The Last Martin (10 page)

Dad comes home late from the wars. “It was quite a reenactment today.” His eyes gleam and he drops his weapon on the floor. “I forgot it wasn’t real. I mean, there I was, 1820, arrows flying overhead. Son, there’s nothing like it.”

I wince and kick at the carpet with my boot.

“Now the tuna is missing. Tuna does not have legs!” Mom’s voice carries out from the kitchen. “The macaroni and cheese doesn’t either. Gavin, are you feeding the regiment again?”

“Here,” I whisper.

I peek at the kitchen and hand Dad my detention slip. He studies it, peeks at the kitchen as well, and whispers back, “You got in a prune fight?”

“A what?” Mom hollers, and slams the fridge. “I assumed that purplage to be the remnants of an art project gone awry. I had already composed a note to Mr. VanSickle. He bears responsibility for the toxic chemicals in those paints. But are you telling me that you … you were involved in prune hurling?”

“No! Yes. Well, I was really whispering to Dad, not to you.”

“Gavin!”

“Your mother deserves to hear the story too.” He turns and cocks his head. From behind, I see his body shake. Then Dad breathes deeply, clears his throat, and looks back to me.

“Martin the Prune Hurler.”

He can’t hold it. He bursts out in a full belly laugh. “Get anybody good?”

Mom slaps him with an oven mitt. “If this isn’t proof our son’s degenerate behavior … Oh, Martin. What’s happening to you? You will have an appointment with Dr. Stanker this week.”

I stare at Dad. He tousles my hair. “Oh, now. Just seems like a kid letting loose a little steam.”

He steps back and folds his arms and looks into me. It’s a strange look. Not a proud look. A maybe look. A hopeful look. Least that’s how it appeared.

“Do we have a purple pen?” He waves the slip in front of my face. “I’ll proudly sign this bugger.”

Mom storms back into the kitchen. Dad offers a thinking face.

“I didn’t hit anybody,” I say.

“That’s okay. There’s always next year.”

No, there’s not.

I
FORGOT TO BE THANKFUL.

I know Poole didn’t exactly fulfill his side of the bargain, but I promised. So I stand at my locker and think. Minutes away from The Treatment I think, what in the world do I have to be thankful for?

“I’m thankful that I’m in school and Poole’s not.”

“Makes two of us, Boyle.”

I swing around and stare, nose to hanging whistle, at Mr. Halden.

“Poole’s quite a piece of work.” He hikes his pants and puffs out his chest. “I just talked with Ms. Jensen. You’re spending homeroom with me.”

He spins, and I follow. We weave between horrid comments.

“Oooh. Martin’s toast.”

“Treatment day.”

We reach the locker room, go inside, and Halden faces me — his jaw tight and twitchy and terrible.

“Boyle. Since I’ve known you — I’ll be honest — you’ve been a piece of milk toast. A doormat of a boy.”

I bite my lip. “I’ve been a nice doormat. You know, the kind that reads ‘Welcome Home'? Doormats are useful and prevent filth from entering …” I peek and hope for a smile. Nothing.

“But you defied me with your uniform, you ran out of class, you stole Will’s property, and you sent a boy brimming with disrespect to disrupt my well-trained troops. Fact is, you’re changing. And I don’t like it.”

“I’ve been wanting to change my whole life. You really think I —”

“Your father is a military man.” Halden folds his arms. “He understands the importance of a chain of command, and you’ve reached the end of my chain.”

I don’t understand what he wants or where he’s going. I ease down on a bench.

“Up, soldier!”

I jump to my feet.

“Boyle! On my whistle, march that-a-way.”

“Toward the shower room?”

He says nothing. Moments later, Halden’s whistle tweets.

I double-time it out of the locker area and approach the showers. Halden strolls through the room, turning
each knob until water streams full force from every showerhead. Through the steam, on the far side of the room, he leans against the wall, meaty arms folded.

“Ever played Red Light, Green Light, Boyle?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Discipline. It’s what runs a school. It’s what you lack. It’s what The Treatment is designed to provide.”

He blasts his whistle. It echoes shrilly and painfully off concrete walls. “I call this attitude-corrector Hot Shower, Cold Shower. On my whistle, you jump under the first shower head. It’s hot. Then on my next whistle, you jump to the next. It’s cold.”

“My clothes will get soaked —”

“On my command, you will work your way across the room, and I don’t think we’ll need to employ The Treatment twice.”

“Aren’t there maybe some twisted abuse issues involved —”

Tweet.

I leap under the first shower. “Ah!” It’s not hot. It’s volcano hot. I wriggle and twist and —

“Cold shower!”

I stagger beneath the next showerhead, shirt suctioned to my skin. Ice cold.

“C-cold!”

“Hot shower!”

I stumble through the room of death, my skin alternately burning and freezing. I reach the far end, slump against the cool wall, and stare down at screaming skin — crimsony, raisiny mottled skin.

“Boyle, I don’t imagine I’ll be dealing with more disrespect.”

I shake my head and whisper, “Can I leave?”

He nods. “Hop to. Your dry outfit is on the bench.”

I slosh back into the locker room. Halden is nowhere to be seen. But the outfit lights up the room. Bright yellow pants and a neon pink shirt.

Oh no.

The bell rings. Kids will be here soon — I have no choice. I slip gingerly into the shirt and pants and stare at the full-length mirror.

“A dandelion on the bottom and a flamingo on the top.” I shake my head. “I’m a Dandingo.”

I mope toward the hallway door. The pain. It’s worse than Poole’s pummeling — every move I make rubs my skin and sets it on fire. Sure, I could tell Creaker, but who would believe it?

I breathe deeply. “All hail the Dandingo!” I push out of the locker room into passing time.

And a circle of kids.

Including Julia.

Will steps up. “Well?” He stares at my clothes. “What happened to you? What’s The Treatment?”

The hall hushes and I glance around. Julia’s gaze drops mine. “Uh. It’s tough.”

“But what did he do to ya?” Will presses, and others chorus behind him. Then I see it. They aren’t sneering or laughing. They’re in awe. I’ve been through the ultimate torment and lived to tell. For the first time in my life I have something everyone else wants.

Gather round the Dandingo!

“At first when it starts, that’s the worst. It builds and builds and inside you want to scream because outside you want to scream, but Halden’s a madman, and you know if you show weakness, he’ll break you and you’ll turn into a puddle, a blob of jello, so you keep going and going and show no emotion, you know, resist giving him any satisfaction. And after you’ve taken all the pain, all the torment he has to offer, you look your torturer in the eye because you survived The Treatment.”

“Whoa!” Will gives me a friendly slap on the back, and nearly knocks my skin off. “Intense.” He steps back. “What’s with the clothes?”

I freeze. “Oh. That was a calculated move. I woke up thinking, there’s no way I’m going to hide today. I need to wear clothes that say, ‘Here I am, Halden, come get me, if you dare.'” The lie doesn’t sit well, and my stomach turns.

The bell rings, and my circle of admirers scatter like mice. But their words linger.

“Way to go, Martin!”

“Tell me more at lunch. I’ll save you a place.”

“See ya third hour.”

What just happened? Five minutes with a psychotic phys ed teacher and I’m a hero. Julia!

She leans back against a distant wall, hugging her books. In front of her, Charley pleads. From the look on Julia’s face, she isn’t buying it.

I turn and march to algebra.

“It wasn’t me!” Charley’s voice screeches, and I glance over my shoulder. Julia shoots the Dandingo a look, and even though she’s way down the hall, her eyes warm me more than The Treatment. I smile and pick up my step.

S
HE LOVES ME. SHE CAN’T KEEP HER EYES OFF ME. Yeah, yeah!”

The Dandingo spins and poses in the boys’ lavatory. Treatment or not, this is officially the best day of my life.

“Martin Boyle, please report to the principal’s office. Martin Boyle …”

I stop spinning, take a deep breath, and trudge toward my doom. Halden’s a crackpot, even Mom thinks so. But Principal Creaker? He’s different. The old man can make life forever bad.

I open the office door and freeze. Julia sits in the plastic chair.

“Hey, Martin.”

The moment has come. Gentlemen, we have contact. It’s my turn. It’s my moment. Thirteen years of life spent planning the next words that will soar from my mouth.

“Uh-ee.” It’s a croaky, stuck sound — very donkeyish. As if the word started out, got jammed in my throat, then blasted out high and girly. It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous sound ever made.

Julia laughs. “Do that again.”

“Julia? Martin?” Ms. Corbitt clears her throat. “Principal Creaker will see you now.”

Julia whispers, “This is where it gets ugly.”

I frown and follow her into The Room.

“Close the door, Martin.”

I pull it shut. The click is loud and permanent as bone. Suddenly my ears ring, the room tilts, and my vision blurs. I lean into the doorframe, feel its cold against my cheek. It’s happening more and more, something scary and sickly.

“No tree hugging, Martin. Sit down, both of you.” Principal Creaker removes his spectacles, leans back, and massages his divots. “There can be no confusion as to why you are here.”

Julia stares straight ahead. I run my hand through my hair.

“I don’t know why I’m here.”

“Ah, yes.” Creaker leans back. “You weren’t here yesterday.”

I slump. “Okay. I skipped school. It makes sense that you’d be angry about that, but if you could let
me
break the news to Mom, it would save my life and I promise — “

“If only that were all it was. Martin, do you know how many people went home purple yesterday?”

“Purple?”

“Prune purple.”

I glance at Julia. She’s trying hard not to grin, but one leaks out. Wow, she’s cute.

“I’ll tell you. Three hundred fifty-four. Three hundred fifty-four people smacked, walloped, sideswiped, and spattered with prune juice. How does that make you feel?”

“Confused,” I say. “I heard something about a food fight but —”

“Let me bring it back for you. ‘A gift from Martin Boyle!’ Smack. ‘A gift from Martin Boyle!’ Smack. Yes, your cousin made quite a first-day impression on your behalf.”

I push back. “My cousin? Who — Whoa! Poole? Now wait. He does have excellent aim. But I never told him to fire prunes at anyone.”

“You didn’t send him to school on a mission?”

I grimace. Julia’s staring. “Well, I did, but —”

“And did you not tell him to, and I quote, ‘fire volleys back and forth with Julia'?”

“I was referring to —”

“Young man, he followed your orders perfectly. Whoever he was. We checked on his address. Number One Boxcar Road does not exist.”

Principal Creaker stands. “Do you know what talking to over three hundred angry parents is like?”

I shake my head.

He nods and reaches for his spectacles. “We may never discover where Poole lives, but I welcome you to your new address: the detention room. Your home until I calm down. Slip, please.”

I dig the shredded paper from my pocket. “It got wet this morning, but you can kind of see Dad’s name there.”

Creaker wads the slip into a ball and points to Julia. “And how many times are you going to be in the center of things? Organizing the girls into a prune fighting unit is not the way to end a conflict.”

“I was fired upon, sir.” She salutes.

Creaker pushes back from his desk, rises, and walks to the window. He stares a good while, before dropping his gaze. “You’ve already lived through more than a girl should bear, but once again you leave me no choice. You’ll be joining Martin after school.” Creaker turns. He looks tired. “Am I clear?”

“Yep,” she says. “Can we go?”

He shoos us out and we leave the office. Julia turns to me and shrugs. “Looks like I’ll be seeing a lot of you.”

I nod.

“Who’s Poole? He’s not your cousin?”

I shake my head.

“You have a hard time talking to me.”

I nod again.

“Well, Silent Boy, I’ll see you after school.” She walks away.

She’s getting away.

“Wait!” Finally, a real word! “Here.” I dig in my other pocket. “I kept it dry, wrote it for you. I thought you might like to read the next part of the story.” I stuff it in her hand and quickstep back to class.

A hero this morning. Julia in the afternoon. Definitely the best day of my life.

I walk into Detention Room 67. It’s a room with no windows, not even on the door. Fluorescent lights flicker and buzz like sick flies. Or the sound could be coming from the handful of actual flies bouncing around the ceiling. Either way, this is no place to spend even a fraction of my last couple months.