Naked in School-Kevin and Denise
Tuesday came, bright and warm. It’s gonna be a hot day. I’m not looking forward to the heat, the tights get uncomfortable when I sweat. Need to look into tights with some natural fiber content, I guess. I’ll bring extra powder to use. After driving to school and parking, I walked into the building to my locker and then needed to find my home room. I had just stowed my junk and closed the locker when Abover sloped past, giving me a surprised look and a real scowl when he saw me. His face was an absolute mess, puffy blackened eyes, swollen nose, split lower lip (didn’t plan for that injury) and a big scrape on his chin (nor that one. Oh. Lip and chin. Happened during the first takedown. Right). He turned and headed in the direction of the office. I shrugged.
When I got to my home room, Denise was there. I put my Monday “late slip” on the teacher’s desk next to Denise’s. Denise saw me, came over, and took my hand.
“I thought of you all evening,” she said. “They were nice thoughts. Did you really mean it about my, uh, aura thing? How can I feel it? How does that work?”
I promised to show her how to start to do the meditation exercises that beginning students learn. Then I began to tell her about the police visit—she was shocked—when the final bell rang, so we sat. The teacher came in and looked at the slips and then looked around the room to see who was attached to those names. A second later the announcements came on; it was all routine stuff.
When they ended, the final words were: “Kevin Coris, to the main office, please. Kevin Coris.”
Man—will I ever get to have a normal day? I got up, grabbed my bag (didn’t know how long this episode would be), shrugged at the teacher (she’d have to wait another day to meet me), and left with a wave to Denise. She mouthed at me, “Be careful...” I waved again and shut the door.
When I got to the office Shirley (nameplate on her desk said Shirley Maples)—Mrs Maples—told me to go to C Wing, Room 117, Mr Abover’s office. Ah. He wants revenge, and he wants it in his private office. Hmmmm. Note to self. Self: Get a small digital voice recorder posthaste. My fallback position will be open door. No open door, no Kevin in room.
“Ah, the famous Mr Coris favors me with a visit,” he sneered when I knocked. “I was surprised to see you this morning. I was planning for a jail visit.”
Oh. If this is his natural voice (remember, yesterday I only heard him snarl, scream, squawk, and croak), then sneering fits him perfectly.
I ignored that. “Sir, you called to see me.”
“Yeah. Shut the door.”
“With all respect, sir, the door will remain open.”
“SHUT THE DOOR, I SAID!”
“I heard the first time, sir. If you must have it shut, then we will meet on its other side,” indicating the hall.
“YOU BASTARD! I’ll show you exactly who’s in charge here. For your behavior yesterday, for your rude comments to two teachers, and for your insubordination just now, I’m invoking the Program rule for disciplinary action. One week for each violation. Four violations. Coris, you’re on the Program for four weeks, not to be counted toward your required participation week. Strip.”
“Sir, I know with certainty who my parents are and can assure you they were married when I was conceived and born. Also you might be interested to know that at least two people in the hall just heard your shout, cursing me, and everything you said just after that. That’s extremely unprofessional behavior and you should be ashamed. I shall file a formal complaint against you and respectfully request your apology,” I said, mainly for the benefit of the listeners in the hall who had stopped to watch, out of Abover’s view.
“You’re a goddamned bastard, boy, I’ll be damned to apologize. I told you to strip!”
“Sir, as I told you yesterday, in case the minor inconvenience that occurred to your head made you forget, I respectfully decline your suggestion that I strip.”
“THAT WAS NO SUGGESTION, PRICK! IT WAS AN ORDER!” he roared. Good. Nice crowd gathering outside.
“Sir, my hearing is quite adequate. I’m only about three meters away—uh, about ten feet, this is the U.S.,” I observed mildly.
“Ok, then, scum, I’ll do it for you,” he shouted, taking a step toward me. I backed off two steps and assumed a relaxed defensive posture.
“Sir, stop. I think your head bump made you forget yesterday’s unfortunate accident. I’d prefer not to need to pay you a hospital visit during your recovery if you have another accident, ok?”
He roared a curse at me and took a partial step toward me; he was about six steps away now. I had unobtrusively hooked my foot around the leg of a chair standing next to the doorway and noted that about a dozen people had gathered about twelve feet (getting good at conversions now) away from the door; I was in their full view but they couldn’t see the chair nor Abover at all. His second step turned into a rush; with my foot I flipped the chair away from the wall into his path and hopped backwards into the hall and off to the side.
Abover came flying out of the room, scrabbling across the corridor, and crashing into the opposite wall. He had barely broken his fall with his right arm, but I could now see the arm was twisted at an odd angle. He sat up yelling and holding his elbow. Just then Dr Fletcher came hurrying up. He must have seen Abover doing his acrobatics demo in the hall, good. People were edging closer.
“What’s going on, Mr Coris?”
“Not sure, sir. Let me see.” I called to the crowd, “Someone have a mobile? Please ring 911, I think he needs an ambulance, he might have a broken arm by the way he fell.”
I motioned to Fletcher and then to the door. He walked to the doorway to look in.
“Ah, Dr Fletcher, look—that must have been what happened—he tripped over that chair and fell.”
“Mr Coris. Look. The chair is in there and Mr Abover is out there. I saw him just about fly out of the room. Just how could he have tripped?”
“Well, I’m not sure how that happened. Maybe he was running. He had called me a number of insulting names...” heads in the crowd were nodding in agreement “...so I told him that I’d wait in the hall until he regained his composure...” lots more nodding “...and then stepped out. I heard him shout something, uh, ‘wait,’ maybe? not sure, and then he came flying out, as you said.”
Many more nods and lots of “That’s what happened” “Yeah, I saw that too” “The kid wasn’t even in the room when Abover tripped; he was out here...” That got lots of yeses too.
I looked at Abover. His face was white and screwed up in agony. Nobody was paying any attention to him and he clearly was in no shape to join our conversation; then I heard the faint sound of a siren. I turned to Fletcher.
“Dr Fletcher, unfortunately I need to file a formal complaint against Mr Abover. For unprofessional conduct. He cursed me and called me insulting names.” I raised my voice. “Maybe someone in the hall heard, I’m not sure.”
“I heard,” came a voice. Oh, good! An adult! She stepped forward. “I’m Mrs Handly. I just dropped my daughter off at the office and passed by here and heard that man shouting obscenities at this boy. I could see the boy the whole time; he was just standing there, quietly and respectfully and answering with a soft voice—he never ever raised it and that man was bellowing at him and threatening him. Then the boy stepped out of the room and that man came flying out. The boy had to be maybe eight feet away—it’s not possible that he could have caused the accident.”
There were all kinds of sounds of agreement from the crowd.
The medics were arriving and as the crowd began to disperse, Dr Fletcher shouted, “Are there any other witnesses who have a conflicting observation?” No one answered. “I’d really appreciate it if some of you could come to the office to do an accident report. Only take five minutes.”
I saw at least a dozen people head toward the office. Real, real good. I felt a twinge of guilt—just a little twinge, but hey, the man got what he asked for. I did warn him, after all. It’s not my fault that he didn’t listen.
I never did get back to home room. The bell went off as they were rolling the stretcher down the hall to the entrance. Fletcher motioned to me to follow him.
In his office now, he sat down and stared at me.
“Dr Fletcher, sir, we need to stop meeting like this,” I said mildly.
He heaved a great sigh. “Kevin, what should I do with you? I had to throw the police off the trail yesterday and now I can’t help but think that somehow, with your magic or whatever, you put Abover down again.”
It was a bit tough keeping a poker face; I wanted to grin at what he said. “No, sir, this was all his doing this time.” This was technically true, actually. I just had helped him along a teensy little bit. “I could do an accident report too, sir, if you want, but I do want to do a complaint this time. He insulted my parents. I won’t stand for that.”
“No, no accident report. I’m getting at least a dozen reports from disinterested witnesses who were completely uninvolved with the ‘accident’...” —finger quotes— “so yours isn’t needed. As far as a complaint form, we don’t use any. Just write what you want to say and bring it in or email it. Now, how can I keep you out of trouble? Two teachers reported to Mr Abover that you were rude and uncooperative with them when they were interacting with you yesterday.”
“Sir, who gave you that report? Did you speak to the teachers yourself or did they send you a report?”
“No, actually I have a written report from Mr Abover.”
“May I see it?”
“Mmmm, it’s a bit irregular, but since you’re totally new to our education system, I suppose your seeing it will help you get more comfortable with how we do things here...”
There’s that “comfortable” idea again. Is that educator’s psychobabble? “Thank you.” I glanced at the two pages. The reports were correct about what we discussed but were way off base with my responses and actions. “One moment, sir.”
Wow. I had no idea that my decision to record yesterday’s incidents would bear fruit so quickly! I reached into my bag and pulled my laptop out.
“Is there a printer I can send something to? I made a written record of my teacher interactions yesterday for my personal use, but I can share them with you so you can see how much different they are. Then I suggest giving anonymized copies to the teachers to see which is closer to their recollection.”
“My boy, I just don’t understand how someone your age is so, well, prepared and put together. Is this what they teach in schools overseas?”
“A little. Mostly, besides great academics, a strong respect for authority—which is earned by the authority figure, by the way—and yes, always being prepared is an important objective. I’m ready; is there a printer?”
He gave me the wireless printer address; I entered it and sent the file. A minute later Mrs Maples appeared with the docs.
“I can email a copy too...” He waved me off.
“No, this is fine. Nothing identifies you as the author. You’re right, the teachers’ parts just about match but your responses are very different. We’ll see what the teachers have to say. Ok. Now about your adult status. I’ve been talking with the board’s lawyer and he says that adult or not, you are still subject to the federal law that requires Program participation for graduation. We can’t force you to participate but we can withhold your diploma.”
“Ok, I hear you. I’ve also put my own attorney onto this problem, so let’s let the legal eagles have their go at it and we can watch and root for our sides. What is in my favor, however, is that I can essentially pick and choose the time that I participate. If I refuse, I can’t be forced. But if I pick the last week of my senior year and do it then—satisfying all the rules, that means I’ve successfully completed the requirement, right? None of the rules were broken and I exercised all of my rights as an adult. It’s just a thought. You don’t have to respond. But you should think of the possible consequences of adulthood—how many kids will turn 18 in their senior year? Think hard on that. And don’t think that I won’t be putting the word out. You already know what I think about this stupidity. Sir.” He began to speak but I raised my hand.
“Another thing. Both Miss Williams and Mr Abover tried this—a Program punishment for a perceived offense that had nothing to do with the Program. That’s plain wrong and as I told you yesterday, it totally defeats any tiny validity that the Program objectives might have. Using one’s nudity to punish them shows their comfort with their sexuality just how? Doing that is solely a tool for humiliation and equates nudity, sexuality, and humiliation. That’s the precise message you’re sending, and you wonder why the kids are being so resistant to cooperation? Think on that too, sir. Is there anything more?”
“Nothing that a bottle of Scotch won’t cure. Look, I think that we can agree to disagree about some matters. Others are out of my hands, like the federal office and people like Mr Abover. But I do have the interests of my students in mind and will be willing to work with you to solve those problems that are under local control. You’re a unique person, son, and you’re earning my respect—grudgingly, anyway. Please don’t do anything to change my mind. I can see that if we do reach a major schism, then things can get messy and I’d rather avoid that. Do we agree?”
I rose and shook his hand. “That’s pretty much my feeling too, sir. I was grateful for your support in the police incident—even coming around during our first encounter to agree to have a reasonable discussion and I wish I didn’t have to pull a spectacular stunt to show you I meant business. That’s not how I work; I was kind of forced into it, as you may have guessed.”
“Well, that’s all. I’m glad we had this little talk. It clears up some things that were bothering me. But you owe me. You’ve given me so much work to do this week that I’m working overtime! Listen, it’s about 15 minutes into second period. You really need to start attending classes, son!” he finished with a grin. “Shirley will give you passes. Thanks for your ideas, too. Enjoy the day; I hope I won’t need to call you in much more or I’ll need to start working two shifts!”
I got the passes from Mrs Maples. Ok, in two days I missed first-period class twice and second-period class, one and a half times. I’m on a roll. Found my room and walked in. All heads swivelled toward me; I just went to the desk and handed in my passes. The teacher glanced at them.
“Nice to finally have you join us, Mr Coris. Please take a seat. Can you enlighten us on the nature of the incident in the corridor in C Wing?”
I looked at the board. It said “Mr Wilbur, Biology” in big letters. “Mr Wilbur, all I can say is that Mr Abover tripped and I think his arm’s broken. They took him to the hospital.”
Titters in the classroom.
“Oh, and can you offer any theories about how he might have tripped?”
Laughter.
“Well, can’t really say because I didn’t see it. I was in the hall when it happened.”
Kids were looking at each other and grinning now.
“Oh, really.”
“Really. There were over twenty witnesses, I think. A whole crowd was there. That’s all I can say, I guess.” Need to be a little evasive without actually lying. So far everything I had said was literally true—not gonna push it any further. “May I sit down?”
“Certainly. Ok, class, let’s continue. Someone please show Mr Coris where we are? Thanks.”
The class continued and at the appointed hour the bell rang. Instantly I was surrounded. Damn. Now I know how celebrities feel when they’re besieged by paparazzi.
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