Don't Care High (22 page)

Two people were carried into the school that morning: Mike Otis on the shoulders of his deliriously happy supporters; and Paul Abrams, on his way to the nurse's office for repairs.

A great roar of approval went up from the student body.

* * *

Having soaked away his aches in the bathtub and washed the grease out of his hair, Paul lay on his bed in a pre-dinner cooling-off period.

There was a tap at the door, and his mother entered the room, all concern. “Paul, I've just been on the phone with your Auntie Nancy. According to her, you were on the evening news. What's all this about you falling off a sign?”

“It wasn't a sign, Mom, it was a banner. And I didn't fall. I swung to the ground on a safety pin.”

She frowned in perplexity. “According to Nancy, it was a student activist demonstration. That's not the kind of thing your father and I want to see you involved in.”

“It wasn't activism; we were supporting our student body president — let me finish — who isn't a roughneck, or a gangster, or a bum, but who is a great guy.”

“But Nancy said —”

“She wasn't there, Mom. You have to trust
me
for a change.”

“I do, dear. But after that awful basketball game… and the way you were dressed this morning. It's all so bizarre. I'm afraid there are too many agitators at this school of yours.”

Paul laughed out loud, but decided against telling her that there were exactly two agitators at Don't Care High, and she was looking at one of them. “You're talking as though I was throwing fire bombs at riot police today. It was a simple little… get-together, and I was one of twenty-six hundred people.”

“Yes, but you were the only one who fell off a sign.”

“I
swung
from a
banner
. Anyway, it's all over, the president got his job back, the teachers are happy, the students are happy, and everything's back to normal at Don't Care — I mean, Don Carey. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

* * *

The Don Carey High School rally was surprisingly well-documented in the Sunday papers, much to the delight of Sheldon, who bought multiple copies of each edition, and invited Paul over to admire them. Paul was a little less pleased, as the photograph that seemed to capture each city editor's fancy was a shot of the celebrating students, with the rally's lone casualty swinging dangerously from the banner in the background.

“It looks like you're about to fall off that sign,” observed Jodi.

“It was a banner,” Paul explained patiently. “And I swung to the ground.”

“Yeah, well, I don't know what you call it,” said Sheldon, “but we were pretty worried about you, Ambition, lying there in a heap. You were lucky. I figured on at least a couple of broken ribs.”

Paul flushed. “I wonder what Mike thought about it all.”

“It was really hard to tell,” said Sheldon. “He seemed sort of confused, but I doubt he even wanted to understand. You know him. It's all pretty heavy-duty for a mellow guy like Mike. I have a lot of admiration for him.”

Jodi frowned. “I don't get it. If this Mike Otis is the president, how can he not understand?”

“It's a very long story,” said Paul painfully. “I mean
long
. You really don't want to know. And anyway, it's all over. Right, Shel?”

Sheldon's eyes gleamed. “Who can tell?”

Paul glared at him resentfully. “That's not funny.”

The boys abandoned Flash Flood in favour of some roller-skating in Central Park, one of the few areas of New York relatively unscathed by the garbage strike. They rolled around for a while, reliving the old days of
The Otis Report
, then took to a well-shaded bench to rest up.

Sheldon yawned. “Well, Ambition, how does it feel to have the whole city in the palm of your hand?”

Paul laughed. “Just because Mike's back in office doesn't mean we have the city in our hands.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” said Sheldon. “At the drop of a hat we can mobilize an army of twenty-six hundred to any cause we choose, just by saying that Mike supports it. Think of the power. All we have to say is that Mike doesn't like the subways, and within hours, all twenty-six hundred of them will be out there cementing up the entrances.” He grinned diabolically. Then, noticing Paul's uneasy expression, added, “But naturally we'll use the power to further the forces of good. Mike's name will go down with Superman and Robin Hood and all those guys.”

“Just what are these great plans of yours?” asked Paul warily.

“Well, I figure on helping out with some worthy causes. That way, good charitable work will get done, and at the same time we'll keep the school's profile high and punch up Mike's image. We'll need about one of those per month. Then we'll get Mike to support all the sports teams, so we can expect trophies left, right and centre. And whenever something like the science fair comes along, we can pounce on it. But nothing will go wrong, because now we're so much smarter. And that's just for starters. We're a couple of creative guys. I'm sure that, as time goes by, we'll come up with even better ways to make use of Mike's great talents as a leader.”

Paul sighed. “You know, Shel, Mike's been a real good sport about all this. Don't you think it's about time we just left him alone?”

“Are you kidding? I think Mike's just starting to get into it. Besides, aren't you interested in seeing how long it's going to take Daphne Sylvester to break down his defences?”

“I don't know,” mumbled Paul.

Sheldon fiddled with his skate laces. “Well, whether or not you agree with the long-range plan, remember the volleyball season is starting soon. And no one would like anything better than to see the Don Carey Sewer Men clean up this year,” he chuckled, “in a manner of speaking.”

Paul smiled grudgingly. “Well, I guess we could use Mike's power for the volleyball team.”

“I knew you'd see it my way, Ambition. And then there's boys' basketball and baseball in the spring — this is just the beginning.”

* * *

Paul had the apartment to himself that evening because his father was out of town and his mother was still on an extended lunch with Auntie Nancy. He improvised a dinner which consisted largely of potato chips, with an emaciated chicken breast serving as the main course. He considered writing his Shakespeare paper, but dismissed that, knowing that Sheldon would write his the night before the deadline, and finishing early would leave Paul with nothing to do that night. So he switched on Stereo 99 to see what Flash Flood had to say.

There was a polite knock at the door, and Paul got up to answer it. He peered through the peephole and found himself staring through the distorted glass directly into the face of Mike Otis himself.

Paul opened the door. “Mike — what a surprise. Come on in.” The student body president took three steps forward and stood in the hallway. He and Paul stared at each other for an awkward moment. Then Paul spoke again. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No thank you.”

There was another uncomfortable moment, and then Paul realized that Mike didn't intend to say anything else without prompting.

“Well, is there anything I can do for you, Mike?”

“No.”

“What I mean is… why did you come here?”

“There are a lot of things at this school I don't understand,” Mike began. He paused. “But maybe you understand.”

“And you've come for an explanation?” asked Paul with a sinking heart.

“No,” said Mike. Another pause. “I seem to feel that someone might want to know this.”

“What?”

“What I came here to say.”

“Which is —?”

“I'm moving.”

Paul's heart skipped a beat. “Moving? When?”

“Pretty soon,” said Mike. “I just wanted to tell you.” And he fled the apartment just as abruptly as he had arrived.

Paul stood rooted to the floor, staring out the open door. He ran out into the hall, but Mike was gone. Then he made a headlong dash straight for the kitchen telephone.

T
he news stunned Don't Care High. On Monday, the word spread like wildfire, and the halls buzzed with shock. Mike Otis — president, sovereign, and charismatic hero — was leaving.

Right before classes, Sheldon and Paul descended on Mike and cross-examined him at length. Yes, it was true. Mike would be leaving on the weekend to relocate in the town of Astragal, Indiana. Friday would be his last day at school.

A quick trip to the library confirmed what Paul had immediately suspected — there was no town of Astragal in Indiana, nor in any other state, province or country in the world. It was as real as Finch, Oklahoma, and there was a certain logic in Mike's going there. Paul toyed with the idea of demanding to know Mike's real destination — uptown Manhattan? Europe? — but he decided against it. He owed Mike that much privacy.

Sheldon was devastated. “How can he do this to us? When you take on the responsibilities of office, you can't just run away! You have to stay on and serve!”

“He never took on any responsibilities,” Paul pointed out. “We took them on for him.”

“Don't bother me with technicalities! When Mike leaves, our whole empire will crumble! This is terrible!”

Wayne-o was so distressed by Mike's leaving that he took to punctuality, arriving at all classes exactly on time to keep his mind from wandering to subjects that only caused him pain. Peter Eversleigh dropped gum and went back whole-hog on licorice. Feldstein was devastated, abandoning his stairwell and sitting for long hours in front of 205C in a reportedly sulky mood. Sometimes Slim Kroy sat with him, cradling his silent tuba. The LaPaz triplets began bickering among themselves. And Daphne Sylvester went into deep mourning, which became her very well.

Phil Gonzalez wanted to build Mike a monument. “You know, like the pyramids. Mike's at least as important as those old pharaoh guys.”

The WOW Connection would have settled for changing the name of the school to Mike Otis High. Cindy Schwartz was holding out for seven days of skywriting and fireworks. Trudy Helfield wanted to petition the mayor to close off city streets and have a parade. Slim Kroy would accept nothing less than the minting of a commemorative coin. All these ideas were dismissed as rather extravagant.

“Well, if we can't do any of that stuff,” said Wayne-o, “we may as well have a party.”

Sheldon pounced on the idea. “Yes, and despite his greatness, it's fitting that we should send him off as a normal Don't Care student, because that's what he'll want to be remembered as.”

So the next morning, Sheldon and Paul appeared in the guidance office to appeal to Mr. Morrison for help.

Mr. Morrison sighed. “It's a wonderful idea, boys, but I really don't think the school has the money. I can try, but I'm sure the answer will be no.”

“What about the raffle money?” blurted Paul.

Mr. Morrison grimaced. “We've only sold eleven tickets, and
I
sold all of those. I'm afraid I'm going to have to cancel the raffle.”

“Well, how many tickets are there?” asked Paul.

“Five thousand.”

“All right, Mr. Morrison,” said Sheldon evenly, “if we can sell your five thousand and then ten thousand more on top of that by three-thirty on Thursday, can we have that party on Friday night?”

Mr. Morrison was aghast. “Why… of course. But how will you — I mean, how?”

“This is the Mike Otis Raffle,” said Sheldon with grim determination. “And if we can't get rid of those tickets, we don't deserve to have had him as our president.”

Once again Sheldon's strident voice rang out in the cafeteria over the three lunch periods. “So sell those raffle tickets, and on Friday night, we'll give Mike the send-off he deserves!” The students cheered with enthusiasm.

Mr. Morrison could hardly believe his good fortune. As soon as the word was out, the guidance office was mobbed with would-be sellers of raffle tickets. By one o'clock, he was faced with the inconceivable situation of turning away eager students because he was out of ticket books. By two o'clock, his emergency rush order for ten thousand more tickets arrived at his office, to be snapped up even quicker than their predecessors. By three o'clock, they were gone again and, in his ecstasy, Mr. Morrison ordered another five thousand and tripled the prize, promising two more colour television sets.

“What are you going to do,” snarled Mr. Gamble, “when these idiots come back to tell you they forgot to sell the tickets, and you're stuck with three TVs?”

The old Mr. Morrison would have been intimidated, but the new one was in a light, bubbly mood from the school spirit he knew was behind him. “Well — ha, ha — there are three major networks. I can watch them all at the same time.”

That, however, was going to be unnecessary. The next morning, the money started pouring in. All day the guidance office and surrounding halls were full of students handing in ticket stubs and cash. As each student submitted his gains, he picked up new tickets to sell, until the whole twenty thousand were in circulation. At one dollar a ticket, the school stood to make a fortune. It was the ultimate raffle, Mr. Morrison decided, his cup running over. That monster called “lack of interest,” his archenemy and longtime tormentor, now lay at his feet, beaten into submission.