Nightmare Academy (25 page)

“I guess I could loosen my tie,” Elijah quipped as they started walking.

“So, are we going to have to take sides on this?”

“Well, maybe we can just
be
there. If we want to know what's happening, it doesn't make sense to be anywhere else.”

“That's what I think.”

The kids, almost the whole student body of fifty, were gathering, sitting on the grass, sitting against the stone wall, babbling excitedly—and angrily. Mr. Stern and Mrs. Meeks were standing a short distance away watching everything without getting involved. Alex was striding back and forth, shouting orders, getting people seated, directing traffic. The guy enjoyed being a king, no doubt about that, and the kids responded to him. They also picked up his attitude.

“Hey, look at the suits!” somebody yelled as Elijah and Elisha approached.

Now
I'm being stared at because I look nice,
Elijah thought.
Oh,
well.
Warren was in his uniform, and so are some of Warren's friends,
so Elisha and I aren't the only ones.

“We don't know what's going on,” Elisha explained.

Alex, tall and mean, in jeans and a tee shirt with the sleeves torn off, was quick to explain. “We're going on strike until they bring Mr. Easley back. No class attendance, no nothing until we get what we want.” Then he struck a pose, folding his arms across his chest and eyeing them as he delivered the challenge: “You with us or against us?”

“We wouldn't miss it,” Elijah replied.

“Sit over there,” Alex told him, pointing to a spot to the left of the gate where half the kids were already seated. Elisha started out with her brother. Alex stopped her. “No, you sit right here.”

She exchanged a glance of agreement with her brother and sat on the grass in the front row of the crowd, to the right of the gate.

“And you remember!” Alex warned Elijah. “You and me, it ain't over. I'm watching you!”

Elijah gave him a little salute and found a place to sit.

“Okay, listen up!” said Alex, and the crowd hushed. “Mr.

Stern and Mrs. Meeks have something to say”

Alex stepped aside while Stern and Meeks stepped forward.

Stern spoke first. “I've always told you that you are the masters of your own fate. If you do what you have to do and do it right, and don't mess up, I won't stand in your way.” He looked at Mrs. Meeks.

“Mr. Easley was a real credit to this school,” she said, and got a rousing cheer. “He was visionary. He was kind. He was an example. Unfortunately, there are some on our faculty who don't appreciate his viewpoint on things or his teaching approach, and so . . . Well, I'll be honest. They
informed
on him solely to be rid of him, something I strongly resent.”

That got a murmur going through the crowd, a rippling wave of anger and resentment.

“Who narc'd on him?” Ramon demanded, and everyone chorused the question.

“I don't want to get into any names, but I'm sure you all have an idea.”

“Booker,” came the first voice, followed by others, passing the conclusion along. “Booker.” “Booker!” “That creep!” “Surprise, surprise!” “Booker—he's dead meat.” “Let's run him out.”

“But who told Booker?” somebody asked.

That question poisoned the chatter. The kids started looking at each other suspiciously.

Mrs. Meeks raised a hand of caution. “I ask only one thing.

Please—I appeal to your inner goodness, to all that's right and good within your hearts: Please do no harm. Unite, and we'll

unite with you. Make your voices heard. But follow a path of peace.”

“This is your world, your work,” said Stern. “It's not our place to say anything more than that; do what you feel is right, and we wish you the best.”

With a look and a step back, they turned it back over to Alex, who led the crowd in applause. “Hey! Stern and Meeks! How 'bout it?”

While the kids cheered and clapped, Meeks and Stern set out across the field toward the office without another word or a look back.

“What do we do now?” somebody asked.

Alex strode back and forth, thinking. “Sit tight.”

“How about a list of demands?” Warren suggested.

“Anybody got any paper?” Alex asked.

Maria, the little Hispanic from the volleyball game, passed a pink-bound notepad forward. Alex took it and started his list.

“We want Easley back.”

“Right.” “Yeah.” “Right on.”

“And I think we should always have free pop,” said Brett.

That brought a cheer.

“And get rid of Booker!” said Tonya, which brought an immense cheer.

“Yeah,” said Alex. “Easley in, Booker out.”

“And I want a telephone so I can call my folks!” said Cher.
Elisha
joined the cheer for that one.

Then the chatter began to die down, one voice at a time. Eyes, one pair at a time, began to turn toward the far side of the field.

A tight, short line of adults was coming their way from the campus, walking deliberately, shoulder to shoulder, almost marching.

The crowd went silent, watching, waiting, worrying.

On one end was Ms. Fitzhugh, the art teacher. Not a friendly type. Next to her was Mr. Bateman, the math teacher. He was smart, but kind of fumbly. Mr. Johnson, the facilities man, was stepping right along with them, looking grim. Next to him was Mrs. Wendell, the librarian who also taught yoga. On the other end was Mr. Chisholm, the U.S. history teacher. Very few of the kids had ever seen him, and some had no idea who he was.

Right behind the line of adults, ten big guys, including Rory Tom, Jamal, and Clay, walked in another line, shoulder to shoulder, looking cool and tough. They were carrying chains in their hands.

And out in front, like a general leading his troops, was Mr. Booker, as grim as ever.

They approached, never breaking formation, until they stood before the kids like a line of riot police. Booker announced loudly, “Mr. Bingham would like to know what this is all about.”

And out in front like a general
leading his troops, was Mr. Booker,
as grim as ever.

There was a significant silence. Everyone was looking at Alex. Alex was looking at Booker, apparently groping for words.

“Read him the demands,” said Brett.

Alex gathered some courage and referred to the little pink notepad. “We have a list of demands! We want Mr. Easley back, we want Booker—” Alex had trouble reading that one, especially with Mr. Booker standing right there. He skipped that part. “We want unlimited pop from the machines, and—”

Booker grabbed the notepad from Alex's hand and slapped his face with it. “You arrogant fool! Mr. Bingham isn't about to grant an audience to a mob of barbarians. Your little demonstration is over as of now!”

The kids in the crowd were eyeing those big guys with the chains and starting to change their attitude. Some were already slinking away, trying to act invisible.

Booker froze them in their tracks. “I did not dismiss you! Return to your places!”

They slinked back.

Alex asked Rory and his bunch, “So what are you going to do now, you traitors? These are your friends. They're your classmates. You just gonna beat 'em up with those chains? You gonna let this guy push us all around?”

By now, Booker had started laughing—purposely—in Alex's face. “Don't be absurd! These gentlemen are not the barbarians here.” He addressed the crowd. “The Knight-Moore Academy, while encouraging freedom and progress of thought, has policies in place to maintain order and discipline. Mr. Easley and his Utopian visions are one thing; the will of those in authority is quite another. When I learned of Mr. Easley's indiscretion, I had no choice but to report him. His fate was well deserved.”

A wave of anger and disgust swept through the crowd, but of course no one said a word.

“Now it appears we have another indiscretion that must be dealt with, and harshly.” He paused long enough to sweep the crowd with his intimidating gaze. “The Rec Center—all the games, all the diversions, all the sports equipment—will be closed and padlocked. The cafeteria, and all the vending machines, will be closed and padlocked. No fun will be available, and no food, for the rest of the day.”

That stung everyone. They moaned, they gasped, they exchanged looks of alarm and disbelief.

“Ah. Apparently you forgot where all the fun and food come from. But if you wish, you can show us you remember. I will be in my classroom at three, as always. Any member of the student body who reports to my classroom clean, in uniform, and ready to comply with the academy's policies will be granted amnesty—and perhaps the evening meal. Carefully consider whether it is in your best interests to submit to those in power—” He shot a cutting side-glance at Alex. “—Or to follow the foamings of a would-be emperor with a futile cause. The choice is up to you.” He looked over his shoulder at the ten big student bruisers. “Gentlemen. Proceed.”

Rory and his gang headed out toward the Rec Center and cafeteria, chains and padlocks in hand.

Booker watched them for a moment, relishing the moment, and then turned to Alex and the crowd. “You're welcome to sit here the rest of the day if you wish. There won't be much else to do. My associates and I will wait until three for your response. Consider yourselves dismissed if you have anywhere to go.”

Booker had done it again. For the third time, and with a cruel, silky-smooth style, he had cut away Alex's power and dignity in front of everyone and made him look foolish. One look at the rage in Alex's face, and several kids decided that being elsewhere was a great idea. Warren and his uniformed friends left quickly and quietly, wanting no more trouble from either side.

Elijah figured it would be a good time to leave as well. He shot a glance at Elisha, who rose to her feet.

The other teachers and staff began walking away, but Booker was quick to intercept Elijah's path and tell him in a clearly audible voice, “I am sorry to see you in such a situation, Jerry. I did enjoy our talk.” He gave Elijah a friendly pat on the shoulder and moved on.

Oh-oh. Hey, wait a minute.
Elijah felt a gnawing dread rising in his stomach. He knew which “little talk” Booker was referring to, but he also knew which “little talk” Booker had to be hoping the kids would
think
he was referring to.

The kids thought it, all right. They were all staring at him.

“Jerry . . . ,” said Ramon, “you told Booker?”

Elisha piped up, “Of course not! He wasn't even there. He didn't see Mr. Easley open the pop machine.”

“He didn't have to,” said Alex, instantly regaining his role of bully and head-basher. He planted himself right in Elijah's path.

“Everybody knew about it.”

“Mr. Booker asked to see me,” Elijah began to explain. “It was about something else—”

But Alex had always wanted a good reason to publicly pulverize Elijah, especially since the night before, and now he'd found it. “You've always had it in for Mr. Easley.” He gave Elijah a taunting little shove.

“Alex,” Elisha demanded, “leave him alone.”

Elijah explained, “He was trying to get me to be one of his cops—”

“Every discussion group, you were the one who caused all the trouble,” Alex growled. Another shove. “You saw your chance and you took it.” A two-handed shove.

Elijah took the shoving and tried to stay cool. “Listen, I know you want a fight, but I'm not—”

OOF! Elijah should have seen it coming: a violent punch to his midsection. He doubled over, pain coursing through every organ in his body. Faintness clouded his vision, his balance left him, and he toppled to the ground, his arms enfolding his stomach.

“Get up!” Alex demanded, about to kick him.