Landon blushed, humiliated to be slumped there on the exam table without his shirt, rolls of blubber quivering like Jell-O. He hugged himself to cover up as much as he could while the nurse probed Landon’s bruised shoulders and chest. Speaking in a loud voice, she told Mr. Edwards, “Students today are trouble, and the parents can be worse. Mr. Sanders isn’t going to want the Dreyfuses on his case.”
“How could they complain? It’s their son who gave Landon these bruises.” Mr. Edwards’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
“You said the boys were teammates, Dalton. Football?”
“They are.”
Landon looked back and forth between them, thinking that it was strange to hear Mr. Edwards called by his first name, Dalton.
“Right.” She gave a nod and whisked her hands together with some Purell before turning to make some notes at her desk. “Football. Bruises. That’s consistent, Dalton.”
“Skip Dreyfus was using him as a punching bag,” Mr. Edwards said.
“I believe you, but the Dreyfuses are apt to suggest these came from football.” The nurse clucked her tongue. “Luckily these bruises aren’t serious, but I know Mr. Sanders is going to have to deal with this. You can put your shirt on, Landon.”
Landon wiggled into his shirt and followed Mr. Edwards to the principal’s office. “I’m really okay, sir.” His mom would go ballistic if she heard he’d been attacked. “The nurse is right, I might have gotten these bruises in football, or jumping in the pool. We had a cannonball contest Saturday.”
Mr. Edwards looked at Landon and sighed. He seemed both disappointed and flustered. “I get it, Landon. You don’t want more trouble. But sometimes trouble’s what it takes.”
They reached the office. “Okay, wait here.”
Landon took the seat outside the principal’s office and sat for quite a while before Mr. Sanders’s door opened and the principal signaled him to come in.
To Landon’s complete surprise, Skip was still there, shoulders hunched, head angled down, looking angry. Mr. Sanders pointed at the chair next to Skip. Landon hesitated, but Mr. Sanders gave him an impatient nod, so he sat down.
Mr. Sanders laced his fingers together and laid his locked-up hands on the desk in front of him. “Boys . . . things happen, and sometimes the best thing is to resolve them quietly and move on.”
Landon nodded because he was on board with whatever. If there was a way to avoid bringing his mother in on all this, he was game.
“I don’t know how things worked in . . .”—Mr. Sanders searched an open file before him on the desk—“. . . Cleveland, Landon, but in Bronxville we like to resolve our differences and move on. Now, I know you two got into a kind of shoving match in the hall. . . .”
Mr. Sanders looked closely at Landon. Landon was briefly confused because a shoving match wasn’t anything like what had happened.
“I . . . uh, yes.” Landon nodded and looked at Skip, who still appeared furious behind his clenched teeth.
“Right!” Mr. Sanders banged his hands to bring home the point. “And when shoving matches occur, we talk to the offenders and give them a stern warning and send them on their way. But . . .”
Mr. Sanders now raised a single finger and looked back and forth between them. “This cannot happen again.”
Landon shook his head no. Skip tightened his grip on the armrests of his chair.
“Mr. Dreyfus? Are we clear on this?”
Skip didn’t move his mouth when he spoke, but Landon was pretty sure he said, “Yes.”
“Mr. Dorch?”
Although Landon was confused, since he’d done nothing wrong, he knew he had to agree and make all this go away. So he said, “Yes, sir.” With a nod of his head, Landon prepared to rise.
“Because next time there will be detention and possibly suspension, for you both.”
Landon kept nodding and rising, and Mr. Sanders said, “Now shake hands before you go.”
Landon searched Skip’s face and saw a flicker of relief before he smiled a phony smile and stretched out his hand for the shake.
Mr. Sanders said, “Good. Now go.”
Landon left without bothering to look back at Skip. He could only assume the redheaded quarterback was right behind him, and with the halls empty now halfway through fourth period, Landon hustled along at nearly a jog because he was seriously unsure whether or not Skip would obey the principal. Landon didn’t stop until he reached Room 117 and his earth science class with Mrs. Lewis. He looked in through the window and saw everyone staring at the short, round teacher. Landon turned the knob slowly, trying to be quiet, but when he looked over his shoulder and saw Skip trudging toward him, he fumbled with the knob, sprung it open, and spilled inside, tripping and dumping himself and his backpack onto the floor.
The whole class burst into laughter.
Horrified, Landon looked up to see what Mrs. Lewis was saying to him because he could hear the drone of the teacher’s voice.
“What?” Landon asked as he gathered himself and his backpack.
“What?” Mrs. Lewis said. “Are you making fun of me with that tone of voice?”
“No.” Landon shook his head fiercely. “I didn’t hear what you said. I was just asking what you said.”
She studied Landon for a moment before relaxing the smallest bit. “I said, ‘Fighting and clowning around is no way to begin your career as a Bronxville student,’ Mr. Dorch. And you, Mr. Dreyfus, don’t think you fool me with that smile. Take a seat.”
Landon wedged himself into an empty seat, front row, middle, and the teacher looked past him. “Magma from deep in the earth’s core . . .”
Landon tried to take his things out as quietly and smoothly as possible. By the time he had a blank notebook page and a pencil in his hand, he’d missed at least one, if not three, important points. He glanced around and saw the others writing furiously.
Landon knew he should raise his hand and ask the teacher to explain again. He knew that’s what his mother would urge him—demand him, even—to do.
She’d said it a thousand times if she’d said it once. “The squeaky wheel gets the grease, Landon, and no child of mine is going to worry about making a little noise. Bang the drums! Crash the cymbals, Landon!”
Landon heard her words, and his brain steamed like a teakettle.
Several times his hand crept up the front of his shirt, fingers extended, ready to rise up, but he just couldn’t do it. So, he sat and spiraled down into an ever-greater state of confusion.