“Did you not hear me? Get the fuck out of here!” I grab my pants and slip them over my still dripping wet cock. I run down the stairs past the four rooms. Two of them still have men snoring loudly in it from last night’s activities. The couches and living room floor also are crowded by men in leather jackets as I step over a few of them on my way to the kitchen.
I swing the door open as I hear a small voice cry out for me, “Daddy! We’re gonna be late!” Maddie throws on a backpack over her shoulders as she waits impatiently for me to walk her the six blocks to school.
Chapter 2: Fists and Feet
MICHELLE
The capital of Illinois is _______________?
I’ve read that question about twenty times and have yet to have one student write anything else but “Chicago” in that blank. My red pen is working hard today – not too pleased about that. I make a note in my small, black teacher’s notebook to revisit the difference between state capitals and big cities on Monday.
After I finish grading the last test, I place everything in a neat, orderly stack. Each is in their place, in alphabetical order by last name. Then, I tuck them into the student’s individually color-coded file. Each file has a color-coordinated note from me about their grade and progress. Everything is exactly as it should be. Tidy, neat, sensible.
I stare out at the empty desks in front of me, studying the uniformity. Three straight rows with straight lines. I even made “x” marks so students know where their seats should be placed if they scoot them together to do group work. Today, only one desk is out of place. I roll my eyes as I stand up from my teacher’s chair and walk towards Maddie Ross’s desk. This has got to be the hundredth time this year I’ve moved hers back in place.
I look down at the wooden top. She’s managed to carve her initials in the wood with who knows what. Maybe scissors? It’s crude, but I can clearly make out a big, looping M and a jagged R. Just another thing to add into my book of what to talk about with her once lunch and recess are over.
That reminds me that my lunch period is almost up. I only get a short amount of time to get everything I need done and ready for the second half of school, which basically leaves me zero time to eat. I quickly grab my wallet that’s hidden behind the placard that reads “MISS SPRINGER” in gold letters and walk out the door into the hallway of Washington Grade School.
I always love walking outside the classroom between lunch periods. The hallways are relatively quiet this time of day. The little ones are napping away, tuckered out from an earlier lunch. The big kids down in the middle school wing, meanwhile, are still in their first block of courses. And the primary kids are on the other side of the building or outside for recess.
...except today, they’re not. As I head out into the hall, I enter into complete chaos. The hallway is absolute anarchy. A third grader comes running past me totally uncaring who I am. He’s shouting towards another third grader, “She’s gonna kill him! She’s gonna kill him! Go tell Randy!”
My stomach rumbles, but I can’t ignore that threat. There should be other teachers or supervisors to handle this, but from the looks of it and the sounds coming from around the corner of my classroom, I’m guessing none knows. Or, worse, maybe no one cares.
I pull off my heels and run off towards them. They come to a stop in front of a group of about thirty other students who are already gathered in a circle next to the lockers. Fists are raised high as the kids cheer and clap wildly. I hear the all-too-familiar noise of a body being slammed into the metal locker. And then a small, shrill voice cries out, “Don’t you fucking talk about my mother like that, you asshole!”
I waste no time, pushing myself through the kids. Once I get to the center, I watch for a moment as a small girl with dark curly hair and a tattered red sweater is straddling a boy about twice her size. Her fists are small, but they land several punishing blows to his face, connecting square on his nose and eyes. Small splatters of blood pool around the boy. Tears stream down his face.
The girl shouts again at her victim, “Who do you think you are, Johnny? Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re nothin’, you worthless piece o’ shit! You fuckin’ hear me? Nothin’!”
She lifts another fist high as he turns his head quickly in anticipation. I've got just enough in me to grab her by the arm, taking her down next to him. I scream at the crowd, “You’ve got exactly one second to clear out before I assign all of you detention!” I watch the onlookers slowly file out, looking back at the girl, the boy, and me all crouched on the floor in exhaustion.