make it up to Chill?

The next morning I received an e-mail from Chill before I went to school. He said that he had read my story and thought it was great. Attached was my manuscript, which he'd fished out of the garbage and scanned into the computer.

It should have made me feel better because it showed me not just that I had support, but that I'd been forgiven. But it made me feel worse.

It showed me just how great a friendship I'd turned my back on. It made me feel more foolish.

I printed off the manuscript and gave it to my parents. They seemed genuinely excited about reading it. I guess you could say that I was wrong about pretty much everything.

When I arrived at school, everyone was gathering in the foyer for the grand unveiling. We were supposed to go to our homeroom classes first and all go down together, but the last day is always chaos. Everyone knows you have to do something major to get in trouble.

As promised, Chill's mom was there— with a camera crew—looking as beautiful as ever. She smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back, but I still felt too guilty about Chill to enjoy it.

Chill was standing by Ms. Surette, holding the rope they'd hooked up to drop the tarp that covered the mural.

Behind them were the teachers, who also hadn't bothered to go to their homerooms.
In the center stood Mr. Sfinkter, telling his stories. I noticed that this time not all the teachers were listening to him. Some stood apart, whispering to one another, often looking at Mr. Sfinkter as they did.

Chill waved me over, but I shook my head. This was his moment and I had contributed so little that I didn't want to be a part of it.

He moved toward me, but the bell rang. Ms. Surette grabbed his shoulder.

The principal took his place at the center of the curtain and got everyone's attention.

“I'd like to thank everybody for coming out this morning, particularly the members of the community, our local news station and our lovely local anchor, the mother of our featured artist,” he said, gesturing to Ms. Holinground. Everyone, especially the boys, applauded.

“Although this was partially my idea, I want the proper credit to go where it's due, so without further delay, Ms. Surette, the head of our art department.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gondale,” Ms. Surette said, taking the floor. “And I must say,
‘head of the art department' sounds much better than ‘our only art teacher.'” This got a small chuckle.

“At the end of last semester, Mr. Gondale and I were looking at this large blank wall that welcomes all visitors to our fine high school and commenting that it was a very boring way to greet visitors. So, together, we came up with the idea of getting the students to design and paint a mural.” This meant Ms. Surette came up with the idea but didn't want to show up the principal.