Besides lab books to grade during study hall, I have to prepare. Big time. Mr. Forward-Thinking White wants me to prepare the students to see The Day After, some hyped-up Cold War movie about the day after nuclear holocaust. Made for TV. Great timing after accusations of meddling in air space, after a Korean jetliner was obliterated in a test of nerves. I’m supposed to teach the physics of nuclear energy and weaponry and, as the headmaster puts it, “nuclear survival.”
“As if,” Carla would say.
At least White wants discussion. The plan is not to foist the horror upon the innocents, but to expose them and to help them understand. Tomorrow night the whole school is watching the TV movie together. Even Kyle, with the nuclear mushroom cloud on his notebook. The students excited to get out of chapel are Children of Inertia. Others with real fear of real possibilities are Children of the Cold War. Like Kyle.
But tonight Kyle is Mr. Chuckles. I’ve never seen him so smiley. His hair is slicked down and parted, not sticking in every direction. He has his Tim-Tim’s blazer on, and his tie is tied evenly. Brochure Cover Boy. His books are stacked in front of him, instead of scattered around his feet. His notebook, with the nuclear epicenter on the cover, is spread flat across the desk, and he’s bent over some white-lined paper. If I’m not mistaken, his fingers are clean. He’s digging his pencil into the paper and writing something. Every few words he looks up, laughs like a kid who’s discovered snow.
Maybe he’s writing a comic strip for Ms. Alta’s class. Probably not a Geography assignment. Maybe English. Maybe he’s writing a love letter to Carla. Maybe not.
One time reading Bloom County to Kim, I got her laughing so hard her IV almost popped out. The comic strip was the one where Opus has amnesia until he finds out that Diane Sawyer married Eddie Murphy.
The nurse who Kim and I called Ms. Weasel came through the curtain to check Kim’s temperature, like clockwork, and she said, “Sir, Ms. Song is not to be agitated.”
And I said, “Laughter does not agitate. That requires an entirely different motion.”
“Mr. Song,” Nurse Weasel said. “Try to behave.” And she spun on her thick white shoes, slapped the curtain aside, and vanished, although that takes an entirely different motion as well.
We only laughed harder, me in my metal chair next to her bed, Kim holding her stomach and falling back into the stack of pillows on the hospital bed.
Kyle is laughing hard, too. The other students near his desk turn their heads to look at him, but they’re used to his noises. One person throws a wad of paper. Kyle knocks it away with one hand. Laughs again. He’s all smiles. Mr. Happy-to-Be-Here.
The door hinge to the study hall squeaks even if opened slowly. There’s Alta sticking her head in.
“Mr. Song,” Alta says. Her neck is long like the rest of her. “May I speak with you?”
I nod.
Without causing friction between my chair and the wood floor, I leave my stack of lab books and make it out the door. She’s still in her chapel clothes, skirt, blazer, penny loafers.
“Is Kyle in there?” She crosses her arms.
“As usual.”
She smiles a half smile into her cheek. “That’s funny,” she says, “he missed half my class, an appointment, and dinner.” She looks down at her feet. Her body is so muscled she has to tip forward to see over her crossed arms.
“Who knows the mind of a Second Former.”
“That’s for sure,” she says. “But Donny Zurkus is on the war path.”
“What for?”
“I’m not sure. Both of them were to meet me at White’s before dinner. Only Donny showed up.” The fingers of one hand stroke her forehead.
“I can tell you that Mr. Zurkus is asleep in study hall, and Kyle is quite ebullient this evening.”
“Kyle?”
“Mr. Smiles. He’s writing something and laughing.”
“Well,” she says, “this Donny thing can wait, I guess. I’ll find out when White’s free tomorrow morning, and leave you a note tonight for Kyle.” Her hand drops from her face. Laws of gravity work for falling objects. There’s no law for concern falling away. Alta’s face no longer has the emotion it did when she walked in.
“Fine idea.”
What I don’t say is that I saw Kyle meet Carla in the cornfield before dinner. What I don’t say is that Donny could sneak into Kyle’s cubby tonight. But it’s late in the evening, the lab books are not grading themselves, and what I could say is unscientific.
Rower-Dyke Alta, her skirt and blazer, turns the hall into a cave with her tall walk, her shoulders rotating each step. Optical illusion. But since the beginning of the year, since the faculty cocktail party on the lawn of the main building, she’s shorter. A friend’s death by river makes any body shrink. No object resists that much gravity.
Back through the squeaky door, I return to my pile of lab books in time for the bell to ring. Study hall turns into racetrack. Masters and Mistresses of Underachievement spring from their desks, grab their books, and sprint out the door. Donny Zurkus stretches one arm high in the air, looks over at Kyle, drops his arm, grabs the book he slobbered on, and takes off.
Not Kyle.
Cover-Boy Kyle has two hands on his desk. Between them is his open notebook, his white lined paper, and the letter or whatever, written in pencil. I swear, he’s smiling. His elbows straighten out, his palms press flat on the desk, and he grins at the paper. King of the Contented. No box or bat or bluebird to fold.
“Mr. Harney,” I say, “time to go.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, sir.” He’s still looking at his paper, not turning around to look at me.
“Let’s go, young man.”
“Yes, sir.”
He slides the paper off the edge of the desk with one hand and picks it up with the other, careful not to wrinkle it. Out of his notebook he pulls an envelope. Then, he folds the paper, makes the creases with the pad of his hand, slides the paper in, licks the envelope, and seals it by patting it down. While I am Mr. Patient, he addresses the envelope, goes back to the notebook, takes stamps out of the inside flap, and puts one on. He presses the stamp in place and pats it and carries the letter like a feather in his hand. The letter is all he looks at as he walks.
He passes by me without looking up.
He doesn’t see the door open in front of him, and Donny Zurkus standing there with his minions. Mr. Menace.
“Well, Zippy hasn’t left, yet,” Donny says.
Kyle looks up, looks at each of the five boys, and his right hand, with the envelope, tries to find his jacket pocket to tuck the letter in. The envelope bobs up and down until it slips into his pocket.
“Mr. Zurkus, get out of the way,” I say. Now I know Ms. Alta should’ve taken Kyle to see White.
“Mr. Song, we’re just escorting Kyle back to the dorm. We’re his bodyguards, aren’t we, Kyle?” Donny’s face is a bad commercial, all smiles and cutesy wink. Mr. Ingenuous.
Inside a ring of Fifth Formers, Kyle is small, a ball in a pinball machine. The bigger boys start to pat him, push him, pretend to be a pal. He bounces between the hands. But he’s smiling. His smile is soft and big, and his body is loose, swaying between the hands pushing him.
“Enough,” I say, “leave him alone.”
“Hey, Mikey! He likes it,” Donny says, like Kyle is on a box of Life cereal. Even Donny appears a little surprised at the way Kyle’s neck sways as his body moves between the boys’ hands. Donny looks at me with something small in his eyes. If his eyes were someone else’s, the look would be a question, asking for approval. In this moment, Donny shows how young he is.
But five big boys are bouncing one small one between them. My throat opens up, the right space for the right amount of air, and my voice comes out loud. “Donny Zurkus, cut it out.”
All the boys step back from Kyle. Kyle’s body makes a pendulum motion even though the boys aren’t pushing him any more.
“And we thought Zippy was just Alta’s pet.”
Donny’s henchmen smile.
“Mr. Zurkus, you will report to Mr. White in the morning. You will return to your dorm right now. You will remain in your room for the entire evening.”
As if I can make Donny stay in his room.
The other boys, lemmings all, turn away. Donny takes a few steps back from Kyle, and he raises one arm, points at Kyle, keeps pointing as he walks backwards. He tilts his head and sights down the length of his arm. He keeps Kyle in his sights until he is about to run into the wall and drops his hand, spins around. With so much show, Mr. Bad Apple acts more middle school than applying to colleges.
Kyle doesn’t say anything. Stands there. He sticks his hand in the pocket of his jacket.
“Got to go, Mr. Song. Off to off myself,” Kyle says. Study hall often ends this way with Kyle making a joke about his demise. A body in motion. His hand in the air, he waves it like a royal wave down the hall. As if he is king for a moment. The hall is bigger with Kyle walking down, the brown linoleum floor more shiny. Like a hospital ward, but shiny.