CHAOS: a story about gods and afternoon recess (#ONC2023)

Chapter Seven

When I return the children to their classroom, Mr. Pattinson is waiting for them, dressed in a pair of long athletic pants that appeared to be too large for him. He'd pinned them at the waistband and now stood leaning against his desk, scowling, with his arms folded over his beefy chest. The children walk in with their eyes downcast and take their seats in silence.

"You lost?" he asks them.

One little girl sniffs her tears away.

"They fought, valiantly. They performed exactly as I asked them to. You should be proud and reward them," I said.

"There is no medal for last place."

"They do not request medals, Pattinson. They wish only to earn your respect."

"And ice cream," said the wild-haired girl I so admired.

I conceded the point. "And ice cream."

Pattinson opens his mouth, but before he can spew whatever nonsense he plans to say, I tell the children, "I will be commanding your gym class beginning next week. If Pattinson fails to provide for you, I will stand in his stead. There will be ice cream." The children stare up at me with bright, hopeful eyes. Pattinson glares. I bow from the waist and bid them good day.

Stepping into the hall, I spot Ms. Williams. Her cheeks are flushed from her time in the sun. Several strands of hair have worked loose and frame her delicate face.

"He'll never forgive you," she says.

"I do not require his worship."

She chuckles. "Do you require ice cream? You're welcome to come join us."

Before I can answer, she turns and strolls back into her room. Her lovely hips sway from side to side—a pendulum that hypnotizes me and pulls me along in her wake.

When I step through the door, my little band of followers leap from their seats. Jumping up and down, cheering, they surround me.

"You did it!"

"We won!"

"We beat them!"

Other children join them. They encircle me. One presses a small, Styrofoam cup of ice cream into my hand. Another plants a gold star sticker on the front of my shirt. The tiniest boy in the room holds up an eraser that smells like sour apples. "Jenny said you helped us win. I never won anything before, so I want you to have this for helping us."

So many gifts and praises are heaped upon me that I grow giddy with power. Without meaning to, I cause the lights to flicker. The children, drunk with victory and sugar, shriek and race around the room. Two of them crash into each other and fall to the floor, where they both lay stunned, staring at the ceiling.

Ms. Williams claps her hands three times and most of the boys and girls freeze and repeat the gesture. She claps twice more and the remaining children quiet. A single clap sees the room fall into silence. In a soft voice that carries a smile, she asks them all to return to their seats.

I will the lights back to life.

"There," she says. "You see? It was nothing to get excited about. Now, who would like to raise their hand and tell me their favorite part of field day?"

"I liked when Mr. Pattypants ripped his pants and everybody saw his crazy unders," Matthew declares.

Giggles erupt throughout the room.

Ms. Williams repeats the clapping ritual and the children fall silent again. "Now, who would like to raise their hand and tell me their favorite part?"