The Principal Verdict

by Douglas Lee Mort

Now we're husband and wife, she said. Pretty soon we'll have babies.

A tall order. They were second-graders, Mary and the boy. They sat next to each other in Mrs. Hanover's class. For the past week they had strolled around the blacktop and through the hallways at recess and lunchtime, holding hands and enduring the taunts and snickers of fellow students. They shared lollipops and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches that she brought from home. But now she had corralled him into the spaceship jungle gym and before he knew what was happening he found himself married. Having a stark and terrible idea of what this meant, he began to tremble.

Uh-uh, he said. I take it back.

Mary furrowed her eyebrows. Whadayu mean you take it back? She wore her usual: a well-worn white dress, dirty white socks that climbed to mid-shin, and shiny-black shoes that were scuffed up at the toes from kicking at boys and missing and hitting unintended objects. Around her mouth was a stain-ring from the strawberry Kool-Aid she brought to school each day. The boy had a matching ring.

Uh-uh. I don't wanna do that.

Mary's eyes caught fire. The hand that held his clamped down; the other balled into a fist at her side.

Okay, the boy said, I was just kiddin. But when she softened her look and grip, he broke free and turned and lunged for the bars that encaged him.

No! Mary cried and caught one of his feet.

Kids were everywhere in the playground, swinging like lunatics, running around the tan bark and kicking up dirt and dust. For some reason the two drew no attention at first.

Let go! the boy said, gripping the bars with all his might.

She yanked and grunted. You said I do!

I didn't mean it! Let go!

Finally she pulled him loose. He landed on his face in the tan bark.

He stood up and dusted himself off. She batted her eyelashes, smiled and curtsied, her blonde hair disheveled from the tussle. I knew you'd come back.

Feeling he had no other option, the boy tried to drive her away with insults. Floppy Fish, he said. Tongue Sandwich.

She glared at him. These were the names that the other kids called her, names that tended to make her cry and holler that she had a medical condition, something the doctor said she didn't have to be embarrassed about. It was the reason the boy had become her friend at first—because he had felt sorry for her—because he knew about women being treated badly.

Now he made like he was choking on his tongue, grabbing at his throat and garbling nonsense. Right before he fell to the ground to do some flopping-about, however, Mary pulled a fast one.

I know you don't mean that.

So he resulted to violence. He held out his hand; and when she took it, he locked on with both of his and employed a mighty twist.

I-said-NO!

Ow! Ow, Ow!

Say we aren't husband and wife! Say it!

If only she knew what he knew about such things. And about children. Maybe then she would have understood his position. According to her, her family had picnics on Sundays on Mt. Diablo, and according to her they went bowling together. She even claimed they sang songs at the dinner table. Sang songs! Like Mary Poppins! Like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music! She was quite naïve, this little woman.

Stop it, stop it! she screamed even louder.

The boy didn't know how hard he was twisting. He knew nothing about adrenaline. And in a way it felt as though someone else might be involved.

Floppy Fish is gonna flop! a kid in the playground hollered. She's gettin ready for her tongue sandwich!

It would be worse than that.

When the boy saw that she was going strange, he stopped twisting and let go; but Mary was still tugging, so she flew backwards and hit her head on one of the bars. She hit so hard her pink hair clip popped from her head. As she flopped and gagged, blood began to pool in her hair.

Oh my god! Mrs. Smeltson said when she got to the jungle gym space ship. She was a recess monitor. She tried to climb in but she was too fat and had to look around for help. Then she turned back to the boy and screamed, Don't just stand there! Grab her tongue and pull it out!

But all he could do was cry. Then Sherry was taken away in an ambulance and he was sure that she was dead; so he cried even more, well into the next day. All the crying only seemed to disgust Principal Robinson.

Crying isn't going to help you, he said there in his office the next morning. He'd been away the day before. Now he loomed large, even while sitting behind his desk. He was a big burly man in a black suit and black-framed glasses. He appeared to work for some type of totalitarian government that administered final judgment under the auspices of God Himself.

Stop it. Do you hear?

The boy nodded.

Now, for the second time: I cannot get through to your mother at home. Would you happen to know where she is?

She's workin.

Work? Yes, well. . . He looked back down at the boy's file. And I don't see a work number here for your father.

He straightened back up and gave the boy an interrogative look. The boy didn't think it smart to tell him that if he kept ringing the home phone his father would eventually answer. The boy knew that the father would only supply even more incriminating evidence. Upon hearing about it the night before, he had laughed and slapped the boy's back. Atta boy, he'd said, way to keep em in their place. He'd even offered a sip of his beer in celebration.

They don't have a phone number at his work.

Mr. Robinson leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. Well then tell me, son, what do you think we should we do with you?

Heck if he knew. The night before, his older brother had said he was pretty sure a person couldn't cause another person to have an epileptic seizure. He'd tried to tell the boy that it wasn't his fault, but the boy couldn't believe him. The way he saw it, he might be marked from birth for wickedness, a predestination kind of thing. It was the ugly green tattoo on his father's forearm. Born To Be Bad, it read. The boy thought it might also apply to him.

Mr. Robinson was waiting. Hm? Got any ideas?

The boy shrugged and bowed his head in shame. He'd heard of Juvenile Hall.

Mr. Robinson sighed. "Well, let me ask you this: Is this a sign of things to come?

Maybe.

Maybe?

Uh-huh. Maybe I'm just bad.

You mean born bad?

Uh-huh.

Well, that may very well be true.

I know.

Mr. Robinson paused. He put his hands behind his head and seemed to stretch way out. Finally he said, Well, knowing is always a beginning, is it not?

Uh-huh.

And I trust that you won't forget that.

Uh-uh.

Very good. Very good indeed. You may go now.

And so off the boy went, pretty sure that a verdict had been reached.

Mary's parents put her in another school. It took the boy a long time to replace her, a couple of years or so. In the meantime he dreamed of family picnics on Mt. Diablo, and bowling, and singing songs at the dinner table. He dreamed of Mary strolling with him across a hill of wildflowers like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. He dreamed of holding her tongue until the electrical storm in her head came to a halt. He even practiced on the family dog.

© 2008 Night Train and respective authors/email support AT nighttrainmagazine.com