Fat School Confidential (13 page)

    “
So, how are they treating you?” I asked.

   
Johnny ran his hands through his unwashed, matted black hair. “Mr. Rourke, where do I begin?”

    “
Maybe we could start with how you got shipped to S.A.P.”

    “
You know why they put me on solo.”

   
Putting on my best game face, I replied, “Something to do with Sandy, I suppose?”

    “
You know if this were a regular school, this wouldn’t be an issue,” Johnny said, before letting out with a “Fuck!”

    “
I know, Johnny. I know. But it isn’t, and you have to make the best of it,” I reassured him. I wasn’t about to act as his backup B.C., and he wasn’t about to give me a full confession of his shenanigans. I tried to keep the conversation light, and as inconsequential as possible.

   
We pulled in front of my apartment, and unloaded the cabinet. Ellie let us in. Johnny was polite, and took care to not damage either the apartment or the cabinet while walking through. Putting it down in Bobby’s room, we headed out.

    “
Mr. Rourke, could we stop somewhere to get something to eat?”

    “
Like what?”

    “
Carl’s Jr.”

   
Before giving me a chance to say “no,” he added, “I’ll be good. I’ll even log it in my Think and Ink!”

    “
No, why the hell would you do that?” I blurted, before calming down. “You don’t want to incriminate us, now do you?” He nodded in agreement.

   
After ordering a Famous Star with cheese, small fries and Diet Coke, we parked for the two to three minutes Johnny needed to shovel down his meal. So, maybe the choice of venue wasn’t wise, but I didn’t want details of what he ate come back to haunt me.

    “
Johnny,” I started, before being cut-off. The boy was a mind reader.

    “
I had a barbecue chicken sandwich, with a side salad.”

    “
Don’t forget the light Italian dressing,” I added.

   
Wow. Taking a Gumby—and a minor at that—off campus was one thing, but out for a cheeseburger too? At least Johnny seemed happy to keep mum—on paper, at least.

   
I was a little worried Johnny would spill the beans under questioning. Kenny knew we were going off campus; who was to say it was my responsibility what Johnny put in his mouth? I didn’t want to share this with Ellie—she’d give me another “I told you so” speech, like she had regarding Danni.

   
A few days later, I made one last trip to the S.A.P. campground. Johnny, peeking through the trees, hurried over. He looked desperate.

    “
Mr. Rourke, get me out of here.”

    “
What’s wrong now?”

    “
Take me home. I’ll pay you.”

    “
With what?” I asked, knowing that students carrying cash was verboten.

    “
I’ve got twenty bucks on me. I’ll pay you another hundred when you get me home.”

    “
Where’s that?”

    “
Sacramento. Well, actually near there.”

   
Twenty bucks. To risk a thirty-six thousand-dollar a year job—not to mention my reputation as a teacher—was something I wasn’t willing to take.

   
Even if a hundred bucks awaited me in Sacramento.

   
Kenny spotted Johnny, and walked towards the two of us. Johnny blurted “two hundred!” when I cut him off, smiling at Kenny with gritted teeth. “I can’t do that, Johnny. Somehow, you’re gonna have to stick it out.”

   
Nearing us, Kenny glared at Johnny before asking, “What’s going on?” Johnny glanced downward, before I replied, “Johnny’s upset that he has to stay at S.A.P. He wanted to know when he could go back to A.O.S.”

   
Still maintaining his gaze, Kenny responded with, “I guess that depends on him, right, Johnny?”

   
Having captured his quarry, Kenny ambled back to the compound.

   
That night, against my better judgment, I recounted the tale of Johnny to Ellie. Arching a brow, Ellie posited with, “You’ve got some awfully loose boundaries.”

    “
What do you mean?”

    “
I mean, why do you think Johnny would ask you twice to take him away from school?”

    “
He trusts me, I guess.”

    “
Why did you have him help you move that cabinet after he asked you to get him out of there the first time?”

    “
I thought he could use a breather. That’s all.”

   
Placing her arms on my shoulders, Ellie leaned close to me. “I just don’t want you to get in trouble.”

    “
How? I wasn’t about to drive him home.”

    “
No, but you’ve got to watch it with these kids. Remember Danni?”

   
Good lord. I was never going to live this down. But Ellie was right. I put myself in a situation where Johnny trusted me too much. I was way too accommodating. I should have learned that lesson with Danni—or Elijah, for that matter. I had to work at not being as accessible, as accommodating to my students. Somehow.

   
The following week, Johnny ended up making a run for it. He was picked up a few hours later at a Carl’s Jr—this one in Reedley. Caught red-handed, he was given an early release from A.O.S. and a one-way ticket home.

   
My guess was, Johnny overstayed his welcome.

   
The rest of the S.A.P.s stuck around for the most part, though a couple months after Johnny’s great escape, a trio of teens canoed their way off the island. Unfortunately, they came close to drowning when their boat capsized in the rushing current. Waterlogged and hungry, they trudged towards town, only to be picked up hours later at a—you guessed it—Carl’s Jr. Like Johnny, they were all expelled. I felt bad that they had to leave. And for what? Risking their lives over cheeseburgers?

   
But didn’t I risk my career?

   
Heeding Ellie’s advice, I was determined to lay low the rest of spring. But laying low would be a challenge, to put it mildly. On top of teaching my regular classes, administering S.A.P., and advising a caseload of students, I was burdened with running yet another production in drama. This time, however, I delegated responsibilities to the point where I showed up just to take attendance. The class was more an exercise in drama lessons and busy work than mounting a play like the previous semester. The way I looked at it, I had to do what I had to do for self-preservation.

   
As the S.A.P. program continued to sputter along with the newbies and the newly punished, I made my presence less and less known. Deep down, I hoped for something that would take me away from S.A.P.—anything to get me out of the program, and the school itself.

   
Lo and behold, a welcomed respite came my way. Fred George, an old friend whom I worked for as a writer just after graduating from Cal Arts, was living in St. George, Utah, and wanted me to come down for a week to work on a script of his. His offer was generous: one thousand dollars cash, plus room, board, and the cost of gas. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

   
I asked Bill for the time off, and, without a moment’s hesitation, he gave it to me. He wasn’t being generous; he and Daniel knew full well I never asked for vacation time. Come to think of it, until I took that mini-vacation and since, I never took a break for anything—not even for being sick. Bill probably wanted a break from seeing my mug on the school grounds. It was going to be as much a break for him as it was for me.

   
Not that I was overstaying my welcome.

   
Still, it wasn’t to be much of a vacation. Ellie and Bobby had to stay home. Unfortunately, they would distract me from what I had to accomplish. I didn’t exactly take the gig in order to slum it in Utah. Besides, I owed Fred a rewrite for another script, and this would be a great opportunity to kill two birds with one stone.

   
In one sleep-deprived shot, I drove from Kingsburg, California, to Las Vegas, Nevada. After a night in Sin City, I arrived at Fred’s home the following morning. Over the course of the next few days, we made short work rewriting his script. Unbeknownst to him, I moonlighted on the other rewrite on my laptop. Fred had forgotten about that script, but was pleased I remembered to finish it.

   
Mission accomplished, I returned home. On cloud nine from writing, I felt here was something I felt better qualified to do than teaching—and get paid for it to boot. The problems with S.A.P. remained, but they fell into the background, more distant rumor than obstacles I had to overcome. In a few months’ time, S.A.P. would be disbanded altogether.

   
By the summer of Two Thousand and Six, I was back to my original job of teacher.

   
If that were job enough.

Chapter 9

If You Can’t Stand the Heat…

   
I was just settling into my office one morning when Carmen stopped by.

    “
Could you come by my desk?”

   
Distracted by the mystery of rearranged chairs next to my desk, I muttered, “Give me a couple minutes.”

   
Placing the day’s teacher-textbooks and materials into my rolling cart, I darted down the hall towards the lobby.  Carmen—camera in hand—stood there.

    “
Do you have your old ID?” she asked.

    “
Yeah… somewhere,” I replied. Carmen was referring to a white plastic laminate card with the green A.O.S. crest dead center. Below the crest was my name: “Joseph Rourke,” with Academy of the Sierras, H.L.A. (for Healthy Living Academies) below it. At the top right corner was a tiny, silver foil rectangle with yet another bit of writing on it, in this case, “Aspen Education Group.” I already knew that A.O.S. was a subsidiary of H.L.A., but I never understood the relationship with Aspen. The one thing I knew about Aspen was that my crappy medical insurance was one of its products.

    “
When you find it, I need to send it to Corporate.”

    “
Got it.”

   
Raising the camera, Carmen motioned me against the wall. Facing her, I thought it’d be cute if I struck a faux mug-shot pose. Careful not to smile, I tilted my head. My eyes glazing over, I stared at the camera. For the pièce de résistance, I mussed my hair just so.

   
Snapping the picture, Carmen gave a curt, “Thank you,” and ducked back into her workstation. What struck me wasn’t the lack of humor I found in Carmen, but the fact that my own spontaneous attempt to make her smile failed. Given my past run-ins with her—with her hot and cold attitude, her dubious gossip connections—why the hell was I surprised?

   
Other than smarting from Carmen’s lukewarm reception, not to mention trying to figure out who moved my office chairs around, I was in a good mood. My clothes had a looser fit, and I had more energy to take on my day. I thought it was a good time to check if I indeed lost weight.

   
The scale in the weigh-in room never impressed me much. Framed in black plastic, a simple, red digital readout sat on a table next to me. A wire ran down from it to the actual scale that my stockinged feet brushed up against. The staff assured everyone that it was accurate. For me, there was nothing more reliable than a good ole doctor’s scale. For a portly individual such as myself, a cheap plastic bathroom scale just wouldn’t do. I even broke a couple of them in times past. When I stood on a doctor’s scale, however, I never worried that a shift in weight would break the platform. The metal weights I slid on the balance beam were solid enough. First, I’d grab the weight measuring fifty-pound increments, notching it up past one hundred and fifty pounds, and then two hundred. The smaller weight—the one at the top of the scale—would ramp up towards the other end of the bar.

   
A few years back, around the time of 9/11, I weighed north of three bills. For the better part of the past three years, however, I hovered closer to two hundred and fifty pounds.

   
I emptied my pockets, placing the contents on the table. I glanced around the bare room for witnesses. Satisfied that I was indeed alone in the room, I stepped on the scale. The numbers on the readout climbed into three-digit territory in no time. One hundred pounds, one hundred fifty, two hundred. And then, it stopped—at two hundred and two pounds. In nine months’ time—my first full school year at A.O.S.—I had lost nearly fifty pounds.