Todd Strasser - Fallout

“Edward?” Dad whispers.

My brother doesn’t respond. He’s doing it in his sleep.

“He ever do that before?” Dad asks.

I shake my head. Dad watches him for a moment, then glances at Mom.

“She’s not going to be okay, is she?” I ask.

With his elbows on the table, Dad brings his clasped hands to his forehead like he’s praying. “I don’t know, Scott.”

But deep down, I think he does.

A slight rustling wakes me. Dad and I have fallen asleep at the table with our heads on our arms. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Sparky quietly creep down from the bunk. I’d ask him where he’s going, but I don’t want to wake everyone.

Naked, he heads toward the toilet bucket, so I assume he just has to go. Still sleepy, my heavy eyelids are starting to close when I hear the metallic clink of the big refuse can. Sparky tips open the top and throws his dirty pajamas in.

“Mr. Porter? Mr. Porter!” Janet is sitting up, staring at Mom, who is still lying on her back on the bunk. My first thought is that the worst has happened, but then I see that her eyes are open.

“Don’t look.” Dad gets up quickly.

“Why not?” I ask.

“Because—” He stops. When Mom hears his voice, her eyes move toward him.

“Gwen?” Dad sounds hopeful and excited.

Her eyes stay on him, but she doesn’t move.

The others wake and look. Dad kneels beside Mom. “Gwen?”

No answer.

“What is it?” Mrs. Shaw whispers.

“She’s awake.” Dad tenderly strokes Mom’s cheek. “Can you hear me, sweetheart?”

But Mom’s expression remains blank.

The others slowly climb out of the bunks and gather around. Mom’s eyes move as she looks at them, but there’s no sign of recognition.

“Gwen?” Dad says again.

Her eyes go back to him.

“Gwen, nod if you can hear me.”

Mom still doesn’t react.

Dad holds a finger up in front of her face and moves it slowly left. Her eyes follow it, but when Dad moves his finger back, her gaze remains directed at the wall.

“Gwen? Honey?” he says again, anxiously.

Her eyes slowly come back to him. But her face is blank. Dad picks up her hand and squeezes it. It looks limp in his. “Sweetheart?” His voice is full of uncertainty.

She doesn’t respond. Dad puts her hand down, then turns away and hides his face.

When school began that fall, we had a new teacher and new desks. The teacher was skinny, with hollowed cheeks and a dark shadow over his jaw. He wore a gray suit that looked too big, a thin black tie, and a white shirt. Except for gym, it was the first time we’d ever had a man teacher.

“Welcome to sixth grade,” he said. “My name is Mr. Kasman, and we have something in common. This is a new grade for you and a new school for me. If you look inside your desk, you will find a strip of oaktag. Please write your first name in large neat letters and place it on your desk where I can see it.”

Our new desks didn’t have hinged tops like the old ones. To get things from inside, we had to bend down and squint into them or feel around blindly with our hands. We’d all begun to work on our name cards when the classroom’s public-address speaker crackled on: “Hello, students, and welcome back to Willis Road for another exciting year of learning.” It was Principal Sharp. “A lot has changed over the summer. We have some new teachers, a new soundproof ceiling, and, as you’ve probably already noticed, new desks with scratch-proof desktops. After what happened last year, I’m sure you know why we got them. I hope you all have a great first day.”

The PA went silent. “What happened last year?” Mr. Kasman asked.

Paula raised her hand.

“Yes, uh…” Mr. Kasman squinted at her name card. “Paula?”

“The boys carved things into the desks. Then they couldn’t write on them because their pens went through the paper.”

Mr. Kasman ran his fingers over the shiny hard surface of a desk in the front row. Then he said, “Please finish your name cards.”

I went back to work, but a scratching sound started behind me. With his left arm resting on his desk, Puddin’ Belly Wright appeared to be hunched forward, gazing toward the front of the room. But behind his left arm, his right hand was clenched around a bent paper clip, busy scratching at the surface of his new scratch-proof desk.

Puddin’ Belly was a big, strong, chubby kid who lived a block away from us and often came around to play fungo baseball and touch football. His real name was Stuart Wright, but his belly bounced and jiggled when he ran, and somehow he’d acquired that nickname. Puddin’ Belly would do almost anything if dared, or if even just asked. One morning a few days later, while Mr. Kasman wrote on the blackboard, Ronnie slid him a note. Puddin’ Belly read it and raised his hand. “Hey, Mr. Kasman, how come you became a teacher?”

“I’m not a horse,” Mr. Kasman said, without pausing from what he was writing.

“Huh?”

“You said ‘hey,’ and he said he’s not a horse,” Paula explained.

“Huh?” Puddin’ Belly said again.

“Forget it.” Mr. Kasman turned from the board. “I became a teacher because I think it’s an important job.”

“All of the teachers in this school are ladies,” said Puddin’ Belly. “Except for Mr. Brown, the gym teacher.”

“Are you implying that the only teaching job a man should have is gym?” asked Mr. Kasman.

Puddin’ Belly wasn’t implying anything. He was simply repeating what Ronnie had told him to say. Now that the subject had been broached without Mr. Kasman getting mad, Ronnie must have felt safe to add his two cents. “I think what Stuart means is that men usually don’t become teachers.”

“My father teaches economics at Hofstra,” said Paula.

“That’s college,” said Ronnie.

“Mr. Kasman?” the PA squawked. It was one of the secretaries. “Can you come down to the office for a moment?”

“Take out your grammar workbooks, and work on pages fourteen and fifteen,” Mr. Kasman said, and left.

Ronnie went to the back of the room to sharpen his pencil. The grinding filled our ears. When it stopped, he didn’t return to his desk. Instead, he looked up at the new sound-absorbing white cork squares in the ceiling. Holding the pencil at the point, he flicked his wrist. The pencil flew up and stuck, hanging from the ceiling like a thin yellow stalactite.

Ronnie went to the front of the room, took a new pencil from the box on Mr. Kasman’s desk, and sharpened it. This time the whole room watched. A moment later, there were two yellow stalactites in the ceiling.

Puddin’ Belly flipped his pencil at the ceiling. It bounced off and fell to the floor. Freak O’ Nature flipped his pencil. Same result. Eric Flom tried it. Still the same result.

“Stand guard, Scott,” Ronnie ordered.

Standing guard was tricky because you had to be in the doorway and watch without being seen by the teacher you were on the lookout for. I’d perfected a method of keeping the door ajar with my foot while sticking just enough of my face out so I could see with one eye. It was nothing any other kid couldn’t do, but since I’d been the first to think of it, it had become my role.

By now there was a line of boys at the pencil sharpener and nonstop grinding. Kids asked Ronnie to demonstrate his technique. Soon more pencils were stuck in the ceiling.

Down the hall, Mr. Kasman came around the corner. I backed out of the doorway. “He’s coming!”

Everyone hurried to their desks and got to work in their grammar workbooks.