The Divorce Express (9 page)

“You know how English teachers are always telling us that parodies make fun of an established work. Well, I think we should do one of ‘Trees’—and then
we can get the whole school to sing it at an assembly when we’re supposed to do the school song.”

“I love it,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”

We pick up two pillows and go sit in a corner. Kids all over the room are working. Even though there’s a lot of joking, everyone’s serious, except maybe Garbage Gut. It’s interesting. In Woodstock a lot of grown-ups are active politically—fighting for good causes, like against nuclear plants, getting rid of the gypsy moths without using dangerous sprays, people’s rights. There’s even a runaway house and a battered women’s shelter. I think that when kids grow up seeing their parents involved, the kids get involved too.

Dave and I look at the poem. It feels comfortable being with him.

We start to laugh as we begin the parody. A couple of kids come over to see what’s so funny. When they realize what we’re doing, everyone joins in.

When it’s finished, Pete does his imitation of Ms. Douglass, the English teacher. He pretends to readjust a bra strap, points into the air, and says, “Well, class . . . . It’s not Shakespeare, but at least it rhymes.”

W
e’re ready.

Someone’s father’s got a Xerox machine, and we’ve got all the copies of the song.

One person in each homeroom quietly distributes the paper.

There’s a note attached.

We march into assembly, sitting down quietly. It’s the kind of quiet where you know that something’s going to happen.

The Principal announces the speaker, a member of the D.A.R., Daughters of the American Revolution.

Somehow that seems appropriate.

The Principal continues. “Now, let’s all welcome her with a rousing rendition of our school song.”

Rousing isn’t quite the word for it.

I don’t think the real song has ever been sung so clearly, so loudly, by so many people.

Probably the Principal, Mr. Beasley, doesn’t want to create a scene about what’s just happened, although he’s got this weird look on his face, like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Some of the kids, and teachers too, do laugh. Even when the speaker is talking about how her ancestors took part in the American Revolution, every once in a while there’s a little chuckle from someplace, and trust me, this lady’s not doing a comedy routine.

The bell rings.

After applauding the boring speaker, we file out.

All day long everyone’s expecting something to be said by Beasley. But nothing is. Amazing.

By the end of the day there’s still no word.

I’m at my locker, getting ready to go home.

Dave shows up. Even though his locker’s at the other end of the hall, he seems to be in this vicinity a lot.

“So what do you think they’re going to do?” He holds my books as I put on my coat.

“I don’t know.” I take back the books. “I kind of expected something, like putting all of us in front of a firing squad, or detention, at least.”

He says, “Well, on to Phase Two tomorrow.”

“I know. They won’t be able to ignore that.”

We walk out to the bus.

Drat. He’s not on my bus. I wish he were. But then I’d have to make a decision about who to sit with, Dave or Rosie.

Today I can’t sit with either of them. Rosie’s not going home on this bus. She’s got detention for cracking her knuckles in Music Appreciation class. She was doing it in time to the
1812 Overture.
Some teachers have no sense of humor.

We stop in front of my bus.

“What’s your middle name?” I ask. “Since I don’t have much homework tonight, maybe I’ll try to figure what it is rearranged.”

“A-L-L-E-N.” He brushes the hair out of his eyes. “How about letting me know what you come up with when we go out this Saturday night? . . . That is, if you want to go out.”

Want to go out? Do I want a million dollars? Do I want the sky to fill with rainbows?

I calmly say, “I’d love to.” Inside I feel like my body’s got a Ping-Pong game going on.

“Okay, you kids. No playing Romeo and Juliet,” the bus driver bellows. “This bus is going to leave on schedule.”

“See you in school tomorrow,” Dave says as he rushes off to catch his bus.

Rushing up the steps, I have to listen to the driver say, “You kids think the world waits for you.” She points a finger at me. “Remember. Next time I’ll leave you behind.”

As the bus lurches forward I take the first available seat I find. It’s next to this kid in my gym class. Lark McKeon.

She looks up from her math homework. “Lucky.
I’d give anything to have Dave Shore pay that much attention to me.”

I look at her face to try to figure out if she’s being nasty but decide that she means it.

Lark says, “Actually I do have a boyfriend, but he’s in the Army . . . . Doesn’t that bus driver just drive you nuts? Last year, my boyfriend, who was a senior, and I were two minutes late getting to the bus and she drove off without us. She saw us running and she left anyway . . . . Look, do you want to see a picture of him?”

Before I can even answer, she’s got her wallet out and she’s showing me pictures. Lark and Mark at the Prom . . . at the Library Fair . . . Mark in uniform. She’s the fastest talker in the world. I don’t even have a chance to say anything.

Finally she puts her wallet away. “Actually I started going out with him because I like the way our names sound together. Lark and Mark. But then I really started liking him. I miss him. I miss having a boyfriend here. It gets boring without one. Actually it’s pretty boring even with one.”

Actually I’m beginning to think that Lark’s pretty boring . . . . No wonder her life isn’t exciting. She’s got to listen to herself talk all day.

I stare at her forehead, right between the eyes. It’s something I’ve learned to do when I’m supposed to look interested. It comes in handy in school and other places.

The bus pulls up at her stop.

As she stands up to leave she says, “We’ll have to talk more often. That was fun. When Mark comes home on leave, maybe we can double.”

“But Dave and I aren’t a couple.” I manage to get in a word, several in fact.

“Good. That’s settled. I’ll tell Mark when I write to him tonight.”

She’s gone.

Some girls turn into absolute fluffbrains when they go out with a guy. Something tells me that Lark started out that way though.

The bus pulls up at my stop and I get out.

“Don’t forget what I said,” the bus driver yells.

I pretend not to hear her.

My father’s out by the pool, painting the view of the reservoir.

There are leaves all over the pool cover.

Winter is definitely on its way.

I stand on the patio and look down at him. “Want to take a break?”

He looks up. There’s a smudge of paint on his cheek. “Oh, hi, honey. No thanks. I want to keep working as long as there’s light.”

“Okay, see you later.” I go into the house.

I really wanted to tell him about my date with Dave . . . and what happened in school with the assembly. Sometimes I get jealous of the time he spends painting, and then I think that’s better than his being with some woman I wouldn’t like.

Going into the refrigerator for juice, I see that he’s made dinner for tonight. Salad. A cheese casserole.

I’ll prepare a special dinner for him on the night I go out with Dave so that he doesn’t feel lonely.

Before I start my homework, I take out my notebook and tear out little scraps of paper and put a letter on each one.

DAVIDALLENSHORE

It takes forever to come up with a good combination.

Finally I come up with something . . . . It sounds like one of those awful romance novels.

Wait till I tell Rosie . . . . HIS DEAR LOVE LAND and PHONE BREAKS A BOON are going out.

P
hase Two—Double B-Day.

B&B—Bread and Butter.

Everyone goes through the line, buying one slice of bread and two pats of butter.

The bread gets buttered, with more butter around the edges.

A few minutes before the bell is to ring, Jill goes up to the cafeteria teachers, who are all standing in one place, probably discussing how they got stuck with such a lousy assignment.

Jill asks for a bathroom pass.

That’s the signal.

Everyone quietly sticks the bread to the underside of the table top, butter side up.

The teachers tell Jill to wait until the bell rings, since the period’s almost over. They always say that to kids. They think that kidneys can tell time.

The bell rings.

Everyone rushes out of the place. I don’t think the cafeteria’s ever been emptied out so quickly.

Later we get the report from the kids who have lunch next.

The bread falls down—piece by piece.

Cafeteria workers freak out.

The janitors rush around cleaning it up while kids are trying to get lunch and be seated.

No bread and butter is served for this group.

We figured that would happen. So everyone buys the yucky yellow cake with the awful yellow icing and mushes it under the table.

This time Beasley does react.

I’m in Algebra class figuring out that the letters in the word ALGEBRA spell out REAL GAB when Beasley gets on the intercom.

“All senior high students are to report to the school auditorium immediately.”

Mr. Michaels, our teacher, says, “Okay, everyone line up.”

“What about me?” Eric Parker, child genius, raises his hand.

Eric’s only nine, but the grammar school has him in high school academic courses. He’s so smart, they don’t know what to do with him. However, he’s not real bright about asking. He should have just gone. That’s the problem with child geniuses. Academically they do fine. It’s socially that’s a problem.

Michaels shrugs. “Why don’t you go back to your old school and have recess?”

Michaels hasn’t liked Eric since the day Eric corrected one of Michaels’s mistakes.

“The assembly may not be acceptable for you.” Michaels puts books in his briefcase. “We have to go.”

What’s he expecting, an R-rated assembly?

Eric says, “Okay, give me a pass to the library. I’ll do some work on the computer.”

“Good idea,” Michaels says.

Good for Eric. He didn’t let Michaels’s remark get to him. And I’ve seen him work on the computer
before. He’s got Space Invaders programmed on it.

We march down to the auditorium. Some kids look nervous. Others smile a lot.

Beasley is on the auditorium stage pacing as everyone sits down.

This time he does react.

He starts to speak.

Something tells me that this time no one is going to get the chance to sing “Trees.”

He grips the podium. “What’s going on?”

The room is quiet. The only sound is the auditorium clock ticking.

Dave raises his hand. We’ve decided that he should be spokesperson.

Beasley calls on him.

“We’ve all complained about the cafeteria food before, and no one has done anything about it. We just wanted to emphasize our dissatisfaction.”

Dave’s speaking very calmly. I’m proud of him. I’m so glad he’s asked me out. I’m glad he called me last night. At Kilmer that’s how people “go out,” by making phone calls and walking around the halls together. When you’re a kid, it’s hard to have lots of
real dates. One good thing is that he’s older and has his license, so we’ll have a chance to spend some time together. I hope that he’s a good kisser. I definitely like good kissers.

Dave continues. “Civil disobedience is the cornerstone of a democracy. We just wanted to be democratic about it.”

Beasley snorts. “Wouldn’t it have been easier to send a telegram? Did you have to disrupt a school assembly, embarrass a guest, and ruin school property?”

Dave speaks firmly. “No property was ruined. We realize that there was a mess to deal with, but there was no willful destruction.”

Beasley doesn’t listen. He talks about the Kilmer school spirit and how we should stand behind the school, no matter what.

Maybe we
should
send him a telegram. That’s expensive, but if we can keep it under ten words, it shouldn’t be too bad.

Beasley keeps talking. “I don’t like the food any better than you do. What do you think? That the administration and staff have their lunches catered? We have to eat the same food as you do.”

Teachers get to cut in line and they get the few good things first. In the morning they can also put things aside for later. And one day I saw my home-room teacher send a note down to the cafeteria staff asking for special food.

I tried asking a cafeteria worker to please put aside a cottage cheese and fruit platter for me.

She said, “What do you think this is? The Culinary Institute?”

So it’s not the same.

It’s like the book that we’re reading in English,
Animal Farm,
by George Orwell.

Some animals are more equal than others. (Especially if they’re teachers.)

Beasley ends up by saying that the foolishness has to stop, that no one will be punished if everything goes back to normal.