Terminal Island

Chapter Fourteen

THE OFFICE



The rebellion lasted exactly two days. By Wednesday, both his new comrades caved to the pressure, abandoning Henry to join teams. Suddenly he was alone again.

“You better get with a team,” Miss Graves said. “You can’t just sit out here doing nothing. If I have to warn you again, you’ll be sent to the principal.”

Willing to accept defeat, Henry did make an effort. Approaching first one team and then another, he asked, “Can I play with you guys?”

Caught up in the heat of the game, the boys brushed him off: “We have enough players.”

After a few such snubs, Henry decided that he was making it too easy for them to turn him down—the trick was not to ask. So he planted himself in the midst of a kickball game and waited to see what would happen.

At first they avoided him, never passing him the ball and trying to play around him as if he was an inanimate obstacle like a rock. When he insisted on joining the action, they tried moving the whole game out from under him. But whatever they did, Henry stuck fast, becoming more and more determined to crack the wall of silence. It became a battle of wills. What could they do to him—report him to the teacher? At this point he wished they would.

Finally the team captain erupted in frustration, “Excuse me, but could you move out of the way? We’re trying to play a game here.”

“So am I,” Henry said.

“Can’t you see we have enough players? Go find another team.”

“All the other teams say the same thing.”

“That’s not our fault. Go talk to the teacher.”

But Miss Graves flatly refused to talk about it. “What did I say about coming to me with your problems?” she said sharply, annoyed at being interrupted in her chat with a colleague. “You better find a way to deal with it—that’s part of your education, too.”

“I’m trying to!”

“Obviously not hard enough.” She switched him off like a light bulb and returned to her conversation. The other teacher stared through Henry as if he were invisible, so that he felt like a ghost.

That was it exactly: Henry was a ghost. He was dead to them, deader than poor Margo Pond—at least she was still talked about, a local legend. Who here would talk about him when he was gone?

A group of girls playing soccer lost their ball. It bounced over to where Henry was sitting and he hurriedly picked it up, grateful for any chance to be acknowledged.

He didn’t dare hope that they would ask him to join them. The team was all girls—the most popular, attractive, and socially powerful girls at that—but if he could just generate a little public sympathy, especially among these schoolyard arbiters of status, it might make a big difference. Henry held the ball for an extra second, just so they couldn’t refuse to acknowledge the favor.

“Give it back,” one of the girls said, coming up. Her name was Meg. She was very pretty, dark-eyed, with a bob of shiny black hair, but she didn’t look friendly.

Henry knew Meg was one of Lisa’s lieutenants. Lisa was the blond one who had traded notes with him on the first day, then snubbed him and never looked his way again.

Kevin and Wade had warned him about Lisa: She was the team captain and de facto ruler of the school, with a pack of female followers who strutted around like they owned the place. Lisa was the one now hollering for poor Meg to hurry up and retrieve the ball.

Feeling a little sorry for the girl, Henry was about to toss it to her when he heard Lisa shout, “Throw it back, you faggot!”

Stunned by this uncalled-for attack, Henry stopped cold.

“Throw it back or you’ll be sorry!”

“You better give it up, stupid,” warned Meg.

That was it. All the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks welled up in a throbbing red cloud, obscuring his senses. Sorry, huh? I’ll show you who’s sorry.

Henry feinted with the ball, pretending to toss it back, then not releasing. “Oops. Missed. Oops, almost. Nope.”

“Give it!” Lisa shouted. “Give it right now or you are so dead!”

Everyone on the playground was starting to take notice. There was no teacher in sight.

Henry continued baiting them, furiously relishing the negative attention. If this was the way they wanted it, he would give it to them. He felt out of control, as if he had let go of all his moorings was sailing into unknown territory.

“You want what?” he said. “This ball? Okay, here—whoops. No, really, here—oops, darn.” He backed away from the approaching mob, lightly tossing the ball from hand to hand. Who’s stupid now?

At last the girls were so close that there was really no more keeping it from them—in a second they would take it, unless he was willing to fight for it. Far outnumbered, Henry had no intention of doing anything so foolish. Instead he said, “Here,” and heaved the ball over their heads, far across the field. “Go get it.”

The girls ignored the ball. They continued to advance on him.

“Have your stupid ball,” he said, becoming cornered.

They had no interest in the ball anymore. All eyes were on him.

Henry suddenly realized he was in some danger—these girls wanted to hurt him. They were serious, not kidding around in the least. He was nervous, but there was something ridiculous about it, too, and he couldn’t help grinning. Trying to be funny, he said, “All right, ladies, one at a time.”

Suddenly their hands were on him, grabbing his shirt and punching. Below, he could feel their shoes kicking at his shins. None of it was really very painful, but there was a lot of it, from all directions, and now and then somebody landed a good one.

“All right, all right,” he said, trying to submit. “I give, I give; you win. Cut it out before we all get in trouble. Ow—hey, watch it!”

He expected them to stop at any time and go away, but instead it was getting worse as more and more girls joined in. Now they were painfully pinching and scratching him, pulling his hair. He thought of Sinbad battling the eight-armed goddess, Kali. He could barely breathe. Things were getting out of control.

“Get his eyes, his eyes,” someone said urgently. “Hold his arms,” grunted someone else.

“Cut it out, you guys,” Henry said, trying to fend them off his face. “That’s enough. We’re even.”

They weren’t stopping. It was turning into a frenzy.

Still more annoyed than scared, Henry decided he had to get out of there. It was either that or fight back, and there was no way he was going to hit a girl. He feinted one way and then dove the other, plunging through the crowd and breaking free, spinning to shake off their clutching hands.

“That’s enough!” he said. “I’m not the one who started this! Get off!” He had to keep moving as he spoke; they were still attacking, trying to surround him again. They weren’t listening to a word he said.

He tried to walk away, to retain some dignity, but they were all over him like hyenas, kicking and slugging and trying to trip him up.

“This is ridiculous,” he told them, starting to flush bright red with pain and outrage. He tried to make a stand, turning and bellowing, “GO! AWAY!” as loud as he could, right in their faces. But it didn’t faze them, they were oblivious.

Henry was so mad he was on the verge of tears. This had nothing to do with any stupid soccer ball, he realized. For them this was a much more interesting game.

It was a terrible dilemma: Henry knew that if he turned and ran he could get away, but it would be a total humiliation—he could already hear them gleefully yelling “Chicken!” at his back. So much for his schoolyard reputation: these girls would think they could intimidate him any time they wanted to. And not just the girls—he would be the wimp of the whole island: Henry lets little girls push him around!

On the other hand, they were not letting up, and there was no sign of any teacher or authority figure coming to intervene. Henry kept hoping they would tire and lose interest, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen soon enough to save him from a bad beating.

It was getting more severe every second as they wore down his defenses. Sooner or later these creeps might seriously hurt him, whether they really meant to or not.

Henry had no choice—he had to end this.

He broke and ran.

From behind came a collective scream of glee. But rather than mocking catcalls, there rose a sound of trampling feet as the girls eagerly pursued, obviously not content to let him get away, with or without his dignity.

This wasn’t quite what Henry had expected. It was incredible to him that they would carry things so far as to actually give chase. Still, he was glad to be running, to be clear of that mob for a minute so he could think.

The cooling sweat stung his scratches—they were vicious, man. He could taste blood from a split lip. Enough of that; he wasn’t about to let them lay hands on him again. Henry knew he could run fast when he had to, and he had a pretty good lead. They would give up long before he would.

The question was, where to run? He could already see that they were trying to drive him toward the end of the playground, where there was no escape except the gate in the fence. If he fled out there, he would be leaving school grounds without permission—a heinous infraction that all the students had been warned against.

The only other thing to do would be to enter the building. This also was frowned upon during playground time, but Henry could see no other way out. At least if he went to the office he could explain what was going on—they would have to understand. And no way would those brats follow him in there.

That decided it. Knowing it was now or never, Henry made a dash for the open glass doors, bounding over the threshold as if crossing home plate.

Safe!

Slowing to a trot in the cool dimness of the hall, hoping to catch his breath, he turned around and got an unpleasant surprise:

The girls were still coming, stampeding right in after him. Their ponytailed silhouettes blocked the daylight, their squeaking rubber soles filling the echo-chamber of the corridor.

You can’t come in here! he thought wildly. But there was no time to think, only to run, and fast.

The problem was he didn’t know where he was going. He had only been to the office one time, when his mother had brought him to register, and they had entered from the opposite side of the building.

Hoping to lose the girls or find a teacher, a janitor, someone, anyone, Henry barreled past rows of open classroom doors. The whole place was deserted for recess, the teachers all probably smoking in some lounge somewhere.

It was a curious old building, with a maze of randomly-branching hallways and stairs, and for a brief moment Henry managed to ditch the girls, using the opportunity to steal a fast gulp from the drinking fountain. But just as he wet his lips, there they were again, swarming up a stairwell and keening, “We found him! He’s here! He’s up here!”

With the crazy girls right on his heels, he turned a corner and there was the office.

Henry barged in, slamming headlong into a wooden counter. Recovering his wits, he gratefully realized there were adults in there, frozen like startled deer at the sight of him. One of them was the Vice Principal, Mr. Van Zand.

“They’re after me, they’re after me!” Henry gasped.

“Ouch. Are you all right?” asked the Vice Principal.

“They’re after me!”

The Vice Principal stuck his face out the door. Apparently there was nothing to see; he popped back in with a quizzical expression.

The office was orderly and bright and smelled of freshly-brewed coffee. Henry never wanted to leave. Behind one desk there was a grandmotherly older lady in pearls and a flower-print dress—the school secretary. She stood up and came around the counter.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Van Zand,” she said. Then, to Henry: “Out.”

“But there’s a bunch of kids chasing me!”

“Out. Now.”

Without another glance at Henry, the Vice Principal crossed behind the counter and went into the Principal’s office, shutting the door. The sign on the door read PRINCIPAL PAUL THADDEUS. Henry had never met the Principal, but just before the door closed he could see a man sitting in there—a red-haired, red-faced man in a plaid jacket. The man’s glaring eyes were fixed on his, causing Henry’s heart to plummet like an anchor.

It was the Butcher!

The school secretary advanced on Henry with her fat wrinkly hands, her long, pink-painted nails crabbed as if to grasp him and tear him to pieces. “Now you’ve done it,” she said. Her lipsticked mouth was the color of raw liver. Meat, he thought wildly. Raw meat.

Henry turned and ran.

He scanned the hall in both directions. There was no sign of anyone giving chase. All he wanted to do at this point was get away. Approaching the exit to the playground he slowed, staying close to the wall, moving as silently as possible. His thoughts were a hollow roar of sound.

Peering out the glass doors, Henry was relieved to see that all the girls were outside again, mingling and talking in the sun as if nothing weird had just happened. Everything looked very normal out there.

He had a wild surge of hope: Maybe it was all over. Maybe the girls were through with him and he could just finish out the day in peace.

Clutching this hope like a threadbare teddy bear, Henry pushed open the doors and set foot outside.

The girls had been waiting for this. At once he knew the game was still on. They saw him immediately, but didn’t move, following him with their eyes as he walked onto the playground.

Henry could see why they were being careful: Now there was a playground monitor—Miss Graves, sitting at a picnic table on the sidelines.

Without overtly running, Henry made a beeline for her, pretending to take no notice of the girls. As he walked, they leisurely drew together in his path, all of them moving in the most casual manner. Lisa planted herself in his way, a head taller and golden-haired in the sun. She was smiling in wait.

Henry tried ducking past her, and she slammed against him, hissing, “Don’t touch me!”

As if by this signal, the other girls started furtively hitting and shoving and trying to trip him up. The attack was much more covert and organized than before, a pummeling gauntlet of secret blows, but Henry kept moving as calmly as he could, refusing to show pain. And all the time they kept smiling like angels.

He almost went down once or twice, barely managing to recover before finally making it to the picnic table, bruised and shaky. The assault ceased like turning off a faucet as Miss Graves turned her attention to the group.

“Well hello,” she said. “Join the party. We were just talking a little bit about the Mad Hatter’s tea party—have any of you read Alice in Wonderland?”

There was a space on the bench right next to her, the only seat left, and Henry grabbed it. He was acutely aware of the girls pressing into him from behind.

With a sunny expression, Lisa said, “Why don’t you tell us about it, Miss Graves?”

As the teacher started to describe the story, Henry felt knees ramming him in the kidneys and feet stomping him under the table. Fingers were tweaking his ears and yanking the back of his hair. He blocked as best he could, but it was impossible to fend them all off, from all sides at once. He couldn’t believe what was happening.

The worst thing about it was that it must be so obvious that something was going on. How could Miss Graves not see it? But she was totally oblivious, rambling about the March Hare and talking cakes and a lot of other nonsense that had nothing to do with the fact that someone was being beaten to a pulp right next to her.

Still, Henry couldn’t bring himself to speak—after the way she had treated him, he had to let this situation play out, put her to the test. Find out once and for all if anyone here could be trusted. Because if they couldn’t, then all the rules went out the window. Henry would have no choice but to do something of last resort.

They were creaming him, Lisa worst of all. She played dirty, and knew exactly how to hurt him, gouging the same sore spot again and again and again. The others were learning from her as they went, refining their methods to elicit maximum agony without showing outward effects. It was like a secret torture class.

Henry writhed in place, feeling himself start to cry. Still Miss Graves did nothing. Henry was becoming impatient with her, deeply resentful. He hated her more than he hated the girls, because they were just stupid bullies, but she had a responsibility! And if she didn’t have to live up to her responsibilities, then how could anyone expect him to? It was the law of the jungle.

Henry snapped.

He abruptly stood up from the bench and turned to face Lisa. She was smirking, face to face, blithely confident of her unassailable beauty and power.

Henry slugged her.

It was not the hardest punch he could have thrown—he pulled it at the last second, losing his nerve at the thought of hitting a girl—but she was caught totally unprepared, taking the blow dead-center to her perfect Bambi nose. She reeled back, clutching her face.

Shocked silence fell over the table with the force of a thunderclap.

Henry did not wait to see what would happen next, but used the stunned moment to bolt into the clear.

“You better run,” someone said.

They didn’t have to tell him. Henry ran as fast as he could, exiting the gate to the street and still continuing to run, only casting a quick backward glance to see if anyone was following. No, no one had left the vicinity of the picnic table—they weren’t even looking his way.

It was a frieze Henry would vividly remember for the rest of his life: Miss Graves standing up and tenderly examining Lisa’s nose as the other kids watched with deep concern. The whole scene exuded an air of tragedy and saintly forbearance. Lisa’s Martyrdom. It was exactly what Henry would have expected.

He kept running all the way home.