Don't Care High (10 page)

“Vermont maple syrup,” the locker baron said, shaking his head. “I asked for Quebec.”

Sheldon tossed a paper at Feldstein's feet and scrambled out onto the first floor.

Paul, meanwhile, was enjoying himself no end. Just delivering the papers was not enough for him anymore, and he was executing spins, dips and pirouettes, earning such comments as, “So what?” from the students. But the papers were
going
. He and Sheldon had talked up Mike Otis so much that the blasé Don't Care students were receiving
The Otis Report
with something approaching interest. It was the picture, Paul decided, that was striking chords of recognition. He could hear remarks such as, “Hey, I know that guy,” and “That's the guy with the safety pins in his pants,” as he danced gracefully along the corridor.

On the fourth floor, he found himself handing a copy into the hands of the student body president himself, and decided to try a little speed-skating, omitting his usual pitch. He did risk a backward glance, however, impressing on his mind — possibly for life — the image of that face, staring at that face, which was undoubtedly staring back, and so on.

It was a feeling of freedom Paul hadn't experienced for years, rocketing through the drabness that was Don't Care High, yet removed from it all by a few thousand stitches of wool and eight wheels that gave him the ability to fly. Like this he could go where he pleased, even by the office if he so chose, for the power was his.

He tossed his remaining few papers into the crowded stairwell, shouted a final, “Get your
Otis Report
!” and worked up a head of steam for his grand finale into the bathroom that was serving as home base.

Paul could have avoided any stationary or smoothly moving target, but an erratically-flailing, high-speed, out-of-control Sheldon was beyond his expertise. They met head-on with a resounding crunch, and crumpled together through the bathroom door.

When the stars cleared from Paul's vision, he saw the battered Sheldon lying beside him, exhausted, on the tiles. Sheldon ripped off the ski mask, grinned awkwardly through partly swollen lips and gasped, “A success!” before collapsing completely on the floor.

* * *

At the beginning of fifth period, Mike Otis was called to see Mr. Gamble. Sheldon and Paul, feeling responsible, cut class and went to hang around the outer office. When they found themselves on the receiving end of too many stares from the secretaries, they dropped in to the nearby guidance room, to the great shock and even greater joy of Mr. Morrison. To kill time, they allowed themselves to be coaxed into filling out career interest questionnaires, while keeping a sharp eye on the door in case Mike passed by. Apparently, though, Mike was either out of the building at the time of the call, or simply not receptive to paging.

“Maybe he thinks they're talking about another Mike Otis,” suggested Sheldon as the two were walking to sixth period class.

The call went out again in sixth, but was apparently unanswered because, in photography, Mr. Gamble himself appeared at the door.

“Is Mike Otis here?”

“In a manner of speaking,” sighed Mr. Willis, who was having his usual hard time getting the class under way.

Mike surrendered himself in characteristically passive fashion, and was borne off to the office. Paul was overcome with guilt.

After class, he and Sheldon sought out Mike at his locker.

“Hey, Mike, what's new?” called Sheldon.

Mike gave them a quizzical look. “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” repeated Paul, nodding. In Mike Otis language, what did that mean? “Why did Gamble want you?” he blurted.

“There are a lot of things at this school I don't understand.”

Sheldon and Paul stood there, waiting for the elaboration that would not come. Mike reached into his locker, produced a small polishing cloth and dusted off the toes of his black dress shoes. He checked the security of the safety pins holding his cuffs and closed the locker door. He turned to leave and paused, perhaps pondering what to do with Sheldon and Paul.

“I guess you're going home now,” said Paul lamely.

Mike nodded and headed for the stairwell.

“See you Monday?” Paul called after him anxiously.

Mike stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Sure.” Then he disappeared down the stairs.

Paul exhaled. “He didn't get expelled! What a relief!” He wiped his forehead. “Oh, let's get a Coke! I'm buying!”

All the way to the deli, Sheldon kept up a steady stream of chatter in praise of Mike Otis. “Can you believe that guy? He's too cool for words! Gamble tears him out of class and probably chews him out for something that isn't his fault, and he says ‘There are a lot of things at this school I don't understand.' What a philosopher! What a poet!”

“Calm down, Shel. People will think you're nuts.”

“I mean, he's got life right where he wants it! Picture this: It's the Battle of Waterloo, and Napoleon's forces are in ruins. Wellington demands that the French surrender, and Napoleon says, ‘There are a lot of things in this war I don't understand.'”

“I don't see the connection.”

“It'll come to you,” Sheldon promised. “But when we picked Mike to be student body president, we picked a great man. I can't wait till next week when
The Otis Report
will have had a chance to sink in.”

* * *

At three o'clock in the morning, Paul was awakened from a deep sleep by the persistent shaking of his shoulders. He sat up to find his mother standing over him.

“Wake up, Paul.”

Paul rubbed his eyes. “What's the matter?”

“Your cousins Cheryl and Lisa are here.”

Paul looked at his clock radio. “It's after three. Why can't they come visiting at a decent hour?”

“Paul, don't be uncooperative!” his mother admonished him. “Poor Auntie Nancy! Fluffy got sprayed by a skunk.”

“Fluffy,” Paul repeated dazedly. There was another sore point. Other people loved their dogs; Auntie Nancy was absurd about Fluffy. From years back, he could recall his aunt telling him, “Fluffy is not a dog. She's a little girl with long ears and a fur coat.”

Paul yawned. “Why are you waking me up to tell me about this tragedy?”

“Well, you see, Fluffy went in the house, and now everything smells just terrible. The poor girls couldn't sleep, so they phoned and asked if they could come here.”

“And you said sure,” Paul sighed wearily. “Is Auntie Nancy here, too?”

“Oh no. She's at home with Fluffy.”

Paul nodded sagely. “The captain stays with the stinking ship.”

“Don't be insensitive, young man. Now, come on. Out of bed. I told Cheryl and Lisa that you'd be happy to sleep on the couch so they could have your room until things are back to normal at their house.”

“Tell them I was misquoted,” muttered Paul sourly.

But in the end, Paul had to make do in the den while his cousins, smelling faintly of skunk, took possession of his room, which was, Paul decided, true to the direction his life was taking. The Steves of this world may be masters of their own fate, but Paul Abrams goes where he's pushed.

T
he fumigation of Auntie Nancy's house and decontamination of its resident canine took all weekend, and Paul was forced to spend Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights in the den. He did not sleep well, as the couch seemed to have several sizeable lumps which, for some reason, could not be found when his mother lay down to check out his complaints. Paul, in his sleepless frenzy, kept imagining large, beetlelike creatures crawling around below his body.

The small shift in location gave him a whole new angle from which to watch the apartment building across the street. The poker game had reconvened, but he could barely see it; although from this new perspective he discovered Rabbit Man. Rabbit Man lived at the corner of the building on about the thirty-fifth floor level, and every night he dressed himself in a bunny suit, sat in the window and ate carrots. The first night, Paul had thought the man was on his way to a costume party; now he didn't know what to think.

Then there was the couple in the apartment adjoining the Abrams'. The elderly pair who, according to Paul's mother, “have been married forty-three years and have the most wonderful relationship,” came to blows that weekend, hurling abuse and crockery at one another. Although not as instructive as the continuing adventures of Steve on the apartment's other border, they were much more interesting, and a lot louder.

To make matters worse, Sheldon and his family were away for a long weekend attending a boarding pass convention at a resort hotel in the Catskills. They were not scheduled to return home until Monday evening. This forced Paul to spend a lot of time at home, where he had to listen to the infernal beeping of the telephone with forwarded calls for his two cousins. In keeping with their eternal diets, there was cottage cheese at every meal, and Paul suffered from perpetual nausea Saturday and most of Sunday. He found himself thinking nostalgically of the tomato sauce patented under the name
Rocco
. All weekend he listened with a hopeful heart to bulletins on the progress of the tomato juice baths at Auntie Nancy's house.

So it was an exhausted and supremely overtaxed Paul who presented himself for school on Monday morning. The last thing he needed in this world, he reflected, was more aggravation.

Mr. Gamble and Mr. Morrison arrived at the office at the same time, each with
The Otis Report
on his mind. Mr. Gamble was in a state of outrage, roaring, “Otis doesn't have the slightest idea what's going on here! You can't even be sure whether he really knows he's president! This lunacy has got to stop!”

Mr. Morrison was in a quandary. Yes,
The Otis Report
was full of exaggerations and outright lies, but it was also a show of initiative — the first he had witnessed since his arrival at Don Carey. But if this effort wasn't attributable to Mike, then whose work was it? Who was showing this potential that, with proper nurturing, could turn into — dare he think it — school spirit?

“Son-of-a-gun,” was Mrs. Carling's opinion.

“Furthermore, I want to make the announcement personally,” Mr. Gamble raged. “I don't want our great leader to interpret this as some big joke. It's a hoax and it must be exposed and ended! And this time I'm not backing down!”

A hush fell as Mr. Gamble strode purposefully into the principal's office. One of the younger secretaries covered her eyes.

* * *

The regular bassoon voice came through the P.A. system that morning.

A hum went up throughout the school. Paul felt himself suffused with rage. Instinctively, he looked around for Sheldon before remembering that his friend would not be in school until tomorrow.

The door opened and Wayne-o breezed in, his face mirroring perplexity instead of its usual blankness. “Hey, Mr. Morrison, did I just hear that they're not going to let Mike Otis be president anymore?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Morrison uncomfortably. “The staff feels that Mike… uh… doesn't really have the support of the students.”

Wayne-o looked confused. “
I
support him.”

That was all Paul needed. He leaped to his feet. “Me, too! We all support Mike Otis, right?”

There was a thoughtful hum. As Paul scanned his classmates, he saw vaguely surprised looks on their faces, as though the question had caught them off guard.

Dan Wilburforce verbalized what they all seemed to be thinking. “Well, I've never really thought about it much, but now that you mention it, I guess I do support Mike Otis. After all, he did do all those things for the school.”

“He got the halls painted.”

“He got the roof repaired.”

“He fixed the can!” added Wayne-o breathlessly.

“Wait a minute,” said Mr. Morrison. “Who told you all these things?”

There was silence for a moment, so Paul yelled, “Everybody knows it! It's all over the school!” And there was general agreement.

“And it was in the paper,” Wayne-o added earnestly.

Mr. Morrison tried to choose his words carefully. “What would you say if I told you that Mike knows nothing about that paper and did none of those things?”

“But you're a teacher!” blurted one of the LaPaz triplets. “You have to say that!”

Paul spoke again. “They're trying to take away our duly-elected president!” As the words “duly-elected” passed through his lips, he went a little red and sat down.

“Besides,” said Wayne-o, “it has to be Mike's paper. His picture's on it. And it's all about him.”

Mr. Morrison gawked. “You
read
it?”

“Of course I read it,” said Wayne-o, almost belligerently. “Okay, so I don't read a whole lot. But when the guy who fixed the can takes the time to publish a newspaper to keep me informed, I read it.”

Mr. Morrison sat down at his desk, overcome by his homeroom's reaction. “All right, everybody. Go to class.”

And suddenly Paul was on his feet again. “But if you support Mike, tell your friends about it! We can't let this snow-job go through! Remember, when we needed it, Mike was there to fight for us!”