Don't Care High (3 page)

“Who
is
that guy?” Paul whispered to Sheldon.

“Oh, him? That's the principal,” Sheldon replied. “Mr.… uh… Mr.…” he slapped his forehead. “I used to know it. Mr. —”

“Doesn't he sign all the official notices home?” Paul caught the look on Sheldon's face. “You're not trying to tell me there aren't any notices here.”

“We had a notice once last year, but I think it came from Morrison. I don't think anybody brought one home, though. As I recall, the janitorial staff used it as grounds for a pay hike.”

Mr. Morrison stood up behind his desk. “Okay, it's time for class. Don't forget the guidance office is open to all of you until four o'clock every day.”

A dull hum greeted this announcement, and the class began to disperse.

The only noteworthy event of the morning for Paul came in second period — chemistry class — when he was introduced to his lab partner for the year, Daphne Sylvester. At six-foot-one, blonde and stunning, she seemed designed to make him feel as insignificant as a dust mote in a typhoon. He slaved over the day's experiment while she sat passively by, signifying her approval, he figured, by not falling asleep. The only thing that seemed to catch her interest briefly was when Wayne-o, making his customary late entrance, struck the teacher, Mr. Schmidt, with the door, sending him sprawling into a shelf of glass beakers. This event caused quite a hum in the lab. Mr. Schmidt decided to mark Wayne-o absent.

“Oh, you got Daphne, huh?” Sheldon commented as he and Paul wandered through the halls after lunch. “Quite a pick.”

“It was the luck of the draw,” said Paul glumly. “Talk about your silent partner. The girl is dead. I don't know whether to do an experiment or an autopsy. I tried to check her eyes for signs of life, but the angle was too great. I'm getting a kink in my neck.”

“What can I say? She's typical. She isn't dead; she just doesn't care. You're going to have to adjust to the fact that the different one isn't Daphne. It's you.”

“I'm starting to get the picture,” Paul sighed, sitting down on a window ledge. “You know, at my old school, they told us we were the citizens of tomorrow.”

“They'd never do that here,” said Sheldon. “It'd be too depressing. But as near as I can tell, people do learn things here. I don't know how it happens, but it happens. There are bad grades and there are good grades, but Don't Care students graduate.”

“But why is it like this? The ‘Don't Care' thing, I mean?”

Sheldon shrugged. “It's hard to say. It could be Manhattan, but there are perfectly normal schools not a mile away. It could be this one-hundred-forty-year-old building, but there are worse, I guess. Maybe it's the legacy of Don Carey and his sewage. But look. Look behind you out the window. What do you see?”

Paul swivelled and squinted through the unwashed glass. “Looks like a highway interchange.”

“Right,” said Sheldon. “It's the 22nd Street ramp for the Henry Hudson Parkway. It also happens to be Don't Care High's athletic field. Look, you can still see one of the goalposts in the centre of the cloverleaf. They had to cut off the left upright to make room for the right lane merge. And if you look real hard, you can see the fifty-yard line by the base of that parking garage.”

“But how did that happen?”

“Well, the story goes that twelve years ago, when the city wanted somewhere around here to put their new ramp, it just so happened that the school board was looking for real estate to build a fancy new school uptown. So they gambled that, at Don't Care High, no one would notice, let alone care. Don't Care always concentrated on basketball rather than football anyway, since it's a lot easier to find five players than twelve. So they traded our playing field for the uptown land. Anyway, a few years later they started a subway tunnel under there, but ran out of money, and eventually the ground caved in. So they paved it, all but that little patch around the fifty-yard line.”

Paul's face flamed red. “That's ridiculous! What kind of city would do that?”

“Oh, the city would have backed down if there had been any kind of protest. But this is Don't Care High —”

“It's terrible, that's what it is!” Paul interrupted hotly. “All this school needs is someone to take care of its interests, someone to represent it!”

Sheldon looked mildly amused. “Why not you? Want to be student body president?”

“Are you crazy? It's my second day in the school. No one knows me.”

“That's no problem. It's not as though there's going to be an election or anything like that. We just nominate you, and you win unopposed.”

“And then what?”

“Oh, nothing, of course,” said Sheldon. “No one can do anything with this place.”

“Forget it,” said Paul. “I don't want to be president just because nobody cares enough to run against me. Why don't
you
run?”

“No way,” said Sheldon quickly, “I'm strictly a behind-the-scenes man. But I think you're right. It
is
about time someone took over the reins of power around here.” His eyes scanned the near-deserted hallway and lit on a lone figure standing in front of a locker. “Him, for instance.”

Paul stared in shock. There at the end of Sheldon's gaze stood a bizarre character, motionless by his open locker. He was of medium height, slight and very dark, with an olive complexion. His straight black hair was slicked back from his forehead, giving him a weasel-like appearance, which was accentuated further by his beady black eyes. His posture was terrible, combining a slump with a forward tilt, and he wore a voluminous, full-length, dull-beige raincoat which hung on him as if on a bent coat hanger. Beneath his open coat he wore a pink shirt and jeans which were turned up tightly at the ankles. Each cuff was secured with a large safety pin. On his feet were glossy black dress shoes.

“
Who
is
that
?” Paul whispered in awe.

“I don't know his name,” Sheldon whispered back. “I think he's a senior. I've seen him around. Not the most outgoing guy in the world, I'd guess, but he looks like presidential timber to me.”

“What? Are you crazy? You can't make that guy president!”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, because he'd never let you do it!”

Sheldon smiled wisely. “He won't have to know about it. We'll just file nomination papers on his behalf.”

“But — But that can't happen — Can it?”

“I see no reason why not. We nominate him, wait a while, nobody else runs, and he's president. I don't think he'll mind. Of all the people in this school who don't care, I'd say he doesn't care the most. I mean, it isn't as though he'd have to do anything.”

Paul shook his head. “But don't you think he'll complain when he finds out he's president?”

“He might, but I doubt it. From what I can tell about him, he'll probably just ignore the whole thing. We've got a problem, though. We don't know his name. We can't just nominate him as the guy with greased-back hair and safety pins in his pants.”

Paul looked back at the apparition, who was still standing and staring into his locker. Him? President? “Well, I guess that's it then. You don't know his name, so you can't do it. Too bad.”

“Follow me,” said Sheldon. With Paul tagging along cautiously, he approached the boy in the raincoat. “Hi. I've seen you around here a lot. I'm Shel, and this is Paul.”

The black eyes remained blank. The response was quiet and dry. “Hi.”

Sheldon waited for more and, when none came, added, “I don't think we know your name.”

The boy looked at him again. “I don't think so either,” he said in an unpunctuated monotone. He shut his locker door and snapped on the lock. “Bye.” Then he was gone, hunching down the hallway, headed for the stairwell.

“What
was
that?” asked Paul in awe.

Sheldon was impressed, too. “He's something special, even for this school. But you've got to admit that he's perfect to represent the students of Don't Care High.”

Paul laughed. “All right, Sheldon, let's drop it. You can't make that guy president. You can't even get him to identify himself.”

“I'll find out who he is. Somebody must know him.”

* * *

Rosalie Gladstone shrugged almost expansively enough to dislocate both shoulders, then snapped her gum three times. “What do you want to know that for?” Her voice seemed to operate on the same frequency as Paul's mother's telephone.

Sheldon put on his most charming smile and treated the question as rhetorical. “But you
have
seen him?”

“Oh, sure. I guess. I don't know.” She laughed.

Peter Eversleigh was not much help, either. He sat cross-legged in front of his locker, taking precise, rhythmic, quarter-inch bites out of a long string of black licorice. He looked up at Sheldon and Paul.

“Yeah, I know the dude about whom you are speaking. Greased-back hair, raincoat, jeans with safety pins. Must be one conceptual dude.”

“Oh, he is,” said Sheldon. “Do you happen to know his name?”

“Neg, dude. No name.”

Even Wayne-o had no idea, commenting, “Well, he's a senior, and he's weird, and he drives a cool car. But I don't know his name. It's not Wayne-o, though. That's me.” He walked away, laughing as though he'd just said something hilarious.

“Well, I guess your man's political career is on the skids already,” said Paul, mostly out of relief. “He's the most anonymous person I've ever heard of. Why don't you try making Wayne-o president? Everybody knows him.”

“Wayne-o would never want to be president,” Sheldon explained patiently. “He's just happy that he gets to be Wayne-o. But we're not dead yet. We've got one more chance.” He headed for the stairwell.

Paul followed reluctantly. “Aw no, Shel, not Feldstein! I want to steer clear of that guy. If he gives us information, he's going to want another favour.”

“This one's on me,” Sheldon promised with a grin.

As they descended into the locker baron's lair, they found Feldstein already occupied with a red-haired boy, one in the junior class.

“Last January you needed a locker by the art room — I got you a locker by the art room. Today I need a favour from you.”

“What'll it be, Feldstein?”

“Mashed potatoes, I need mashed potatoes — smooth, creamy, not instant. With chicken gravy.”

“You've got it, Feldstein.” The junior ran off.

Sheldon stepped forward.

Feldstein looked surprised. “You're back already? Is something wrong with the locker?”

“Oh no,” Paul stammered. “It's fine.”

“We need information,” said Sheldon. “A name. His locker's 205C.”

Feldstein shook his head, his face assuming a world-weary expression. “No, man, not that guy. I lost a lot of sleep over that guy.”

Paul had to speak up. “Why?”

A distant gleam flickered in the locker baron's eye. “Last year I went for broke. I owned the entire 200C series, the longest uninterrupted row of lockers in the school — except for 205. So I made a play for 205. That's how I first met Mike Otis.”

“Mike Otis?” repeated Paul.

“Mike Otis!” cheered Sheldon, waving a fist in triumph. “He's going to be a great man!”

Feldstein looked pained. “I sent for the guy — he didn't come!
I
had to find
him
! It took me
three days
hanging out in front of 205.
Twice
the janitors tried to throw out my chair while I was away. So finally I found him.” He looked Sheldon squarely in the eye. “Have you ever actually tried to
talk
to Mike Otis? Forget it! I would have had more chance making a deal with his locker. I offered him locker packages fit for royalty. He wasn't interested. My best locations! With views! Convenient to almost any room he wanted! No. And that was it — the end of the biggest locker bid in history. I could have retired on those 200C's. I'm not getting any younger, you know. So don't talk to me about Mike Otis.”

Sheldon placed a sympathetic hand on the locker baron's shoulder. “You're still the greatest of them all, Feldstein. Thanks for the name. I owe you.”

* * *

At three thirty-five that afternoon, the name of Mike Otis was officially placed in the running for the position of student body president of Don Carey High School. There were twenty-five names in support of the nomination. These had been easily collected from students Sheldon was friendly with. While no one was interested in signing, no one was willing to put up any resistance, either, and Sheldon pressed this advantage.

“Here, sign this,” he would say.

“Why?”

“Why not?” This was the turning point.

The submission was placed in the box at the guidance office, so the first person to see it the next morning was Mr. Morrison. Excitedly, he dashed off to the main office to spread the good news that the school, leaderless for so long, would once again have a student body president. He rushed in the door, waving the sheet at Mr. Gamble, the vice-principal.

Mr. Gamble was unimpressed. “Well, obviously it's a hoax. I know that Otis boy.”

“Well yes,” Mr. Morrison admitted. “Mike is a little reserved. That's why his running for president is such a golden opportunity in terms of his development.”

Mrs. Carling, one of the school secretaries, came over to examine the nomination paper. “Son-of-a-gun. I've been here nine years, and I've never seen one of these before.”

“It's a joke,” Mr. Gamble insisted. “There's no way that Otis boy would take the time and effort to run.”

“At this school,” called another secretary, “there's no way anyone would take the time and effort to play a joke.”