Jeff Strand: A Bad Day for Voodoo

A moment later I decided that his eyes probably weren’t saying that. It was more likely “Cheating is bad.”

Mr. Click collected the quizzes, set them on his desk, and then began the lecture. It’s worth noting that he was not an engaging speaker. He tended to ramble and repeat himself and drain every possible bit of potential interest from the subject matter. Though I was no history buff, some of this stuff was kind of cool.. .but not when the words came from Mr. Click’s mouth.

To get the basic gist of what I’m talking about, pick any paragraph from this book and read it out loud in a monotone. Reread it over and over and over and over until you want to bash your head against a hard surface over and over and over and over so that your brain can escape and flee for sanctuary. That’s what his lectures were like.

About half an hour into the class, when Mr. Click had his back turned because he was scrawling something onto the chalkboard, Adam reached over and poked me in the shoulder. He glared at me and mouthed, “Do it.”

Fine. I’d do it.

Mr. Click turned back toward us and continued his agonizing lecture. It was about four or five minutes later (felt like sixty or seventy) before he returned his attention to the chalkboard.

I casually leaned down and reached into my backpack. It shuffled a bit, but the nice thing about having a straight-A student for a girlfriend is that she was paying too close attention to what the teacher was saying to turn around and see what her idiot boyfriend was doing right behind her.

The pins were in a small pouch that I’d purposely left unzipped. I quickly picked up one of them.

I poked it deep into the doll’s left leg.

Mr. Click let out a shriek of pain that ripped through my eardrums.

And then his leg shot off from his body in a spray of blood and bone as if it had been fired from a cannon.

The leg slid across the tile floor, leaving a thick red trail and stopped only when it struck the wall.

I guess it goes without saying that everybody in the classroom began to figuratively scream their heads off.

CHAPTER 3

Kelley was the first one up. Mr. Click lay on the floor, bellowing and clutching his stump, while I thought, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...

Kids were sobbing and screaming and panicking, and there were at least two confirmed vomiters. There was blood everywhere. I couldn’t breathe.

I plucked the pin out of the doll. Sadly, Mr. Click’s leg did not slide back and reattach itself.

What had I done?

What kind of horrible monster was I?

What the hell kind of steroid-enhanced voodoo doll was this?

“Get me a ruler!” Kelley shouted, obviously thinking, tourniquet. There was blood on her glasses, but none had yet spurted onto her blonde hair, which was pulled back into a ponytail.

I stood up, feeling dizzy. A few kids had their cell phones out and were frantically dialing. Two girls, Helen and Andrea, ran out of the classroom to get help.

Adam was frozen in his seat, looking positively horrified. Which was a relief—that was much better than seeing him sitting there, rubbing his hands together, and cackling in malicious glee.

I stumbled up to the front of the room, pausing for a moment as my vision blurred. Then I crouched down next to Kelley and Mr. Click. Kelley was clearly freaked out yet was staying composed. Somebody handed her a ruler.

“Give me your shirt,” she said to me.

I stripped off my shirt and gave it to her. She wrapped it around the ruler and Mr. Click’s stump, then began to twist the ruler.

I don’t have a solid memory of the next few minutes. I know that Mr. Jenkins, who taught economics next door, came in to see what all of the commotion was about. He didn’t think we were overreacting. Then the principal, a couple more teachers, and finally some cops and two paramedics arrived.

They got Mr. Click onto a gurney and wheeled my screaming history teacher out of the classroom. Yes, one of the paramedics brought his leg with them.

After they left, I gave Kelley a hug, and she totally lost it, sobbing against my bare chest.

Our three-month anniversary was tomorrow. Apparently, my present to her was a ghastly, horrific experience that would forever haunt her. She’d probably give me a book.

This went way beyond any thirst for revenge I might have had. Even if I’d believed that the doll would work, which I’ve already clearly established that I most certainly did not, I didn’t expect any reaction stronger than “Ow!” Maybe a “Dammit!” If I could have gotten an “Ow!” and a “Dammit!” out of him, I would have felt avenged enough.

Obviously there were certain questions that I wanted to ask of my good buddy Adam. I supposed that they should wait. Pointing at him and shouting, “What did you make me doooooo?!?” would be a bad idea until such a time as there weren’t twenty-eight kids, three teachers, and a principal in the room.

Everybody in class was quickly questioned by the police, who were quite understandably confused as to how such a thing could happen. I’m not sure how my fellow history students reported the afternoon’s events, but I assumed that they were all variations on “He was talking about World War I, and then suddenly, his leg flew off!”

Did I need to be nervous? Somebody might have seen me reach into my backpack seconds before the incident, but so what? What could I have had in my backpack that made somebody’s leg shoot off? A detonator? How could I strap explosives to Mr. Click’s upper left leg without him being aware of it? There hadn’t been an actual bang , and if explosives were involved, there’d be burn marks on his leg, so the police would quickly rule that out, which meant that the only possible connection between me reaching into my backpack and his leg coming off could be “voodoo doll,” and I didn’t think they’d go there.

When it was my turn to give a statement, the cop was reasonably polite and even had somebody find me a new shirt to wear. Though I babbled a bit (Okay, a lot...Okay, more than a lot), under these circumstances, I don’t think it seemed suspicious.

By the time we were allowed to leave, the press had surrounded the school. Kelley, Adam, and I gave a quick “No comment!” and got into the back of Kelley’s mother’s car. Other kids were enthusiastically talking to reporters about what had happened, but we just wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. The doll was still in my backpack, but though I’d put it back inside its box, every bump on the road sent a jolt through my heart. I was glad I wasn’t the one driving; it’s hard enough to keep your hands at ten and two without worrying that you’re going to jostle a voodoo doll and kill your teacher.

Kelley’s mom had always been nice to me in an I-know-my- daughter-can-do-better-but-I-suppose-she-could-also-do-a- whole-l ot-worse manner, and she seemed genuinely concerned about my mental health as we pulled up in front of my home. I assured her that I’d be fine, and Adam assured her that he didn’t need to be dropped off at his own house.

I gave Kelley the kind of kiss you give your girlfriend when she’s been through a traumatic experience and her mom is right there, and they drove off.

Finally, Adam and I were alone.

“So,” I said, keeping my voice as calm as possible, “is it safe to say that you thought something else was going to happen?”

“I had no idea!” Adam insisted. “Not a clue! Did you see that? Did you see it? I—I—I—I didn’t think legs could do that! Oh my God! That was insane! Did you see it?”

“Why did it do that?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know! I don’t know!”