Do Not Resuscitate. Charley Brindley
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there, I hurried away, looking for the history classroom.
The lunch hour was an even worse experience.
“What’s that smell?” said a boy at the next table.
“Cow shit,” said another.
“Where’s it coming from?”
“Oh, look, it’s the plow boy.”
“What are you doing in here, Clod Hopper?”
I looked down at the egg sandwich Mom had made for me.
“I think he’s eating a cow shit sandwich.”
The other boys laughed, drawing attention from the next table.
“I thought brown-baggers were supposed to eat outside?”
“Yep, that’s the rule.”
“Probably when he learns the parts of speech,” a girl said, “he’ll be able to read the rulebook.”
I knew who it was without looking—Ember.
“Didn’t they make a rule book with pictures,” she said, “so the farmers can figure out the regulations?”
That got her a round of laughter.
“Yeah,” a boy said, “a coloring book.”
I rolled the rest of my sandwich in the paper bag and grabbed my thermos of milk.
“Oh, no. He’s about to cry.”
They boo-hooed and tossed off more smart remarks as I hurried from the cafeteria.
I couldn’t get away fast enough, and I sure wasn’t hungry anymore.
That’s the last time I’ll go there for lunch. Is there really a rule about not taking your lunch into the cafeteria? Maybe if I eat there, I have to buy my lunch. If I had lunch money, I would. Tomorrow, I’ll go outside at lunchtime to see if anyone else brings their lunch from home.
“Mom, I don’t want to go to school.”
It was the morning after my first day of high school.
“Why?” She worked on my sandwich for lunch.
“Everyone hates me.”
“I don’t think they hate you.”
“They picked on me all day, even at lunch.”
“Did you tell them to leave you alone?”
I shook my head and took a bite of Post Toasties and milk, then added another teaspoon of sugar.
“When they say something mean to you, say something back.”
“But I can never think of anything until it’s all over. After they laugh and walk away, then I think of a comeback.”
“Well, you have to think faster.”
Yeah, good idea, Mom. But my brain is too slow for that.
“How about if I just punch them in the face? Except for the girls.”
“The girls are mean, too?”
“Yes.”
There’s no way I’m gonna talk to a girl. Or punch one, although I’d rather do that than talk to them.
“Where are you when they pick on you?”
“In the hallway, and at lunchtime in the cafeteria.”
“Okay, when a class ends, stay in the classroom until just a minute before the next class, then hurry to the next one before they have time to say anything. And find a quiet place to eat lunch. You don’t have to go to the cafeteria for lunch.”
“Good idea, Mom.”
I took my lunch sack and ran to catch the school bus.
At lunchtime, I grabbed my sandwich from the locker and hurried outside, where I wandered around until I came to the football field. I climbed the steps and sat in the middle of the empty bleachers.
As I unwrapped my egg sandwich from the wax paper, I noticed someone across the field, in the middle of the other set of bleachers. From her size, I knew it was Patsy. I thought about going over to ask if I could eat with her, but someone sat beside her. It was a girl with metal braces on both legs.
I could see they were talking while they ate, so I decided not to intrude. Besides, I didn’t know how to intrude.
Do I just walk over and sit down? Or ask if I could sit with them? What if they say, ‘No?’ Then what? That would be embarrassing. Better to keep to myself.
After a quick lunch, I went to my science classroom a half-hour early and sat in the empty room, where it was quiet. Twenty-five minutes later, when the kids started coming in, I pretended to read my textbook.
“Wow,” one of the boys said, “he knows how to read.”
“Na, he’s got a comic book hidden inside his science book.”
They laughed.
I should say something. What’s a good comeback? “Yeah, I got Superman in here.” No, that’s stupid. “Sure, don’t you wish you had one in yours?” No, that requires an answer, and he’d have a smart remark, then I’d have to think of another one. My God, social life’s complicated. I’ll just keep quiet until they get tired of pestering me. How long’s that going to take? Probably the whole semester. Crap, three months of teasing, pestering, and wisecracks. I’ll never make it. How does Patsy do it?
Mrs. Adams’s history class had some of the same students from my English class.
I sat in the back, hoping no one would notice.
After the teacher wrote 330 BC on the blackboard, she asked, “Where did Alexander the Great come from?”
Several students raised their hands.
She went to stand in front of a girl. “What’s your name?”
“Ember Coldstream.”
“Can you answer the question?”
“I think Brindley knows. He’s an expert on ancient history.” She turned to grin at me.
What? Why is she doing this to me?
“Brindley,” Mrs. Adams said, “where did Alexander the Great come from?”
“Um…England?”
“No. Anyone?”
Juliet raised her hand. Mrs. Adams nodded to her.
“Macedonia.”
“Right. And what empire was the first to be conquered by him?”
“Greece.”
“Right again. Good work. I’m glad someone’s been reading during summer vacation. Now, let’s talk about the Roman Empire.”
Before the class was over, she assigned us the first three chapters to read before the next day’s class.
Algebra was just as hard as English and history.
Why didn’t Mrs. Caldwell teach us some of this stuff?
“Buenas tardes estudiantes,” (Good afternoon, students) Mrs. Sandoval said at the beginning of Spanish class.
Several kids responded, “Buenas tardes, Señora Sandoval.”
“Es un hermoso día,” (It’s a beautiful day) Ember said.
I sat in the back of the room, staying very still. I had no idea what Ember had said, but it brought a smile to the teacher’s face.She then looked my way, and I sank down, knowing what was coming.
“Como te llamas, joven?” (What’s your name, young man?)
I only knew by her tone of voice that she’d asked a question. I shook my head.
“I