Scat (2 page)

"Yeah."

"And I'm also guessing that you're more interested in playing with your acne than you are in learning the photo-synthetic process."

Smoke's hand came off his neck and dropped to his side.

Looming over him, Mrs. Starch said, "A teacher's job is to identify and cultivate each student's strengths, and then encourage him or her to utilize those strengths in the pursuit of knowledge."

There wasn't a trace of anger in her voice, which Nick found creepy.

"So, Duane," she continued, "what I'd like you to do- since you're obviously fascinated by the subject-is to write a five-hundred-word essay about pimples."

The class cracked up again-Nick and Marta, too, in spite of themselves. This time the kids couldn't stop laughing.

Mrs. Starch waited before continuing. "You should start with some basic human biology-what causes glandular skin eruptions in adolescents? There's plenty of information on the Internet, Duane, so I'll expect at least three source citations. The second part of the paper should summarize the history of acne, both medically and in popular culture. And then the last section could deal with your own personal pimple, the one with which you seem so enchanted."

Smoke stared darkly at Mrs. Starch.

"And here's the best part, Duane," she said. "I want the essay to be funny, because you're a funny fellow. An extremely funny fellow."

"Not me."

"Oh, don't be modest. You had everybody in stitches just a moment ago." Mrs. Starch turned her back on Smoke and bobbed the pencil gaily in the air. "Come on, people, what do you say? Wouldn't it be amusing for Duane to write a humorous essay on pimples and then read it aloud to the whole class?"

Nobody was giggling anymore, and even Graham had yanked down his hand. Smoke wasn't a popular kid, but it was impossible not to feel sorry for him. Mrs. Starch was being exceptionally brutal, even for Mrs. Starch.

Marta looked queasy again, and Nick was starting to feel the same way. Smoke was a loner and definitely freaky, but he never hassled anybody as long as he was given plenty of space.

"Nick?" Mrs. Starch said.

Nick sagged at his desk and thought: I can't
believe this.
"Mr. Waters, are you with us today?"

"Yes, Mrs. Starch."

"Be honest-wouldn't you and your classmates enjoy hearing Duane read his pimple paper?"

Nick's chin dropped to his chest. If he answered yes, he'd risk making a mortal enemy of Smoke. If he answered no, Mrs. Starch would pick on him mercilessly for the rest of the school year.

He wished that he could make himself faint, or maybe swallow his own tongue. An ambulance ride would be better than this.

"Well?" Mrs. Starch prodded.

Nick tried to think of something to say that would free Smoke from doing the essay and at the same time not anger Mrs. Starch.

"Honestly, I'd rather learn about the Calvin cycle," he said, "than Duane's zits."

A few students snickered nervously.

"No offense," Nick added, with a lame nod to Smoke, who sat expressionless.

Mrs. Starch showed no mercy. She spun around and tapped Smoke on the crown of his head. "Five hundred words," she said, "by the end of the week."

Smoke scowled. "I don't think so."

"Excuse me?"

"It ain't fair."

"Really? Is it fair for you to come to my class so unprepared and hopelessly unfamiliar with the study material? To waste my time, and that of your fellow students- you think that's fair, Duane?"

Smoke brushed a shock of jet-black hair out of his eyes. I 'pologize, 'kay? Now just let it go."

Mrs. Starch bent down slowly, peering like a heron about to spear a minnow. "Well, what happened to our class comedian?" she asked. "Are you all out of jokes?"

"I guess."

"That's too bad, because I expect five hundred hilarious words-double-spaced."

"No way," Smoke said.

Mrs. Starch positioned the tip of the pencil so that it was even with the tip of his nose. "Way," she said.

Nick looked anxiously at Marta, who had closed her biology book and laid her head upon the desk.

Smoke took a swat at the pencil, but Mrs. Starch jerked it away.

"Get outta my face," he said, "or else you'll be sorry."

"Is that a threat, Duane?" Mrs. Starch didn't sound too worried.

Smoke said, "Ain't a threat. It's a fact."

"No, here's a fact." Once more she leveled her pencil at his nose. "You
will
write a five-hundred-word essay about pimples and you
will
read it aloud to all of us, or you
will
fail this class and have to take it again next year. Do you understand?"

Smoke crossed his eyes as he stared down the yellow shaft of Mrs. Starch's No. 2 Ticonderoga. "I guess," he said.

Then he calmly chomped the pencil in half, chewed up the graphite along with the splinters, and swallowed the whole mouthful with a husky gulp.

Mrs. Starch backed away, eyeing with alarm the moist stump of wood that remained in her fingers.

Nobody else in the room moved a muscle except for Smoke, who dropped his biology book into a camo-patterned backpack, stood up, and ambled out the door.

TWO

As they were walking home from the bus stop, Nick told Marta: "It's not over between those two. You just wait."

"I am so glad there's no class tomorrow," she said. "I can't deal with it-she's a witch and he's a total moron."

The science classes were taking an all-day field trip to the Black Vine Swamp, which was way out near the Big Cypress Preserve. Mrs. Starch herself had picked the location, describing it as "a festival of photosynthesis." The swamp was famous for exotic orchids and ancient cypress trees, but Nick was hoping to see a panther.

"We'll probably catch malaria from the mosquitoes," Marta said, "but it can't possibly be more painful than her stupid biology class."

Nick laughed. "We haven't had rain for two weeks. There won't be many mosquitoes."

"Spiders, then. Whatever." Marta waved and turned up the driveway of her house.

Nick lived three blocks away, in the same subdivision. His house was actually closer to the bus stop, but lately he'd been taking the long way home so that he could walk with Marta.

From the front step, she called back to him: "Hey, do you think he'll show up for the field trip?"

"Smoke?"

"Who else?" Nick said, "I hope not."

"Me, too." Marta waved once more and disappeared through the doorway.

As soon as Nick got home, he hurried to the computer in the den and checked his e-mail. He was waiting to hear from his father, a captain in the National Guard who for the last seven months had been stationed in the Anbar province of Iraq.

Nick's dad e-mailed almost every morning, but Nick and his mother hadn't heard from him in three days. This had happened before, when his father was on a field mission with his unit. Nick tried not to let himself worry.

His mom was a guard at the Collier County Jail. She got off work at 4:30 in the afternoon and was usually home by 5:15 at the latest. Nick stayed at the computer, researching an English paper and rechecking his e-mail every few minutes. By the time his mother came in the door, he'd still heard nothing from his father.

"How was your day?" his mom asked.

"Some kid ate Mrs. Starch's pencil. You wouldn't believe it," Nick said. "Gobbled it right out of her hand."

"Any particular reason?"

"He was mad, I guess. She made fun of a big ol' gnarly zit on his neck."

Nick's mother set her purse heavily on the kitchen counter. "Tell me again why we're spending all this money on a private school."

"Wasn't my idea," Nick reminded her. "Smaller classes?"

"That was one reason."

"And better teachers, you said."

"So we'd been told."

"And the low Freak Factor," Nick added.

"Right." His mother frowned. "And now you're telling me there's a boy in biology who thinks he's a termite."

"More like a beaver," Nick said. "But Mrs. Starch shouldn't have made fun of him. He's not a kid you want to mess with."

Nick's mother took a bottle of V8 juice from the refrigerator and emptied it into a small glass.

"What's the pencil-eater's name?" she asked. "Duane Scrod. You don't know him."

"Spelled S-c-r-o-d?"

Nick said, "Yeah, that's right."

"Then it's Duane Scrod Jr. I know his father, Duane Sr."

"From the jail?"

Nick's mom nodded. "He did six months for burning down a Chevy dealership in Port Charlotte, all because his Tahoe blew a transmission on Alligator Alley."

No
wonder the kid turned out the way he did,
Nick thought. His
old man's a whack job.

"What's for dinner?" Nick asked his mother.

"Spaghetti, spaghetti, or spaghetti."

"Guess I'll try the spaghetti."

"Excellent choice."

"Hey, did Dad e-mail you at work today?"

"No. How about you?"

"Not yet," Nick said.

His mother managed a smile. "Don't worry. He's probably away from base camp."

"I'll go look on the computer again-"

"Let's eat first, Nicky. Know what? I'm not really in the mood for pasta. Why don't we go out for some barbecue?"

"You sure, Mom?"

"Sure as can be," she said, finishing off the juice. "What time is it in Iraq right now?"

"Like one-thirty in the morning."

"Oh, then he's probably asleep."

"Yeah," Nick said. "I bet he's sleeping. I bet we'll hear from him tomorrow."

The headmaster, Dr. Dressier, was neat and cautious and mild-spoken. He was happiest when the Truman School ran smoothly and harmony was in the air. He was unhappiest when the students and faculty were buzzing and distracted.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he said to Mrs. Starch.

She held up the half-eaten pencil. "The young man has serious anger-control issues," she said.

Dr. Dressier examined the evidence. "And you're sure he didn't spit the rest out?"

"Oh, no, he swallowed it," Mrs. Starch reported. "Most definitely."

"Why didn't you send him to the nurse's station?"

"Because he stormed out of my classroom," she said, adding with disapproval, "sixteen minutes
before
the bell. Sixteen full minutes."

"The splinters could be harmful to his internal organs-"

"I'm well aware of that, Dr. Dressier."

"The boy's parents should be notified as soon as possible."

"And informed, at the same time, of his disruptive and unacceptable actions."

"Of course," Dr. Dressier said uneasily.

Like everybody else at the Truman School, he tried to avoid Mrs. Starch whenever possible. Ever since taking the headmaster job, he'd heard strange stories. She lived alone, yet no one seemed to know whether she was divorced or she was a widow. According to one rumor, her house was filled with stuffed dead animals, such as skunks and raccoons. According to other gossip, she kept fifty-three snakes as pets, including a diamondback rattler.

Officially, Mrs. Starch's private life was none of Dr. Dressler's business. As a teacher she was punctual, thorough, and hardworking. Students might be afraid of Mrs. Starch, but they also learned plenty from her. Truman classes always scored exceptionally well on the biology questions in the PSATs and SATs.

Still, Dr. Dressier couldn't help but wonder if any of the weird tales about Mrs. Starch were true. He found himself uncomfortable in her presence, probably because Mrs. Starch was so large and imposing and spoke to him as if he were a half-witted nephew.

She said, "I'll be happy to phone Duane's parents myself."

"That's all right. You've got the field trip tomorrow-"

"We're all packed and ready to go, Dr. Dressier."

"Good. Very good." He smiled impassively. "But I'll contact the Scrods. It's my responsibility."

"Oh, I really don't mind," Mrs. Starch said, a bit too cheerily.

"Let me handle it, please."

Mrs. Starch rose to leave. Dr. Dressier carefully sealed the mangled remains of the pencil into a plastic baggie of the type used for sandwiches.

"The pencil was in my hand when he attacked it. He could easily have nipped off my fingers," Mrs. Starch said. "I assume disciplinary measures will be taken."

The Truman School had a detailed Code of Conduct for students, but offhand the headmaster couldn't think of a rule that applied to eating a teacher's pencil. He supposed that it fell under the category of "unruly behavior."

"What prompted Duane to do something like this?" he asked Mrs. Starch.

"He became angry when I asked him to write a paper," she explained, "and the reason I asked him to write a paper was that he failed to do his class reading assignment. As a result, he was unable to discuss the study material when called upon."

"I see." Dr. Dressier opened a drawer and deposited the baggie containing the mangled pencil into it.

"By the way, will you be coming along on our field trip?" Mrs. Starch asked. "You can ride with me."

"I'm afraid I can't," the headmaster replied quickly. "I've got a ... a meeting, a board meeting in the morning. Board of trustees."

And if there's not a meeting,
Dr. Dressier thought,
I'll arrange one.
He was not an outdoor person, and his contact with nature was limited to glimpses of wildlife on Animal Planet while he flipped channels between cooking shows. Dr. Dressier was certain that any place called the Black Vine Swamp was no place he wanted to be.

"You don't know what you're missing," Mrs. Starch told him.

"I'm sure you're right."

After she left his office, Dr. Dressier phoned the Scrod household. A man answered, growled something that Dr. Dressier couldn't understand, and hung up.

Perplexed, Dr. Dressier pulled out the file of Duane Scrod Jr. It showed that the boy had been held back two years in elementary school and later was expelled from a public middle school for fighting with his P.E. teacher. During that scuffle, the teacher lost three teeth and the tip of his right pinkie finger, which Duane had gnawed off and consumed.