Donuthead Page 5

  What could possibly be luring her? Who did she want to see that she couldn’t see during regular hours? What did she want to do that couldn’t be done under the supervision of our teacher?

  It was on one of those days that a curious thing happened to me. Yes, I, Franklin Delano Donuthead, felt an irresistible urge to help Sarah Kervick get recess detention and to solve, once and for all, the mystery behind her desire to stay indoors at any cost.

  Ten minutes before the lunch bell rang, Sarah was shifting uneasily in her seat. That’s when I leaned over to her and said, “Why don’t you raise your hand and ask Ms. Linski to explain what the word eunuch means?”

  “What?” she hissed back.

  “Eunuch. Ask her what it means.”

  Kids were putting their work away in their desks, and Glynnis Powell came around collecting the milk money. I smiled up at her and shined my quarters with an anti-bacterial tissue before depositing them in her palm. Which I think she appreciated.

  Then Sarah’s hand shot up.

  “Yes, Sarah?” Ms. Linski said, brightening. Sarah Kervick never raised her hand.

  “I was just wondering, uh, what’s a eunuch?”

  “What’s a eunuch?” she repeated, looking at Sarah with a bewildered expression on her face.

  Then something really amazing happened. My hand shot up. Almost against my will, I said, “Ms. Linski, can you also explain what a hermaphrodite is?”

  Ms. Linski set down her grade book and the apple-covered coffee mug she always took with her to the teachers’ lounge.

  “Uh, while you’re at it,” I finished weakly.

  “Very funny, you two. I’ll be happy to let you stay in for recess and look those words up in the dictionary.”

  “Hey, that wasn’t supposed to happen,” Sarah said, glaring at me and pressing her lips together to demonstrate her unhappiness.

  “I thought you wanted to stay in for recess.” “Yeah, but not with you.”

  Were my feelings hurt? No! I was in a haze, imagining the possible consequences of my actions. As I passed into the hallway, I asked Ms. Linski if this would appear on my permanent record.

  “You should have thought of that earlier, Franklin. Perhaps, in the future, you will reflect before you act.”

  Excuse me, but reflecting before I act is my specialty! I could teach master classes on the subject. What in heaven’s name had gotten into me?

  After lunch, Ms. Linski had the class line up for recess.

  She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Not you, Franklin. Mrs. Boardman is waiting for you in the library.” She didn’t even bother to include Sarah, for whom sitting in the library under the watchful eye of Mrs. Boardman was business as usual.

  Mrs. Boardman did not have any children enrolled in Pelican View Elementary School. It was rumored that even her grandchildren had college diplomas by now. She had the kind of skim milk, old lady skin and powder white hair that suggested she never exposed herself to the sun, a practice I thoroughly endorse. The occurrence of melanoma, the most deadly form of skin cancer, has almost doubled since 1973.

  In the entire time I have been at Pelican View Elementary, I have observed Mrs. Boardman doing only one of three things: writing notes to parents of children who have not returned their library books on time, mending torn pages with special non-yellowing Scotch tape, and reshelving the books. She never speaks, to my knowledge. Just writes note after note in her spidery handwriting: If Billy does not return his library book forthwith, he will lose his lending privileges for the rest of the year.

  That is why I was mildly shocked when I entered the library and saw her look up in what seemed an eager way. But then she looked back down again, disappointed. It wasn’t until Sarah Kervick—who’d been walking her customary six steps away from me—appeared that she resumed her happy expression and, ignoring me completely, said in a soft, papery-thin voice, “Sarah, dear. There you are. What’s been keeping you?”

  Well, this was information, I told myself. Sarah Kervick had a friend. I sat down at a long, chocolate-colored table and waited to see what would happen next. But Sarah did not want to share any information with me. She walked slowly over to my table and said, “Look, Donuthead, this doesn’t go anywhere. You got that? Nowhere but here. If it does …” She paused, considering how to drive her point home.

  “Let’s see,” I said. “If I tell anyone that you are friends with little old lady Boardman, you’ll yank my ears so hard I’ll be able to tie them in a knot beneath my chin.”

  “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

  As I glanced down at the table, I noticed that the bandages had been removed from her fingers and that her warts were nearly gone. Reflexively, she curled her fingers into fists and turned around, tossing her shiny blond hair over her shoulder.

  “Hi, Grace,” Sarah said when she reached Mrs. Boardman’s desk.

  Grace!

  “Hello, Sarah.” I watched in shock as Mrs. Boardman laid down her pen and put her bony hand over Sarah’s. My first impulse was to warn the old woman of the dangers of infection that might still lie beneath Sarah Kervick’s skin. Elderly people have compromised immune systems, you know. I did not want to be responsible for Mrs. Boardman’s premature demise.

  But the way she grabbed on to Sarah Kervick, I don’t think she would have paid any attention to my warnings. She held her hand and spoke to her in a low voice.

  “I was able to get over to that library in Wing Rock. Mr. Benkert, my neighbor, had to visit his mother up that way. Poor dear broke another hip. But just you see what I got you.” And she smiled a smile broad enough to crack her face, then rose slowly, pulled a key from her pocket, and shuffled over to the closet that held the coat and hat and briefcase of the regular librarian, Mrs. Fox. Unlocking the door, Mrs. Boardman took a cloth sack from behind the lost and found box.

  “Here it is.”

  I was expecting something exotic, like maybe a book on medieval torture or ancient Egyptian burial rites. Almost against my will, I rose in my seat to get a better look. As if sensing my movement, Sarah Kervick’s head shot around with the glare of Medusa and froze me to the spot.

  She turned back to Mrs. Boardman and said, “How long can we keep it, do you think?”

  “It depends on when they move Mrs. Benkert. I’d say we have it until next Friday, at least.”

  Sarah Kervick held the book tightly to her chest and moved over to the picture book area. Then she flopped down on her stomach, and all I could see were the bottoms of her worn tennis shoes.

  I became absolutely consumed with discovering the book that made Sarah Kervick relax her hunched-up shoulders and smile so sweetly.

  It was a strange sensation, much like the one that had caused me to raise my hand and voluntarily get recess detention. You see, normally I don’t feel curiosity about things that are not connected to my personal safety. In fact, I like to arrange situations so that I have as much control as possible.

  But the more I tried to arrange things around Sarah Kervick, the less control there was to be had. Something told me I was entering a whole new area of danger, and this was not physical! Libraries are, statistically, very safe places to be, unless you misuse the step stools that are intended for staff use only.

  I rose from my seat and approached Mrs. Boardman. The reference section formed a wall that blocked my view of the picture book area. If I could just get to it, I could peek over and …

  “Yes, Franklin?” Mrs. Boardman said, looking up at me from her work.

  “I was wondering, Mrs. Boardman,” I said loudly. “Do you have any statistics on the rising tide of personal watercraft accidents?”

  She blinked at me a few times. “Well, we have The Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “I see … and that would be …”

  She pointed to nonfiction. Opposite direction. “I see,” I said, casting a meaningful glance over her shoulder.

  She raised one eyebrow, just for a second, and then said, a
little more loudly, “But if you are looking for tragic domestic accidents, which I understand is a personal interest of yours, I might recommend The Three Little Pigs in the folktale section at the far corner of the picture book area.”

  “That was tragic indeed,” I said, smiling up at Mrs. Boardman. “I’ll look that up right away.” And I stepped right over Sarah Kervick’s legs on the way to the folktales.

  In between doing some research for my list of characters who might die from preventable accidents—Why did Little Red Riding Hood have to talk to strangers? Why did Goldilocks have to trespass?—I managed to steal several glances at Sarah Kervick.

  As I had suspected, it was an oversize picture book, full of— of all things—figure skaters looping and twirling and bending over in ways that would exert dangerous pressure on the lumbar region of the spine.

  Normally, she might have been bothered that I was so close to her without being invited. But this book had clearly taken Sarah Kervick far away into some frosty daydream of her own. Why did she want to go so badly that she would let down her guard like this?

  We passed the whole of recess that way, the three of us quietly rustling pages until the bell rang. It was very peaceful.

  Reluctantly, Sarah handed the book back to Mrs. Boardman, who returned it to her bag.

  “Growing up in Norway,” she told Sarah, “the only way to get to school in winter was by skating down the frozen river. Mama gave us each a potato from the fire to put in our pocket. That kept our little fingers from getting frostbite.”

  “You were poor, weren’t you?” Sarah Kervick asked.

  “Yes, dear. We were very poor.”

  • • •

  The halls had pretty much emptied out by the time we left the library. I walked quickly back to class, anxious to be reinstated in the good graces of Ms. Linski. After all, I am known for returning from recess in a timely manner, and I considered it a point of honor to uphold this standard of excellence.

  But something told me to look back for Sarah Kervick. She was standing motionless in front of the plate glass window by the office. The same window that gave Mr. Putman a full view of the playground.

  “It’s your pal Bernie,” she said, squinting into the distance. A broad grin broke across her face. “And my pal Marvin Howerton.” With a jerk of her thumb, she called out, “C’mon.”

  Every gene in my risk-averse body told me to proceed calmly toward the fifth-grade classroom, where after-lunch silent reading would already have begun. Then I began the now-familiar “get back” calculation, which was the proportion of Sarah Kervick’s anger roughly divided by the number of bones in my body to the square root of my ability to withstand pain.

  I followed her out the door.

  She had located them in a small corner of the playground supposedly reserved for rousing games of four square. I knew the walls that flanked the playing area intimately. When a smallish person is pushed up against one, it is impossible for Mr. Putman to see from his vantage point in the office.

  The recess aides had already filed in with the other kids, and the yard was strangely still. The immediate sensation of my impending doom kept me from being too concerned about being caught on the playground after recess.

  “Give me back my cards,” Bernie was saying. “I need those cards.”

  It’s a well-known fact that Bernie Lepner makes his own playing cards. The Lepner deck consists of seventy-two cards with pictures from National Geographic Mod Podged onto the fronts of real playing cards. I myself have inhaled the fumes while he created them at our kitchen table. Using these cards, players make up stories, based on the hands they are dealt. The game has certain possibilities, particularly when one is dealt pictures of natural catastrophes. The cards travel with Bernie everywhere, carefully secured by a rubber band and stuffed into his back pants pocket.

  “What’s up, Bernie?” Sarah asked, shouldering her way into the circle created by Bernie, Marvin Howerton, and Bryce Jordan, his best friend and partner in crime. I hung back at a respectful distance.

  Despite the cold weather, Bernie’s face was damp with sweat, his long bangs plastered over his eyes.

  “They took my cards, Sarah.”

  “We’re gonna make a house of cards,” Marvin said. “After school.”

  “Then there’s gonna be a house fire,” Bryce added, waving the deck in the air before letting it drop to the ground. His other hand was on Bernie’s shoulder, pressing him into the brick.

  “That’s very interesting,” Sarah Kervick said, rubbing her chin. “But I think there’s gonna be a problem with that plan.”

  I continued to hang back, desperate to concoct a way to alert the proper authorities.

  “Yeah? What’s that?” Bryce wanted to know.

  Sarah Kervick was taking her time.

  “ ‘Cause Bernie here is Donuthead’s friend, and Donuthead doesn’t want you messin’ with Bernie. Isn’t that right?” she said, looking back at me, then tossing her head at them. It was a silent invitation.

  One that I declined.

  “Well,” I stammered. “In point of fact, Bernie and I are, officially, neighbors. I’m not sure we qualify … yet … as close personal friends.” My head wagged back and forth between Bryce and Sarah and Marvin, trying to decide who was the most dangerous. They ended in a draw, which was why I kept stammering even after all useful syllables had drained from the part of my brain that controls speech.

  It was hopeless to keep all three of them from inflicting bodily harm on me. I knew this, and I now admit, almost shamefully, that I wasn’t thinking too much about Bernie or his precious cards.

  I had the instincts of the gazelle, all right.

  That is, until Bernie said, “It’s okay, Franklin, Sarah. You guys go on inside. I can handle this.”

  The “go on inside” was uttered in a serious, almost parental tone, as if Bernie wanted us to understand the dangerous nature of his work here. From his position, pinned beneath Bryce’s beefy paw, it seemed like a clear-cut case of unjustified optimism to me.

  It also made me feel like a lousy worm.

  “Yeah, we can handle this,” Bryce said, giving Sarah a push with his free hand. Her shoulder swung back at the pressure, but she held her ground.

  “Let me rephrase that,” I said, raising my eyebrows in Sarah’s direction. “Bernie is my friend, and despite the obvious outcome of this little speech, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to return his cards, or …”

  “Or what?” Marvin Howerton now grabbed my shoulder and began applying pressure. I felt faint. I think I swooned.

  “Trouble is, we can’t fight you fair,” Sarah said. “Me and Bernie and Donuthead here got you outnumbered.”

  “Guess we’ll have to take our chances,” Marvin replied, squeezing ever harder. In another life, he might have been a boa constrictor.

  “Okay then, since you’re such a big guy, I’ll let you go with Bernie and Donuthead. But Bryce’s gotta put those cards on the ledge over there so they’re safe. After we fight, winner take all.”

  Sarah had both hands on her hips. It was clear she meant business.

  Events were moving far too quickly for my liking. After all, we hadn’t exhausted negotiations yet, had we?

  “That’s reasonable,” Marvin said, and nodded to Bryce, who picked up the pack and slid it onto the window ledge. “Why not? It’s worth it to see the kid fight.”

  Reasonable? We’re talking about soft tissues here! “I haven’t seen him take a swing in six years,” Bryce added, his voice tinged with nostalgia.

  I could feel my pupils dilating.

  Sarah smiled sweetly. “It’s a funny thing how you don’t fight fair,” she said to Marvin, “pickin’ on little kids and cripples and all. I guess that means I don’t have to fight fair, either.”

  And before any of us could react, she’d turned sideways and shoved her elbow right into the doughy part of Marvin’s stomach. He let go of me with an oooff and dropped to his knees,
clutching his stomach.

  “You act kinda slow to understand that,” she said, looking down at him.

  After a moment of stunned silence, Bryce sprang into action, releasing Bernie and reattaching himself to Sarah’s hair.

  “Let her go!” Bernie screamed dramatically and threw himself onto Bryce’s back, pulling on his scalp like a pro wrestler in training. I was doing the tail end of the Virginia reel from the massive push I’d gotten when Marvin went down. I had just reestablished my equilibrium when I heard Sarah cry out.

  Whether it was pain or a battle cry, I never did figure out. Marvin had struggled to his feet and made a grab for Sarah. He missed.

  At the same time that Bryce smacked her hard on the side of the head, Sarah ground her flimsy little tennis shoe into Marvin’s instep. Then Bernie covered Bryce’s eyes with his hands, while Sarah recovered enough to deliver another quick elbow, this time to Bryce’s stomach. In order to avoid being flattened, Bernie abandoned ship as Bryce went down.

  While Marvin clutched his foot, nursing the pain of his fallen arch, I got the chance to witness the famous ground-floor punch. It started somewhere by Sarah Kervick’s shin and found its target on Marvin’s chin. He sprawled out on the cement, a part of his body in each square of the four square diagram. Bernie rushed over to Sarah, who had staggered to the wall and was leaning up against it.

  And so it was over in mere seconds. Marvin was on the ground, tears in his eyes. Bryce was searching for the hole in his stomach. The episode was too short for me to see active duty, though I did reflexively raise my hands to my face a couple of times.

  I am proud to say I held my ground.

  “Where I come from, they teach the dirty tricks,” Sarah said, out of breath, to the reclining giants. “I can show you some more if you want. They’re kinda like magic tricks. Only they hurt.”

  She reached over and picked up Bernie’s cards, dusting them off and smoothing out the bent corners.

  “Now, Bernie, you go to class and me and Donuthead’ll go to class and we’ll tell Ms. Linski you boys are with the nurse or somethin’. We’ll tell her you don’t feel so good.”