Friday After School

Originally Published in The Chaffin Journal, 2013
Eastern Kentucky University, Richmond, Kentucky

He was an alien, an intruder. Sure, he looked like us, but he might as well have been from another planet. He was about five foot seven, a hundred and twenty pounds with skinny arms and bony wrists. He had really short, blonde hair, the kind that blended with his skin in the sunlight, and he had jagged teeth with that one uneven tooth that poked out further than the rest.

The principal, Sister Ann, introduced him. “This is Frank Taylor. His father heard about the quality of a Catholic education and enrolled his son into Saint Joachim’s. I know he’ll fit in perfectly. I also told him how good this class was. I know you won’t let me down.” She looked over at Miss Milefski and smiled. “He’s all yours.”
Miss Milefski guided the new kid with her plump hand on his shoulder. “Here’s your seat, Frank. We’re learning about decimal to percentage conversions. Are you familiar with that?”

He fumbled through his book bag for a pencil and notepad. “Yes, we went over it about two weeks ago in my old class.”

“Good,” she said, “Just go with the flow, then.”

As Miss Milefski continued her lecture, we all honed in on his every move—the way he tapped his pencil and listened, the way he scratched his head and brushed his hair back into place, and the way he fiddled with the corner of his notebook. While my classmates critiqued the new kid, I was caught in my own trance: Mindy Duncan. Every boy in the class, at one time or another, liked her. She had this blonde hair that hovered just above her shoulders with trimmed ends that created a flip. Slight indentations appeared on her cheeks when she talked, and they were very evident when she smiled. She had cute, little teeth like a chipmunk, with these two front teeth that were a little bigger than the rest. The last time I talked to her was Friday after school let out.

I was headed home when I heard her voice. “Have a nice weekend, Evan.”

“Yeah, you too, Mindy,” I replied.

My heart beat a little faster, and I wanted to say something slick, something that would be so dazzling that she’d hang onto it all weekend. I had to think fast; she was slipping into the crowd. “Have fun.”

She grinned in response, and her eyes twinkled. “Yeah, you too.”

I slapped my hand against my forehead and whispered, “’Have fun?’ Is that all you could think of? ‘Have fun?’”

She blended into the crowd and ventured off to her weekend, but the plan backfired. All weekend long, I was under Mindy’s spell, and the image of those eyes, that smile, burned themselves into my mind. When I dreamt, I dreamed of Mindy, and I couldn’t even play a round of Mortal Combat, spilling blood and slaughtering opponents, without imagining her frowning at me in disapproval.

Frank scanned the class and stopped in Mindy’s direction. He took in her beauty, like any boy would, and smiled at her. Mindy gave him a bashful smile like he caught her spying on him then she looked down into her notebook.

I hated him already.

“I want to change the fraction 7/8 into a percentage,” Miss Milefski announced, “Frank, how would I do this?”

He looked at the board and pressed his pencil to his chin. “First, you have to bring the seven down and put a decimal point after it.”

Miss Milefski did as Frank said and turned to him for the next step. “Good. Then what?”
As he continued to take steps on solving the problem, I prayed that he’d burst into flames or a bolt of lightning would strike him. He waltzed into class, and suddenly he was a math wiz? I realized how unrealistic that was, so I prayed that somewhere he’d mess up, that somewhere she’d say, “No, that’s not right,” and everyone would see he was just some dumb new kid.

“Evan,” Miss Milefski said, “I hope you’re paying attention because your last test grade wasn’t so high.”

“Uh…yeah, I’m paying attention,” I said.

She had him finish up the problem. “Well done, Frank. I look forward to your progress.”
I really hated him.

* * *

The next day, the morning bell just rang, and we settled in after putting our coats and school bags away. The mess of conversations simmered down to silence, and Miss Milefski flipped through her lesson planner.
“Let’s stand for prayers,” she said.

We all stood next to our desks, and Frank, not familiar with our routine, looked around, trying to figure out what was going on around him. He stood in unison with the rest of us, although his knees buckled in hesitation like they warned him.

We began our chant, “Our father, who art in heaven, hallow be thy name.”

At first, he placed his hands at his sides then noticed that each of us had our palms together, so he followed suit.

“Alright, everyone,” Miss Milefski said, “Sit down and take out your math books.”

Those words sent shivers down my spine. I failed the last two math tests, and my first quarter math grade wasn’t looking so good. Miss Milefski presented a lesson then sent five students to the black board to do the previous night’s homework assignment, which I hadn’t done because I played 30 rounds of Street Fighter2: Turbo Edition. It was hard to predict who she’d send to the black board, and I’d been passed up the last three lessons.

She assigned problems. “Mr. Keebler, do problem number one. Mr. Ross, do problem number two. Miss McConnell, do problem number three. Miss Dimbrosio, do number four, and number five…”

I dove into my book to avoid eye contact.

“Please don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me. Please don’t pick me. God, if you’re up there, give me this one,” I whispered to myself.

“Mr. Riley,” she announced.

I looked up to the ceiling. “Thanks a lot.”

As I approached the blackboard, I knew what it felt like to be Han Solo In The Empire Strikes Back when he faced the inevitable clutches of Jabba the Hutt. Donnie Keebler and Katie McConnell raced through their problems, and as Alex “Thumbs” Ross wrote out his problem, the chalk fell from his fingers. We called him “Thumbs” for that very reason; he couldn’t keep a hold on anything.

“Yes Frank,” Miss Milefski said off to the side.

“Can I go to the bathroom?” he asked.

“Recess is in an hour,” she said.

“I really have to go.”

I heard the door thud as I concentrated on the problem:
James had $20.00. He went to the store and bought a gallon of milk for $1.50, a loaf of bread for a dollar, and a one pound bag of sugar for $2.50. His mother also said he could buy himself a candy bar which cost 50 cents. How much change did he get back, and what percentage of the money given was the change?

I scanned the numbers and tried to figure out what to do. I stared at the problem, hoping that maybe the answer would reveal itself, hoping that maybe if I angled the book the right way in the light, an encrypted answer would surface. Katie McConnell and “Thumbs” already sat down. I looked up from my book and out the window, only to notice the entrance to the grocery store across the street. How I wished I was there in that moment. Then I saw Frank exit the grocery store with a bag of chips and a can of soda.

“Mr. Riley,” Miss Milefski said in her monotonous voice, “Stop playing around and sit down. Miss Duncan, please do problem number five.”

I felt defeat and relief at the same time, and although I squeezed out of one jam, there’d be another one sometime in the near future. I bee-lined to my seat, and Miss Milefski shot me that cold, disappointed look through her thick framed glasses.

As I sat down, Frank entered the room, concealing the bag of chips and the coke he just bought.

At recess, I decided to talk to Frank. We haven’t really had a face to face conversation, and I figured it was my turn to get to know him. As I approached him, a few topics came to mind. We could talk about The Phillies going to The World Series or how disappointing it was to see The Sixers trade Charles Barkley to The Phoenix Suns. That way, I could get a handle on whether he was cool or not.

I sat in the desk in front of him. “Hey man, how ya’ like it here so far?”

He pulled out his bag of chips, thinking I didn’t know where it came from. “It’s okay. Different from my old school.”

“Do you like basketball?”

He tore open the bag of chips. “Yeah, I love basketball,” he said as he chewed, and globs of saliva soaked chip paste bonded to his gums.

I went to ask him another question, and Mindy came over and leaned on the desk next to us. “Hi Frank, what was your old school like?”

“Hi, Mindy,” I blurted out.

“Oh…hi Evan,” she said.

They started talking, and I felt out of place in the conversation. I got up to join my friends, Donnie Keebler and Jason Donovan, and as I walked away, Mindy eased herself in the chair in front of Frank. As I watched them talk, my heart sank when I saw how well they looked together—like the first class couple. My heart snapped in half when she smiled and brushed his hand with hers.

I plopped down into my desk and watched them talk to each other from across the room. By the time recess ended, it seemed like Mindy and I were strangers to each other.

* * *

Crumpled napkins and obscenities launched back and forth, and as I dug into my lunch, Donnie Keebler swooped in and tried to take one of my tator tots.

“Get out of here!” I shouted.

I plunged the grease covered tatot tots into a glob of ketchup, and I overheard Jason talking to Frank.

“Do you play football? We’re gonna get a game up Friday after school at Overington Park. You know where that is, right?” he asked.

“Yeah, I know where that is,” he answered.

“Yeah, we’d love to have ya,” Jason said, and then he looked at me and curved his mouth into a grin that looked like The Grinch Who Stole Christmas. I hated that look because it meant one thing. “Maybe you could teach Evan a thing or two on the field. Sure he could catch, but after two steps, he’s Miracle Grow.”

Jason, Frank, and Donnie joined in the laughter. Donnie! The one who spiked the ball five yards before the goal. I let out a little chuckle so it seemed like it didn’t bother me, but inside, I was fuming. First Mindy then my friends.

As they laughed and gave each other high fives, I imagined Jason, Donnie, and Mindy ignoring me. Soon I’d become a ghost, and I pictured my face crossed out in the yearbook.

My rank in the social chain was in jeopardy, and not even the best jokes or the best pranks would change that.

On Wednesdays, we had music class from 10:30 to 11:30. The music teacher’s name was Mr. Foster, but he insisted we call him “Jim.” There was a catch, though. We couldn’t call him Jim outside of class if we saw him in passing, and if there was another teacher, our teacher, or the principal, in the in room, we had to call him Mr. Foster. He claimed he only let us call him Jim, but I once heard one of the eight graders call him by his first name. He was the cool teacher—had long hair, played the guitar in a band, set aside ten minutes to take requests. All the girls in the class had a crush on him, but it was hard for us guys to hate him for it.

Class was up before he noticed Frank. “You must be the new kid.”

“I’m Frank…Frank Taylor. I transferred from Harding,” he said.

“I went there many, many, many years ago,’ he replied.

We all laughed, but the girls laughed a little harder.

“That’s a cool guitar,” Frank said. “I have a brown PRS electric.”

“You play? Cool. How long?” Jim asked.

“About four months,” Frank said. “My teacher’s teaching me ‘Plush’ by Stone Temple Pilots.”

“We play that and ‘Wicked Garden’ in my band,” he said. He pushed his guitar away from his chest. “Last week, I gave a few kids a chance to play some chords. Play a little for us. C’mon class, let’s get him to play.”

We all got sucked into the moment; even I was a little curious about seeing him play although I hoped he would accidentally break a guitar string and piss Jim off.

So Frank sat on the stool and Jim placed the guitar on his lap and gave him the guitar pick. Frank shimmied in the chair to make himself comfortable and placed his fingers on what Jim called the fret board. He stared at his left hand and strummed half of the guitar chord, but a buzzing sound came from the guitar.

“Wait a minute,” he said, and he placed his hands on the fret board again.

He glided the guitar pick down the strings to test the chord, and a harp-like sound came from the guitar. He then played the first two chords of “Plush,” and when he went to play the third chord, his fingers got tangled, causing it to sound smothered.

We still watched in amazement because he did something none of us ever tried. It was like watching a seventh grader drive a car.

“Alright, Frank,” Jim said in an impressed tone. “Good job. Give him a round of applause.”

Everyone clapped, and he eased himself off the stool and went back to his desk.

Jim put his guitar back in its case as Miss Milefski entered the room.

At lunchtime, Frank sat among the girls at their table like he was a celebrity. He sat in the middle against the wall while the girls sat around him. His eyes glowed with the enthusiasm of a kid on Christmas morning, so the girls hung on his every word.

As I approached the lunch table, I expected the same insanity that plagued the table every other day, but instead, all the boys looked over at the girls’ table. I tore the clear wrap off of my fries and nuggets platter, and I was sure that would shift everyone’s focus. Not one person moved; Donnie didn’t even attempt to swoop in for my chicken nuggets. The last time I saw that much undivided attention was when Ben Quinn snuck in one of his father’s Playboys.

Jason broke the silence. “Alright, we gotta teach this new kid a lesson.”

Everyone moved in the huddle, all except Tony Gibson. All the girls in the class liked Tony, and he fed off of their attention. He was the first one in the class to kiss a girl, and when he came back from summer vacation with a deeper voice and a dusty patch of hair above his lip, we knew he played on a different level than all of us. He flirted with the girls, but he was never the center of gravity at their table. Frank sank him down to our level.

“Tony,” Jason snapped his fingers to get his attention. “This includes you, too. Okay, this is the plan,” Jason continued. “We meet at the park Friday after school around four.”

As Jason shared the plan, organizing teams and designating positions, it was evident there was going to be more than just an in-class football game; it was going to be an initiation.

Frank sat down at our table, and the huddle broke.

* * *

Miss Milefski arranged us by twos in single file line down to the bathroom. She’d let four of us go at a time, and in my group, it was Donnie, Jason, and Frank.

The first four boys came out, and Tony gave “Thumbs” a playful shove that pushed him into all of us like a bowling ball hits a group of pins. Tony ran up the hall, and “Thumbs” dashed behind him.

Miss Milefski’s forced whisper amplified down the hall, “Boys! Boys! No running!”
The four of us entered the bathroom and stepped up to a urinal. As I stood shoulder to shoulder with Frank, I replayed Mindy smiling at him, Mindy choosing to talk to him instead of me, Jason trying to impress him by making fun of me, and his little concert yesterday. A voice in my head screamed at me to do something…anything to show him he couldn’t just waltz in from Harding Middle School and be the big man on campus. He had to be cool by setting the record for getting a month’s worth of detention or sneaking into the principal’s office on the first day of school and getting on the P.A. system to announce there would be no school for the rest of the year (Mindy thought that was hilarious). He had to attempt coolness by putting a Santa Clause hat on the crucifix in the main lobby, and even then there was no guarantee.

I flushed the urinal and washed my hands while the other three still stood at their urinals.

Frank had his back to me, clueless that I was staring at the back of his blonde, buzz cut head. He was so vulnerable to me at that moment—with his obliviousness, Miss Milefski’s being in the hall, and the fact my two friends wouldn’t rat me out. I could’ve clubbed him over the head, and no one would say a thing. In fact, they’d think of me as a champion, one who didn’t take crap from nobody, one who stood up for what was right, and every day they’d nod at me in admiration thinking, “Evan’s a man of action.”

He stepped back from the urinal, still unaware that I was behind him, and I thought about the look Mindy gave him on his first day. That set me off. I slapped my open hand between his shoulder blades and rammed my knee into his lower back. I pushed all of my weight into him, causing him to lean into the urinal’s canal, and I felt him push against me.

Donnie and Jason jumped back with stunned looks on their faces, and I took my free hand and pumped the urinal’s valve handle several times. The hiss of water showered down the urinal, and I knew something had to get wet. Jason and Donnie stood by the door, making sure the coast was clear.

I leaned off of him, and he turned around inspecting his uniform to see what was wet. It was evident that I got the shin of his right pant leg and his shoe.

“What the hell did you do that for?” he said in a squealed voice as he wiped the front of his clothes.

I laughed in amusement. I couldn’t help it. I enjoyed seeing him have a fit over something I did to him. I thought about the images that made me mad—Mindy smiling at him and Jason’s obnoxious grin—and their impact went away as if they happened to someone else. He pressed his palms against my chest, and as I bounced backwards, I realized the new kid had some spunk in him, something I didn’t expect. I expected him to whimper and cry like a baby and run out of the bathroom. He didn’t, though; he stood there, pissed, and he wanted to fight back.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled, and he paused, waiting for an answer, “You know what you are? You’re nothing but a tall, lanky, pimple-faced geek. I mean look at you with your thick glasses, bug eyes, and curly Brillo hair on the top of your head!”

I heard Jason and Donnie snicker behind me.

He bumped my shoulder and maintained the angry stare as he walked by me. “Jackass!”

He stormed out of the bathroom, and Miss Milefski yelled in from the hall “What’s the yelling about?”

“Nothing,” I said, “I was just clowning around.”

“Let’s hurry it up boys,” she said, “Others have to go to the bathroom.”

I moved my lips and bobbed my head back and forth, mimicking her, and we all laughed.

* * *

Friday was pizza day, and me and Jason stood in line, waiting for the lunch lady to give us our pizza.

“I know you hate the kid, Evan, but we need him to even out the teams. Besides, it will be a perfect place for you to kick his ass,” Jason held up his tray while the lunch lady slapped pizza on his plate. “You know, you tackle him then knee him in the rib when he’s down, like I did to Tony for snaggin’ Katie from me.”

Jason had a good point. Sure, he didn’t give a damn about how Frank affected me, and if Frank was on his team, Jason would root for him in a fight instead of me. I hated that about him, but hey, he was my bud.

“Also think about this,” he continued, “We’re all gunnin’ for him since his little concert the other day,” and then he muttered underneath his breath, “Him and his fruity guitar.”

As we approached the lunch table, Donnie kept trying to snatch everyone’s brownies. He tried the old “look over there” trick which didn’t work after a while, and he wised up and said, “Good afternoon, Sister Ann,” causing whoever to turn around. We all wised up to that one, too.

While Donnie pointed his finger, trying to convince “Thumbs” that Sister Ann stood behind him, Frank bumped my arm, and my lunch tray turned into a pool of chocolate milk.

“What’s your problem?” I said.

He turned around and walked toward me until the edge of his tray touched mine, “You got something to say, ‘Brillohead?’”

I wanted to deck him, break my tray over his head, but there were too many people around. I stood five feet from the girls’ table, and I knew if I hit him, Mindy would see it.
“Wait ‘til we play football later. Then we’ll see,” I said.

He shook his head and let out a little laugh, and over his shoulders I saw Donnie reach for “Thumbs’” brownie. “Thumbs” pulled back the brownie, and it flew in the air. “Thumbs” tried to catch it, but fumbled it instead.

Frank walked away and sat down in the chair, and “Thumbs” wore an “oh no” look on his face. As Frank settled in the chair, he sat back up because he felt something under him. When Frank stood up, the smashed brownie stuck to the ass of his pants like a bunny’s cotton tail.

Tony stood up and pointed at Frank’s ass. “Hey everyone, it’s Brownie Bottom!”
We all doubled over in our chairs in laughter.

Frank looked down his shoulder to see the mess on his pants and went to grab the chunk of brownie.

“Hey ‘Brownie Bottom,’ you want some toilet paper?” Tony yelled.

I took a seat as the boys’ table erupted in laughter, and I looked over at the girls’ table to wide eyes and clasped mouths. As tears built up in my eyes, I took off my glasses to clear my blurring vision, and when it cleared, I looked over to the girls’ table again. I put my glasses back on, and as my vision adjusted, I noticed Mindy chuckling. She looked at me with big, smiling eyes and shook her head in disbelief. Her mouth curved which showed her dimples. Her face then broke into a smile—a smile we both shared.

A red faced Frank held his head down and exited the cafeteria as crumbs of brownie left a trail behind him.

* * *

I climbed the jagged stone wall and ran toward the others who were already tossing Jason’s Nerf Turbo football. What seemed like whispers at first turned into pre-game shouts of enthusiasm as I got closer.

“Is this everybody? Are we ready to play?” I asked, catching my breath.

“Yeah,” Jason said, tossing me the football, “I don’t think Frank’s coming.”

“He’s not coming?” Tony said, “Why not? We went pretty easy on him this afternoon, a lot easier than we went on ‘Brillohead,’ here.”

I knew he was just kidding, but that didn’t stop me from hurling the ball at him. He laughed and stretched out his hands to shield himself from the ball’s force and also to catch it. When the ball sank into his chest, he let out a forced exhale.

“Good throw,” he said in a surprised yet exhausted voice.

A faint figure came over the horizon. He wore black jogging pants and a green mesh Eagles jersey with chipped and cracked decals. He tossed a football from one hand to the other as he ran closer.

“Hey guys, sorry I’m late,” Frank said.

“Hey,” we all droned.

“Alright, let’s get teams up,” Jason proposed.

In a matter of two minutes, it was down to the last two: “Thumbs” and Frank.

“Gimme ‘Thumbs,’” Tony demanded which only left one option for us.

“I brought my new football,” Frank said, “I wasn’t sure what kind of ball you were using.”

He tossed the ball to Jason, and the logo caught his eye as he felt its grip, “Wow, a regulation NFL football. Not bad.”

He tossed it to me then I tossed it to Donnie. It was a good ball with good friction. Definitely the highest quality ball we’ve used, but we couldn’t let him think he was off the hook because of a football.

We got first ball, and each team lined up in opposition.

“Hike!” Jason yelled.

We all scrambled, and Jason threw the ball to Frank as if he was the only one out there.

He caught the ball, and all the guys from the other team tackled him like a pack of cheetahs pouncing on the only gazelle.

A mound of boys piled on top of Frank; even some members of our team, myself included, dove into the pile.

Play after play, Jason passed the ball to Frank, and we all tackled him without thought. He got up each time without so much as a complaint, and it got to the point where mud was his new wardrobe.

One time when we were on defense, Tony got possession of the ball and plowed into him like a speeding locomotive. Again, he got up ready for the next play.

It was a tie game, and the sun sank over the row homes. It was only a matter of time before one of us would be the first to go home for dinner, and we couldn’t leave the game unresolved.

We just got the third down, and we were ten yards from the goal. Jason stepped back, and members of the other team swarmed around Frank. He shot left and dodged right then broke free from the other team’s defense.

Jason launched the ball, and it landed in Frank’s hands as if guided by the force. He took about two steps before “Thumbs” and Donnie latched onto him. I was tempted to join the tackle, but at game point, my team would kill me.

Frank kept trudging toward the goal, swinging arms and kicking legs, and “Thumbs” and Donnie hung off of him like a scarf.

He made it passed the goal line, and as sweat washed away his muddy face mask, he spiked the ball. Everyone, myself included, cheered.

We all ran toward the end zone and swarmed around him, accepting him with pats on the back and shoves to the shoulder. That evening, he became one of us, and the following week, and every week thereafter, he was one of our own.

THE END