“I’m beginning to think you kids are pulling a prank me.” She finally said.
I had no idea what she was talking about.
Chapter 4 – Marisol
God’s Gift to Long-Moore High School’s baseball team—Go Raccoons! —was checking out a book when I entered the library. My eyes rolled on their own as I tightened my grip on the strap of my backpack I had slung over my shoulder. I headed towards the mysteries section. I didn’t want to ruin my day by watching Frankie strut around like he’d singlehandedly made the world a more livable place. The questionable noodle casserole they’d served at lunch was already making me a little queasy, so I didn’t need anything else to make me feel nauseated. However, I did glance over at Mrs. Clark’s desk just long enough to tell that it seemed like she was giving a lecture to Long-Moore’s star baseball player. I smiled.
I don’t hate the guy or anything—Frankie, I mean—but…well…it’s complicated, I guess. Maybe not so much complicated as the fact that I can never figure the guy out because he’s so aloof. But also too complicated to seriously think about with a belly full of the cafeteria’s concoction of noodles, canned soup, and mystery meat. Of course, the main mystery in Long-Moore’s cafeteria is not where the meat they actually served comes from, but why they keep getting away with it. Surely within the last few years, someone had called the circus to see if any soon-to-be-retired animals had come up missing. I’ve never really considered what it would take to wrestle an old, feisty giraffe into a meat grinder, but Mrs. Tyler—H.B.I.C. of Long-Moore cafeteria workers—could probably do it. She’s built like a tank, has a voice like a creaky castle door, wears a hairnet, and has the disposition of a honey badger. If anyone could chop up circus animals and feed them to teenagers, it would be her. But she also gives me extra fries and tots if I ask politely, so I like the chick. When you first see her, you’d think she’d rip your arms off and put them in the following day’s casserole. But then she gives you an extra serving of the good stuff, and you realize she’s probably just misunderstood.
Or she’s intentionally using her build and voice to remind the students that she could kill them and serve them for lunch if they give her crap. Either way, I gotta respect the lady. The fact that so many students whisper some pretty rude stuff about her, snorting and giggling as they eat lunch, makes me want to feel bad for her. The fact that she seems to know it’s going on and just doesn’t care makes me respect her instead. Like me, she doesn’t give a crap what the students at Long-Moore think of her. She’s there to do a job, do it well, get paid, go home at the end of the day, and not think about them again until the following day. Maybe being a cafeteria lady wasn’t her ultimate goal in life, but she’s got it figured out. Although, I do hope that on her last day before retirement, she whacks a few kids in the back of their heads with a metal spoon. Maybe a ladle. That would probably hurt more and make a better sound when it connected.
Note to self: Ask Mrs. Tyler when she plans to retire. I don’t want to miss that.
She’s kind of like me, Mrs. Tyler. Well, we don’t look anything alike, and I’m pretty sure we’re not even close to the same age, and my skin is a few shades darker than hers, but we’re equally exhausted with the students at Long-Moore. Most of the other kids in school live in houses that would qualify as palaces in some parts of the world. They have Air Pods and their own cars, sneakers they didn’t pick up at Goodwill or Wal-Mart, the latest iPhones or Androids, and parents who take them on international summer trips for somehow managing to just barely not fail their classes. Plainly, most of my fellow students are privileged kids who wouldn’t know struggle if it walked up and peed on their Yeezys in broad daylight.
By all rights, I should be going to Destin High across town, but my family’s house being located just inside the border of the right zip code meant that Long-Moore would be my high school. I’m kind of happy for the fact that zip code is the arbitrary determining factor for which high school each kid in our town gets assigned to because Long-Moore is an exceptional school. Great teachers, abundant resources, it’s clean, and there is a zero-tolerance policy for bullying, fighting, and harassment. The teachers don’t put up with crap from anyone. One time, when I was a freshman, a boy called my friend, Katie, a slut. Our teacher, who overheard it, didn’t do anything about it. Principal Vernon chewed the boy and our teacher out.
I never heard that kid call another girl a slut, and the teacher was a lot quicker to jump on the case of anyone who made fun of another student.
Our high school has plenty of kids picking on other kids, don’t get me wrong. It’s kind of unavoidable with teenagers, right? Teenagers assert their dominance and fight for their place in the social hierarchy by proving how much better they are than other less fortunate kids. Some kids will give you a snotty look, roll their eyes at you, or whole groups of people will treat you like a loser by not talking to you or including you in things. Some students might even whisper an insult when they’re sure they won’t be caught. But it’s pretty limited due to how hardcore Principal Vernon is with the policy. No one is dumb enough to be really hostile or openly harass other students. You can forget kids getting bullied on Snapchat or Instagram, too. Principal Vernon would expel anyone if he had proof that they were cyber-bullying someone else. So, things are pretty good at Long-Moore.
I mean, as long as you can deal with rich kids who think they’re better than everyone else. But I’ve been poor forever, so snotty looks don’t really bother me.
Which, I guess, brings us back to Frankie. As I stepped into the aisle holding all the books that fell into the mystery genre in the library, he was still forefront in my mind. The guy strutted around school like he owned the place. Most high schools treat the star players on their sports teams like their demi-gods, I guess, so Long-Moore shouldn’t be any different, right? The star football player…the star baseball player…the star basketball player—you have a god to worship three seasons out of the year. It just makes things interesting as we all watch the clock go around in circles, waiting for summer break. But it’s a lot different when the star player in question seems to know how much people admire and want to be him.
Not that Frankie has ever stood up on a table at lunch and said, “Bow down to me peasants! It is I—the King of Long-Moore High School! Worship me, fools!” or anything like that. That would be insane. And it would probably get him a month’s worth of detentions from Principal Vernon anyway. But I can just tell the guy thinks his crap doesn’t stink. He struts around, silently judging everyone, not bothering to talk much to anyone—even his own friends—and pretends he’s above it all. Come on, man. Who acts like that? He’s a douchebag. One day, he’ll wake up, realize his parents are no longer paying his way and taking care of him…and weep. At least I hope so.
Maybe that’s negative of me and a bit cruel, but I wish that on a lot of the students at my high school. For once, I wish they’d all see what it’s like for someone like…not them.
Sigh.
I reached out and let my fingers run along the dark walnut shelf in front of me, tracing the shelf under the row of books at chest level. Libraries are the best places in the world. Even when you’re annoyed with someone like Frankie Marshall, you tend to forget your troubles. It’s like being in a cocoon. Being in a library amongst the shelves, I mean. All of the shelves, the paper, stacks and rows of books, it drowns out all of the sounds and leaves you with yourself. It’s peaceful.