Chill (2 page)

And in this case, it was both.

“The school is going to be doing a mural this semester,” Ms. Surette told him. “I'd like you to design an entry, something that will inspire your fellow students. Are you interested?”

“Yes,” Chill said.

“You'll be going against the seniors, but I think you've got a great chance if you work hard at it, and I know you will.”

Chill humbly lowered his head while nodding thanks.

“You should do a self-portrait,” I told him. He didn't hear me. He'd already taken out his sketchpad and started to work.

What he didn't know, what neither of us knew, was that his true inspiration had yet to arrive, but when it did, it would change the face of the school in ways no one could have foreseen.

Second period was English. Because I wanted to be a writer I should have loved English, but I didn't. I couldn't understand why schools say that they want kids to read more and then make us study books that are guaranteed to turn any kid off literature for good.

They make us study the plays of a guy who's been dead for a few hundred years,
written in a language that might as well be Klingon. If we rent the movie, it's considered cheating, which is ridiculous because plays were written to be performed and watched, not read.

The other books we're made to study don't have anyone near our age in them and don't take place in a time anywhere near our own. How can I relate to the 1930s when I'm still trying to figure out how to relate to the time I'm living in?

Replace Shakespeare with film study, poetry with lyrics, Steinbeck with Rowling— then maybe you might keep our interest. But we all know that's not going to be happening anytime soon.

Sometimes you'll get a teacher, one of those teachers like Ms. Surette, who finds a way to take the works of dead people and bring them back to life. Our English teacher was new to the school, and as Chill and I walked through the hall, nodding to the kids we hadn't seen since last semester, I hoped the new teacher would be just such a teacher.

“Have you heard anything about the new English teacher?” I asked Chill, who was sketching while he walked.

“Uh-uh,” he mumbled.

“Maybe he'll be a teacher with a passion for the written word and pop culture,” I dreamt out loud. “The mentor I've been looking for,” I added.

“Yeah, maybe,” Chill said as we turned into the class.

We'd discover—not soon enough—that he was not going to be my mentor, but Chill's muse.

When we entered the room, the new teacher was nowhere in sight, just a briefcase sitting in the teacher's chair. I thought it was a good sign that the teacher was late. Maybe it meant he was a relaxed, laid-back kind of guy; the kind who would joke around with the students and be forgiving when they were late. This was not to be the case.

The teacher came in the door just as the bell rang. He was a big man. His shoulder-length
hair covered his face as he walked with his head down. He carried a handful of books under his arm. His pale purple tweed jacket with pink elbow patches meant he was either totally out of touch or a little eccentric. I needed to see more before I could make a determination.

He turned to face the class, revealing a gray beard that masked his face and made it obvious that his hair was colored. The orange hair color that he'd chosen to help him hang onto his youth matched his bow tie. A bow tie!

“Crap,” I said under my breath. “That's not good.”

He glanced my way.

Fortunately, after years of practice, I'd mastered a speech level that most teachers couldn't distinguish, with any certainty, from the voices in their heads.

Mac Webble helped in my cover-up. Mac was a little guy to begin with, but he had been truly dwarfed by the teacher when he'd followed him in. Mac was trying to find a seat when the teacher noticed him.

The new teacher slammed his books onto the table.

“Boy standing!” he yelled.

Mac spotted a chair on the far side.

“Boy standing,” the teacher repeated, picking up his books and slamming them down again.

Mac, realizing that he was the only one standing, looked around to be sure, then looked to the teacher and pointed to himself just to be absolutely certain, hoping to be wrong—a wish rarely made when called upon by a teacher.

“Yes, you,” the teacher said slowly, as if he thought Mac was having difficulty with the language. “Why are you late?”

“Late?”

“Yes, that's what you call it when someone doesn't arrive on time. I see I've got my work cut out for me if you're any representation of the class's abilities.”

“I followed you in.”

“And I was right on time, which would make you...?”

“Late?” asked Mac.

“Very good,” said the teacher. “Since we have made some progress today, I will let you take a seat and only put you on probation. If you're late again, you'll be going to the office. Now sit.”

Mac stood for less than a second in fear and confusion.

“Now!” the teacher yelled.

This sent Mac stumbling over one desk before falling into another. He finally took his seat while rubbing his shin.

“Well, class,” the teacher said, turning his back to us. He picked up a piece of chalk. “My name is...” and he sounded it out as he wrote on the board in big block letters.

“MR. S...F...I...”

He put extra emphasis on the
I,
making sure we understood that it was pronounced I, as in
I
hate my name.
I
will unleash a great wrath on any who mispronounce it.
I
still have nightmares over the locker it got me thrown into and the beatings
I
took. And then he quickly finished. “...NKTER.”

As he finished writing
Mr. Sfinkter
on
the board, a collective snort went up as the class tried to hold back a giggle.

Mr. Sfinkter spun around, opening his mouth. There was a knock on the door.

The anger disappeared immediately and a wide smile crossed his face as he walked over to answer the door.

“Ms. Surette,” he said, pouring on the false charm. “What a lovely surprise.”

At the sound of her name, Chill looked up from his drawing. He had not heard or noticed anything that had gone on in the class to this point.

“And to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Mr. Sfinkter asked.

“Chill forgot his bag,” she said, holding up a knapsack.

“Chill?” he said and looked to the class.

“Chill?” he repeated with cheerful authority.

Chill raised his hand, identifying himself.

“Come and get your things.”

Chill moved to get up.

“That's okay. I'll bring it to him,” Ms. Surette said.

“As you wish,” Mr. Sfinkter said, making a wide sweeping “come in” motion with his arm.

Ms. Surette smiled at his gentlemanly behavior.

Chill rose to take the bag from her.

“Thank you, Ms. Surette,” Chill said.

“Let's try and not make a habit of it this semester, okay?” she said with a smile.

“I'll try,” Chill said.

“That's all I can ask,” she said and exited, thanking Mr. Sfinkter as he bowed to her and closed the door.

He made his way back to his desk, where he opened up his class list and ran his finger down it until finding Chill's name.

“Mr. Holinground, is it?”

“Yes,” Chill replied.

“Should I expect you to be the cause of many interruptions?”

“No,” Chill said.

“Good,” he said. “And if you leave your bag in here, you may find yourself rummaging through the garbage bin to get it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Mr....” and then Chill looked to the board, “Sfinkter.”

Chill didn't pronounce the
I
as in
I
warned you, but the
I
as in
if
you show me respect, you'll get it in return.

“Sf
I
nkter!” the teacher yelled. “Or
sir
to you and everyone else for that matter! Since you all seem to have problems with the language, we'll use the small words!”

He was turning red, a red that, with his outfit, made him look like a demented clown. But after the narrow escape last time, no one snorted or giggled.

“Yes, sir,” Chill quickly said, calming Mr. Sfinkter ever so slightly.

“For the rest of this class, I want all of you to write me a page on what you expect to do with your lives. That way, I can assess your English skills as well as your grip on reality. Now get to it!”

Chill took his binder out of his bag and went right to work with the teacher staring at him. As soon as he looked away, I saw a little smile cross Chill's face. I knew that this was only the beginning.

The rest of the class was uneventful. Everyone worked quietly, trying to focus on their writing. I am sure we were all wondering what tortures lay ahead. I took a little solace in the subtle burn that Chill managed to lay on the teacher. It was things like that which made Chill popular with guys—his ability to get under a bad teacher's skin without ever taking it to a level to get in any real trouble. That and
the story from elementary school where he broke the kid's leg in six places and fractured his ribs.

He wasn't popular like “going to all the parties” popular or captain of the soccer team popular. It was more of an “allowed to do what he wanted without a lot of ridicule from fellow students” popular. He got a lot of respect.

Chill knew he had that respect, and he gave that same respect to everyone. He wasn't a part of any clique; he talked to jocks and computer geeks alike. But I was his only close friend.

Girls liked Chill's confidence, but Chill was only interested in one girl—Sara Langdon.

Sara was awkward, clumsy even, but I think that was mainly because she always had her arms filled with books. She held the books tight against her chest and had an overloaded backpack over her shoulder.

She carried it all with her so that she could avoid her locker and hide out in the cafeteria or library. Her method of serving
time in high school (and everyone needs some method) was to make herself invisible. And she was to everyone but Chill.

She was cute enough, in a plain, glasses wearing, bookworm kind of way, but I didn't see the attraction.

After completing my assignment, I looked over at Chill. He was watching Sara, who sat at the back in the seat closest to the door. I hadn't noticed her being there before that.

When the bell rang, Mr. Sfinkter told everyone to hand in their assignments.

I took Chill's up with me.

“You didn't say they were due at the end of class,” Mac said.

“I'm saying it now.”

“But, I'm not finished.”

“Then you'll be starting the semester with an F.”

“I can give you what I've got,” Mac said.

“If it isn't finished, I don't want it.”

“But...”

“But,” Mr. Sfinkter mocked. “May I remind you that you are already on probation? I don't like to be pushed.”

Then I heard the books fall. I didn't have to look to know they were Sara's. I also didn't have to look to know that Chill would already be there to help her pick them up.

Mr. Sfinkter did need to look. He sighed loudly and shook his head disapprovingly. Then he returned to the book he'd been reading all class.

The afternoon was uneventful, filled with A-type teachers. Chill and I were in different classes. We met up after school and went to his place. We always went to Chill's because his mother worked evenings and wasn't home till 7:30.

Chill's mom, Orchid, worked as an anchor at the local television station doing the local news. She was a very driven woman, strong, from her long flowing brown hair to her perfect ankles...Ahhh.

Anyway, she'd read a lot of self-help books and had quotes hanging up all over the house like “See it, be it,” “Believe and be,” “Fear nothing,” that type of thing. She'd post them, she'd read them, she'd follow them.

A few years ago, she had noticed that the local station didn't have a Crime Stoppers segment. She got a camera and got her husband at the time, Bill (a fool of a man for letting such a rare and precious flower go), to shoot re-enactments using local “actors.” She announced the segments and starred in them a couple of times.

She was such a good actor that once people even called the police on her, thinking that the footage they saw was the actual crime. The police picked her up and took her to the station. It took a few hours to sort out, although, personally, I think the police just wanted an excuse to spend some time with her—and who could blame them?

The station soon took her on doing other reports, but they didn't hire her husband, and I think it was his jealously that brought about the end of the marriage.

She was sent out once to report on a local fire, but, always wanting to look her best, she stopped by her house to get a change of clothes. The way I heard it (as told by my mother to her friend while I happened to be crouched down just outside the kitchen door) was that when she arrived, she saw a car in the driveway that belonged to one of the “actresses” they had worked with in the re-enactments.

Orchid invited the cameraman to come inside. She made sure he was rolling when they entered the bedroom.

Orchid then proceeded to grab her change of clothing and take out a suitcase for Bill, telling him, “If you have your stuff out of here by the time I get home, I might let you keep some of it.”

Then she went back to work and got the story. I think she may have even won an award for her coverage, but I can't be sure on that bit.

Chill still sees his dad every other weekend when his father makes the time, and Orchid tries to make sure that he does. “A boy needs a father,” she says.