"Jordan, can you come in here, please?" My mom called from the kitchen. She was using her disappointed voice. I hated the disappointed voice.
As I walked downstairs, I pondered all of the things my mom could be disappointed over. They weren't mad about my breach of curfew, surprisingly. They had been forgiving since I had never broken the rules before. When I rounded the corner and met my mom's eyes, I knew that this was not about something as simple as a broken curfew. My mom's eyes were daggers. They were fire. If she could have shot laser beams from her eyes, I'd have been dead.
"I'm going to give you the opportunity to tell me what you did to Marc Foster last month. And then maybe I'll give you the opportunity to explain yourself. But right now I'm not interested in an explanation." She looked like she was about to explode. She was so angry she was vibrating.
I felt the color drain from my skin. I wanted to melt into a puddle right then and evaporate. I wanted to find some way to distract my mother, run away while she wasn't looking, change my name, and live in Tijuana as somebody else. I wanted to do anything except tell my mom what Robin, Jonathan, and I had done to Marc Foster.
"You know what, no. I'm not even going to give you the chance. I'm so mad, Jordan. I have never been this mad at you. Is this because of Robin? Or Jonathan? Or Joanna? What? Your social life is suddenly important to you and you start doing things like this?"
She was talking so fast that I was having trouble keeping up. I couldn't even follow what she was saying. Robin? Joanna and Jon? Couldn't she see this was about something bigger than that? Marc was a bully. He needed to be knocked down a peg.
"What's going on? Honey, I can see the anger dripping off you." My dad walked in from his study, standing beside my mom. "Care to clue me in?"
Slowly, my mom turned to look at my dad. She was vibrating with rage. Any moment she was going to grow giant and green and destroy things. And I would be dead. I'd be worse than dead. I'd be expelled and I'd have to live with my mother forever and I'd wish I were dead.
"Your son decided to load Marc Foster's locker with manure right before Christmas break. We now have to pay for all of his textbooks and school supplies, as well as pay to have that entire area cleaned by professionals."
I felt my body relax into a comfortable position again. They didn't know. They didn't know about the emails. They didn't know about the absolute public humiliation we had cause Marc to endure. I could live with manure-inspired disappointment.
"Right on," my dad smiled, a devilish glint in his eye. Then his mouth dropped as my mom hit him, full force, with her death glare.
"Oh, come on, Annemarie. This guy's been terrorizing our son since the third grade," I was surprised my dad had leapt to my defense. I had never seen him not side with my mom. "The kid nearly broke Jordan's nose a few months ago."
"Yes, and I wanted to call his mother, and maybe the police, and settle the issue then," my mom cut in, her arms crossed and her back tenth clenched. "But you told me that Jordan needed to learn to fight his own fights."
"And he does. And he did. He took matters into his own hands. And we're lucky he's not me. Because I would have settled things in a less orthodox method. I'd have been kicked out of school for beating the snot out of him."
I had never seen my parents argue, before. Not really. And definitely not about me. They were always on the same page. They always supported each other when it came to decisions about me. But I was with my dad on this. I didn't see what the big deal was.
"Steve," my mom said through nearly gritted teeth. "That was Jordan's principal. The school views this as vandalism. They want to pursue action against Jordan. This is bigger than a rivalry, right now."
"Action because he stood up to a bully?" My father was incredulous and was making no effort to hide it on his face.
"Dad, it's okay," I shrugged. "I mean, I guess I broke a rule."
"No, son, it's not okay." He was furious. "I won't let the school punish you for handling your own problems. Schools are so quick to intervene these days—"
"Steve!" My mom barked, cutting him off. "He broke a rule. We have raised our son better than that. I understand you've got this incredible sense of justice, but—"
"Annemarie, this boy has been terrorizing our son. And he has reported it to teachers and staff and they have done nothing. They can't just pick and choose when they want to act. I'll march into that principal's office and—"
"Steve, enough!" My mom was angry. I have never heard her raise her voice. "I've negotiated with the principal; the school will forgive Jordan's lack of judgement if he will serve some community service hours at the school this weekend. He and Marc will be cleaning up the campus and doing whatever Principal Ammerman asks. We can talk to Mrs. Foster about her lack of discipline with her child. But right now, I'm doing everything in my power to not have our son suspended."
When my mom finally turned back to me, I was grateful that looks couldn't kill. Her hair seemed to grow with anger, curls spreading out around her head as if somebody had a run a balloon through them. For a moment, she was part banshee and her screams meant my sure demise.
"Jordan Alexander Johnson," she began so loud that the glasses on the table in front of her vibrated. "I'd like you to remind me of any time I have ever once told you to get even. Please cite, with documentation, the exact moment I told you that vandalism was the answer to any problem. If you can't provide that kind of documentation, I suggest you get upstairs, go into your room, shut the door, and don't open it until I have decided that I can look at you without wanting to scream. I have never been this angry in my entire life and I don't intend to ever get this angry again. Am. I. Understood?" She emphasized her last three words like individual sentences.
I could only nod, I was so terrified. I had not been mirandized, but I knew that everything and anything I said would be used against me. So, instead, I just hurried upstairs, locking myself in the sanctuary of my bedroom and opening a book.
I had really screwed up. It had felt good when I did it, but had I Jonathan's abilities with computers and Robin's aptitude at mathematics, I would gladly have built a time machine to travel backwards and stop myself from doing it
And then I sat bolt upright. I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead and my hands began to shake. The other thing. The actually horrible thing we did. What if they found out who did that? I was so angry when we planned it. I was so hellbent on vindication for Joanna that I didn't really think it through. I could never hide it from my mom, she was too perceptive. And if she reacted like this to manure in a locker, I didn't even want to think about how she would react to cyberbullying.
I reached for my cell phone but remembered I had left it downstairs. I needed to call Robin. I needed a paper bag to breathe into. I needed to disappear and live somewhere my mother couldn't find me. I should not be having such a large reaction to getting it trouble, but it was my first time. And my mom had never looked so angry before.
A knock came from my door. I was too terrified to answer it, so I didn't say anything.
"Hey, buddy," my dad said in his soothing voice. "Listen, your mom is really pissed. It's probably best you walk lightly for a while. I've actually never seen her this angry before."
I wanted to scoff. I wanted to raise my voice, or argue, or something. I just felt this well of emotions inside me that didn't make sense; they were illogical.
"It was just a simple prank," I finally huffed. I needed to say something, needed to defend myself.
"I know, son." He shook his head. "But I have to respect your mom's decision in this. It's going to suck, but you're grounded. I got her to cut your punishment down to two weeks. She understands you were defending yourself, but you've got to learn to turn the other cheek."
"Dad?" I asked, my cheeks red with anger and embarrassment. "What exactly am I grounded from?" I had never been grounded before. I wasn't exactly sure what it would entail.
"Everything," Dad screwed his face up into a grimace. I'd never seen a grimace on his face before. It was as uncomfortable for me to see was it was for him to make. "No phone, no TV or video games. No dates with Robin or hanging out with Joanna or Jonathan. Basically, you go to school, you come home, and you do twenty hours of service at the school with Marc and Principal Ammerman."
I could tell it pained him to tell me that. He wanted to just smooth it all over. He had been banking, I could tell, on never having to punish me before I graduated high school.
Teen movies told me I should say things like but that's not fair! But I thought it was fair. I was supposed to argue and yell at my dad, but I didn't feel like it. I made a poor choice. And the consequences sucked. But I had inherited my logician's mind from my dad and I knew that consequences were a natural result of choices. It sucked, but it was true.
Instead, I just nodded and told him that I understood.
"On the bright side," Dad continued, sadness still thick in his voice. "Your mom negotiated with the principal to also make Marcus serve community service hours with you. She made it clear that someone with a record like yours would not have done something like that totally unprovoked. So, at least you can feel a little bit of vindication?"
I didn't say anything. The last thing I wanted was to spend my mother-enforced community service with Marcus Foster. That was truly like adding insult to injury.
When dad left, I stared out the window at the beautiful winter day. The sun was bright and, despite the dead landscape of winter, I thought everything looked beautiful. The sky was blue-gray and the clouds thin and wispy. Wasn't it supposed to downpour when you get grounded? Shouldn't I be playing some sappy piano-heavy track in the background as I looked out on the world from the solitude of my window? This was truly foreign ground.
I laid back on my bed, decided to try reading again, and lived with the dread that I would have to spend the next day with Marc.
"Rise and shine," my mom came in and dropped a bag of cold marbles in my bed. No matter how I twisted or turned, they followed me, rolling and placing themselves against my body. I couldn't contort in a way to avoid them.
"What are you doing?" I stammered, getting out of bed. "It's still dark!"
I looked at the clock on my bedside table. It was 5:15 in the morning. What? I had never been up that early; not even the time we went to Disney World.
"That must be horrible for you," my mom said, mock sympathy in her voice. "If only there were some way you could have avoided all of this. Oh, wait, there was."
I didn't like my mom mad at me. It sucked. It was the worst feeling I had ever endured. Would I ever see her smile again?
"We leave in 30 minutes. No, you may not drive yourself. No, you may not ask questions. No, you may not make requests for breakfast," she ticked off her fingers as she spoke. "Oatmeal will be ready downstairs in ten minutes. You have to be at school at 6:00. If you make us late, I will add time to your sentence."
She shut the door as she left, and I was left, standing speechless in my room. Ten hours of community service with Marc Foster at school, today. I could guarantee there was not a single paper crane that detailed that form of hell. I wouldn't have wished for that in a thousand years.
When Mom dropped me off at school, the sun was just beginning to peek through the clouds. Principal Ammerman waited outside for me, Marc already in tow. It was unusual to see our school principal dressed in anything less than a suit and tie, but that day he was clad in dirty jeans and a rumpled sweatshirt. He wore a blue ball cap and severe glare.
"Thank you, Dr. Johnson," he nodded to her as he opened my door to let me out of the car. "I appreciate your understanding. I'm sorry that we're having to endure this at all."
"Thank you, sir, for allowing my son the opportunity to build some character," she returned, glaring just as harshly at me. "With any luck, this will be the only time he'll need it. I'll see you at 5:00." She smiled at Principal Ammerman, and then glared at me once more before pulling away.
I felt my insides melt. I didn't realize that when my dad said twenty hours, and my mom said this weekend, they both meant the same thing. Eleven hours at school with Marc Johnson? I'd rather have been suspended.
"Jesus Christ," Marc huffed when he finally noticed my arrival. "It's always you. I can't get away from you." He balled up his fists at his side, but released them just as quickly.
"As much as I enjoy a good love fest," Principal Ammerman interrupted. "We've got a lot of work to do today, boys. Let's get to it."
There were fewer things I wanted to get to less than cleaning the school with Marc Foster by my side. Punch a sleeping rhinoceros? Wrestle with an alligator? Both things that were higher on my list than endure my mother-enforced community service with Marc Foster.
"We're going to start with the lockers," Principal Ammerman said in his always-stern voice. "Since that seems to be a favorite location of you two."
When we approached the row of lockers where Marc's locker stood, we found two large buckets full of soapy water. Alongside them rested several cans of cleaning chemicals and a bucket of paint. The smell of manure still wafted from Marc's locker as strong as it had the day I loaded his locker.
I tried to suppress a smile, thinking on my small victory over Marc. Marc, however, turned red faced, either in embarrassment or anger. Principal Ammerman maintained his calm demeanor as he put sponges in our hands.
"You boys are going to start with Mr. Foster's locker and scrub it until it smells like lemon and fresh air. And then, because I take pride in our school's opinion, you're going to clean every locker in this school. I want all of theme scrubbed. Any of them with graffiti will be cleaned with this," he held up a can of cleaner as he spoke.
"I'm sure there are a few cases where even magic won't work on the graffiti. And in that case," Principal Ammerman pointed to the can of paint beside him. "You will repaint the locker."
I expected for Principal Ammerman to disappear at this point, like in some John Hughes film. But, instead, he rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a sponge, and began scrubbing at a set of lockers just down the hallway from us.
"I should be at the hunting lease, today," Marc sneered under his breath as we began to work on the disgusting mess I had made of his locker. It smelled awful. Why hadn't I thought about just how disgusting manure was when I filled his locker? I, at least, was grateful that nobody else was cleaning up this mess after me. I would have felt awful if some poor custodian had to clean up my mess.
"This is all your fault," he whispered more pointedly. "I can't believe I'm stuck here."
"Oh, for the love of God," I spat back. Why does he bring out the worst in me? I was typically a pacifist. In fact, I typically avoided confrontation altogether. But Marc made me want to punch somebody. He made me see red.
"You're right, Marcus. This is all my fault. You played no part in it." I felt my heart rate increase, my blood pressure rise. "Because you haven't gone out of your way to relentlessly bully me for years. You didn't punch me in the face two months ago."
I was seconds away from actually, literally attacking him.
"And it's not just me," I was seething, scrubbing the locker so hard, I was afraid I was going to strip off the paint. "You're awful to everybody. You tell Shane how dumb he is. You always start crap with Jon."
I felt like I was vomiting words. I had never spoken so much at one time to anyone, excluding Robin, Jon, and Jo.
"And not to mention what you did to Joanna. What's the matter, Marc? You can't get a girlfriend like any other guy, so you have to get them drunk to make them pay attention to you? How many other girls have you done that to?" As I got angrier, I felt bile rise in my throat. My mouth tasted bitter and my vision went red.
"Shut the hell up," Marc growled through his teeth. "if Ammerman wasn't right there, I'd—"
"You'd what, Marc?" I couldn't figure out why I was goading him. Why was I defying him? I knew he would hit me; he'd done it before.
"You'd hit me? Prove that you haven't the brains to talk your way through a situation?"
And then a horribly devilish idea popped into my mind, completely formed. And it was awful. And it was low. And I said it anyway.
"What's the matter, Marcus? Daddy didn't teach you to talk it out before he ran away?"
Marc's father left his mom when we were in elementary school. Nobody ever brought it up under impending threat of Marc's fist. But just because his life sucked did not give him the right to be a jerk.
A loud, metallic crash echoed through the hall, making my head snap to find its source. Marc stood, red-faced with tears forming in his eyes, his balled fist resting in a newly-formed crater in the locker door. He heaved with anger, or maybe pain, I couldn't be sure.
"That was low," Marc growled through gritted teeth. "You have no idea what it's like. You live this perfect goddamned life. You have no clue."
He balled his other fist and punched a second locker the door denting with the impact. His knuckles turned red after a moment and I thought I could see blood, but I wasn't sure.
"You wanna know what my dad didn't teach me before he left?" He looked at me, eyes red, tears pooling at the bottom of his eyes, but not yet falling. "He didn't teach me how to deal with everybody looking so sad for me. He didn't teach me to explain to people that he was an asshole who hit my mom before he ran out. He didn't teach me how to come to school with people like you who are so absorbed in themselves and their perfect lives.
He sucked in deep, finally taking his hands off the lockers. His knuckles had already begun to turn purple around the bloody cracks. How many times had he punches walls? How many times had he lost control? Or was that his way of maintaining control?
"I'm..." I stopped. I didn't know what to do or say.
"You're what?" Marc laughed a scary, maniacal laugh. "Sorry? Were you going to say sorry? What, you realize the Big Bad Wolf has a heart, so now you want to take it all back? Well, don't. I don't need your pity."
I didn't pity him. I didn't feel bad for him. He was awful. He was a predator. He destroyed Joanna. But I understood him better. I saw, I guess, that he was a human being. A vile, cruel human being, but a human being, all the same.
"I'm sorry that happened," I say trying to sound unfazed. "And it sucks. But that doesn't mean you get to ruin other peoples' lives. You don't get that authority."
I didn't realize that I had moved on to cleaning a new locker until I was already elbow deep in grime. But I continued to scrub, avoiding eye contact. Trying to avoid saying anything else.
"Like you'd know anything about a ruined life," Marc scoffed, still refusing to lift a finger to clean the lockers.
"I don't recall the nurse telling the entire school that you had venereal disease. Happy birthday to me, right?"
I almost laughed out loud but restrained myself. I didn't realize that it had affected him so badly. I felt triumphant. I felt invulnerable. And then I felt my gut sink.
"My mother is pressing filing a law suit against Nurse Bell when we get back from vacation."
Why hadn't I taken that into account when I'd planned my revenge? Why didn't I think about what would happen to Nurse Bell after the emails were sent? I hoped Marc could not see the panic that I was sure had overtaken my face.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked, trying to save face. "You're suing the school nurse because you got an STI?" I couldn't let him know I knew the emails was a fake. When had lying become so easy for me? When had I gotten so caught up in lies?
"I don't have an STI," he said flatly, rolling his eyes.
"So what are you suing her for?"
"It's illegal to give out someone's medical information."
"But if you don't have anything, then she didn't leak anything." I was trying not to speak too quickly; I didn't want him to think I cared too much about the situation.
Marc faltered for a minute, his eyes darting around the hallway as he processed what I had said.
"She should still get fired for sending out an email with lies about me to the entire school." He finally said, sounding a lot whinier than I had ever heard him. "The entire school is calling me Toad, now."
At this, I allowed myself to laugh out loud—a deep, belly laugh. He sounded like a little kid. He was upset that people were calling him names?
"Are you kidding me right now?" I laughed. "People have been calling you names for as long as I can remember."
I struggled to catch my breath. I was irreverent in my laugher. It was all so ridiculous.
"So you're mad because you're embarrassed?" I began cleaning yet another locker as Marc stood there, unmoving. "I'm embarrassed every day. You don't see me trying to get people fired."
"You're different, Johnson," Marc explained, as if to a child. "Nobody likes you."
"From my vantage," I smiled, determined not to let Marc get the best of me. "We're not different at all. Nobody likes you, either, Toad."
I prepared to be punched in face by Marc, again. I mentally steeled myself for the blow, but it never came. Instead, something far more terrifying did. Marc laughed. Not his typical, jeering, tormenting laugh, either. No. He laughed a true, jovial, heaty laugh.
"That was good, Johnson," he chuckled, reaching, for the first time, into the bucket of soapy water to retrieve a sponge. "I didn't realize you could be funny."
Were we bonding? I hoped to God we weren't bonding. I refused to bond with someone as vile and loathsome as Marcus Foster. But it wouldn't necessarily be the worst idea to keep him distracted from talks of law suits and legal action, so I chose the better of two evils.
"It rears its head from time to time," I shrugged, trying to act casual. "Maybe if you're lucky, I'll recite a dirty limerick or something."
After that, Marc seemed all talked out, which was all the better for me; it meant I could go back to silently resenting his existence. We scrubbed in silence for what seemed an eternity before Principal Ammerman returned with brown paper bags in-hand.
"Even prisoners get to eat," he said, chucking a bag to each of us. Inside, we found a bag of corn chips, a bottle of water, and a slightly squished ham sandwich.
"Real exotic cuisine," Marc muttered under his breath and I fought to stifle a laugh.
"Still better than the cafeteria food," I muttered in response. Why was I being nice? I had already decided that Marcus was despicable.
Something about that lunch break, though, caused the tension in the air around us to shatter. We weren't friends; we would never be friends. But we were no longer nemeses.
We found it easier to work around each other, and by the end of our stint in community service, we had managed to make every locker look as good as new. I still worried about Nurse Bell and I wondered what action I could take to save her career. But I knew Marcus wouldn't be coming for me anytime soon. Something in me even told me he was going to back off Joanna.
When we finished our final hour of community service, I silently played the closing scene of The Breakfast Club in my bead. Marc and I stood on the curb, waiting on our moms and saying nothing. It was a comfortable silence. It was the kind of silence that said I acknowledge your existence, but I don't have to acknowledge you.
"Hey," I said as my mom's car rolled to a stop. "I never told you thank you."
Marc looked at me, perplexed, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
"That night at the football game, you know, when you hit me? It led Robin and me on our first date. So thank you. But don't hit me again."
"Jordan Johnson, the only man who can lose a fight and somehow make the other guy a wingman," he laughed. Then we made our ways to our parents' cars.
"Hey," Marc called as I pulled open the passenger door. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were actually an alright person." He climbed into his car before I could response, leaving me with a goofy half-grin on my face.
"You're not supposed to look so pleased with yourself after you've finished serving community service," Mom's annoyed voice pulled me back to reality. I was still grounded. I was still in trouble. But at least I wouldn't be terrorized anymore. Sometimes, small victories were the ones that really mattered.
When I got home that evening, I burned another paper crane. I had thanked Marc.