The bus shuddered to a stop outside the squat brick building that children flooded into in lines like ants filing into a hill. The walk to his homeroom was uneventful, and after depositing his tattered book bag onto a brass hook that bore his name in black Sharpie, Lance slouched into his seat and felt his stomach tighten as he noticed the sheriff sitting in a chair a few feet from Mrs. Murphy’s large desk. Their eyes met, the sheriff’s soft brown orbs probing at Lance’s with questions. Without thinking, Lance reached up and furtively buttoned the top of his faded flannel shirt, and he hoped that the collar was high enough to cover the spot where his father had punched him the night before.
A routine had developed over the past few months since Lance’s mother had disappeared. Anthony would be careful as his anger overflowed and he lashed out at his son. He kept his strikes consistently in areas covered by Lance’s clothing. There were days when Lance could barely stand in the morning as he pried himself out of bed, his legs cobbled colors of blue, black, and yellow. Lance would take the punishment silently, each time thinking of his mother, and then limp off to his room to write. His notebook was nearly full; several more short parables and stories had filled up the pages, and he began to wonder what he would do when there was no more room left. The routine wasn’t a comfort, but like all rituals, it held a pattern that Lance had gotten used to. Last night he had turned to ward off the blow of his father’s fist, and in doing so the punch had landed higher than Anthony intended, leaving a dark bruise that licked up the side of Lance’s neck like a tongue of purple flame.
Lance looked down at his desk and became very interested in a groove that had been worn with the pen of a student long since graduated and forgotten.
“Okay, class, we have a treat today! Our very own Sheriff Dodd is going to be talking to you about drug awareness. We all know how terrible drugs can be, so let’s listen closely to what our sheriff has to say!” Mrs. Murphy moved her considerable bulk to the side and unceremoniously sat in her chair, which squeaked its complaint.
“Hi, kids!” the sheriff said as he stood and walked to the center of the blackboard, gazing out over the thirty or so heads that turned in his direction.
“Hello, Sheriff Dodd” came the reply from the students in unison. The sheriff smiled at them, his round face lighting up. The brown eyes that Lance had watched blacken in anger were now warm and twinkled even in the harsh fluorescent light. The sheriff looked at Lance again and hesitated. He blinked once, and then seemed to return to himself.
“I want to tell all of you about a couple of drugs and how they’re just like some poisons that can be found in your homes.”
Lance listened idly, at times glancing up at the man in the front of the classroom, as he imagined mixing up some of the household cleaners that the sheriff was mentioning and then slipping them into his father’s milk at supper. The sheriff was an animated speaker and roamed down the aisles, sometimes stooping over to ask a question or make a joke to one of the students. Laughter resounded in the classroom several times, and from the shine of their eyes and the attention his fellow classmates exuded, Lance could tell the sheriff had done this many times before.
“So in conclusion, kids, don’t let your parents, your friends, or anyone else you know down by trying methamphetamines, marijuana, or any other drugs.” The class clapped, making the room resound with the hollow slap of flesh upon flesh. Lance looked up from the spot on the floor he had been staring at. The sheriff was smiling and nodding, and Mrs. Murphy leaned over to whisper something in his ear. He nodded and grinned at her rotund face before stepping back and letting her assume the speaker’s position.
“Okay, class, let’s all think really hard about what Sheriff Dodd had to say today, and remember to say no to drugs. Now everyone, please get out your social studies books and turn to chapter four.”
The classroom erupted with the clatter of desks being raised and several groans, which Mrs. Murphy narrowed her eyes at as she walked down Lance’s aisle. His stomach again tightened when she stopped several inches from his desk and lowered her head to his level.