Мариам Петросян - The Gray House

“All right, let's go,” Wolf said, getting up. “Go and support Stinker's possessive urges. Something tells me he's going to get rechristened after today's show.”

“Into Crocodile?” Grasshopper said.

“Nah. Won't work. Crocodiles gobble up something and then lie there sleeping, like statues. He's much too noisy for that. And I don't think he ever sleeps. Or has enough to eat.”

Grasshopper stuffed the tapes into the nightstand so they'd be safe from Siamese.

Blind didn't get up.

“Good luck,” he said lazily.

“Do you think we’ll have to shout?” Grasshopper said.

“We’ll see. We’ll play it by ear. Maybe we won't have to.”

Wolf let him go out first.

The hallway was almost empty, but there was a throng of people at the other end, by the doors of the staff room. The garish shirts and jackets on the seniors' backs shielded the proceedings from them better than any fence. They couldn't see Stinker and the cohorts, but they could hear them fine. The clanking of metal on metal and the screams “Down with tyranny!” echoed through the building.

The closer Wolf and Grasshopper got, the louder it became. The seniors weren't standing in one place. Some of them moved away, laughing, and their spots were immediately taken by others who had just arrived. When Ulysses the wheeler peeled off with a disgusted grimace on his face, Wolf and Grasshopper quickly squeezed in. Now they could finally see.

The posters swayed uncertainly in the feeble hands of Poxy Sissies. Magician, jaw firmly set and eyes bulging, held his above everybody else's. Stinker, gone livid with the effort and bedecked in badges, brandished Packages for the Owner . The half sheet was draped around the handle limply, the writing wasn't legible, so he simply waved it like a flag. Poker-faced Siamese furiously rattled the salad bowl and the bear trap. Elephant looked on, elated.

“Down with tyranny! Down with counselors' despotism! Down ...” Stinker droned.

“Down with it!” the choir picked up on the exhale.

Elephant whined softly in agreement. Beauty hid himself among the wheelers, keeping his head low so as not to stand out.

Stuffagers, all present, formed a semicircle and swayed to the beat.

The seniors just laughed. Grasshopper thought that there was significantly more shouting than would be expected, and then realized that, to his surprise, Stuffagers were screaming as well.

“Down with teachers!” Crybaby squealed. Whiner incongruously proclaimed, “World peace!” Crook, waving his crutch, demanded, “Living space for the cripples!”

But Stinker's voice sailed clear above the din. His screams joined with the crashing of the salad bowl and the tooting of the tin trumpet to create one hellish, unbearable cacophony.

Seniors, still laughing, inserted fingers in their ears.

“Could it be that the principal has already jumped out the window?” Wolf shouted to Grasshopper.

Principal hadn't jumped anywhere. Safe and sound, albeit distinctly greenish in color, he opened the doors of the staff room and waved his hands, trying to shout over the commotion. Short, with a pugnacious gray beard, he resembled a retired pirate, except he didn't smoke a pipe, wasn't covered in tattoos, and generally was closer in appearance to a gnome—if not for the shaggy head of an old sailor.

“Attention, squirts!” Boar the senior shouted, raising two fingers in the air.

The seniors guffawed. Stinker, red faced and majestic, waved his little paw, commanding the others to pause. Siamese ceased their racket. Principal's voice finally broke through the general hubbub.

“At once... Outrageous... Ankle biters ...”

“Quiet!” Stinker ordered.

The principal produced a handkerchief and wiped his face.

“If I may be allowed to speak,” he said and had to wait out an explosion of laughter. “I hoped to prevail upon this young gentleman to consider sharing his bounty with others. But I’m afraid that the way this is going I won't live to see the day. We’ll continue the investigation into where these packages came from and why. In the meantime he can take them away. The sooner the better!”

Siamese whistled. Humpback applauded. Splint the counselor appeared behind the crestfallen principal's back, pushing a cart. Black Ralph, hands in pockets, marched alongside him, while Elk was bringing up the rear carrying a box full of letters. The cart was piled with packages. A mound of boxes in bright wrappers.

“What's that?” the seniors inquired.

“Packages for the owner,” Stinker said and nodded to Humpback and Magician. “Prepare to accept the goods.”

The cart was transferred from Splint to Humpback. Magician, in one practiced theatrical sweep, covered it with the Hands Off sheet, hiding the contents from the prying eyes. Sissies trooped in the direction of the Poxy room, pushing the cart in front of them. The Stuffage boys made way, flabbergasted. As the procession filed past the rows of seniors, they looked at Stinker approvingly and sneaked peeks under the cover.

“That's one wicked squirt,” Lame said with a tinge of respect in his voice. “He's going to crawl far.”

Stinker nodded left and right, graciously bestowing his toothy smile on the assembled admirers.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, stopping the escort. “Just one moment.”

He wheeled over to the cart, rummaged under the sheet, extracted the smallest package, in bubble wrap with stars plastered all over it, and tossed it to Whiner.

“There. This is yours, guys. Thanks for the support.”

The seniors applauded. Whiner ogled the package in disbelief.

“Drop that thing right now,” Sportsman hissed, shouldering his way through. “Wheelers' handouts! Drop it, I said!”

“No, I won’t,” Whiner said, clutching the package tightly. “Why should I? Get your own things and drop them if you want.”

Sportsman slapped Whiner across the face. Wheelers rumbled indignantly.

As he was catching up with Sissies and the cart, Grasshopper looked over his shoulder. The principal was still standing at the entrance to the staff room. The counselors on both sides of him patted him on the shoulders soothingly. Principal's vacant stare was fixed directly in front of him.

Could he really have gone crazy? Grasshopper thought. I mean, it's possible ...

“I want that cart back!” Splint the counselor shouted after them, his glasses glinting. “Miscreants!”

Every time she returned to their place, she wondered at the difference between the two corridors and never could understand what the secret was. It wasn't that theirs was narrower and shorter. It wasn't the windows (that one didn't have them), and not the area rugs either... But tonight she finally got it: their corridor wasn't a corridor.

The old principal... The former principal (that white beard; she couldn't recall the face anymore) favored girls, and it was reflected in the disparity between the corridors. The white beard had been long gone, but the favorable treatment persisted. Only four per dorm; yes, they were tiny, more cells than rooms, but still only four, and you could always close the door. And those area rugs, balding and fraying, and the cords on the curtains, and the television sets. White beard put them up in every dorm, but he'd been long gone, and the televisions broke down gradually until there were only two left. One of those two was glowing now by the wall, and in front of it, on mattresses and blankets dragged out of the dorms, an enraptured (whatever could they be expecting to learn?) selection of females from various rooms positioned themselves. Stumbling in the dark between their arms and legs, stepping on the pillows and mounds of apple peels, she finally figured out the difference. Their corridor was not a place separate from the dorms, it was their continuation, one common dorm, a place where after dark anyone could crash down and sleep.