6
I am certainly not
proud of everything I did in the Trap.
There were many decisions I regret, moral and personal compromises that
may or may not have been necessary but leave me queasy. One of the most difficult, if not the most
difficult, was to not report what Lisa and I had found out about Mr. Black and
David Izzner's connection. The night last month when we had overheard the
meeting between the two planning contraband, including the future re-introduction
of alcohol. I didn't want to expose Lisa
and myself to too much scrutiny from these black marketeers. We had discussed frequently over the last few
weeks what to do, if there was a way to tell my father without it coming back
to us. My only excuse in our delay of
doing anything was that my father seemed to making good progress on his
own. Cigarettes seemed to be a thing of
the past (although we had the continuing problem of dealing with withdrawals),
and alcohol had not yet appeared. David
Izzner had been questioned by Vice-Principal Tate several times, and was under
a high level of scrutiny. Mr. Black's
connection had remained undiscovered, and we weren't sure anyone would even
believe us, given his immense popularity.
That is, it remained undiscovered until yesterday afternoon.
Mr. Tate conducted
a raid on Mr. Black's office, and in a storage closet adjacent to his office, found
three stills behind a shelf of band instruments. Since then, Mr. Tate had Mr. Black in
isolation, presumably interrogating him to reveal more of his connections, who
the other students and teachers were he was working with. What with everything else going on that
morning, I had heard nothing about how that was going, and I didn't overhear my
father and Vice-Principal Crowler discussing it when I listened at his office a
few minutes earlier.
No, my focus was
on trying to find a place to write the next segment of that stupid soap opera,
The Sands of Loren. I decided to go to
an empty auditorium, one that would not be in use until choir practice that
afternoon.
I sat in a plush
theater chair near an exit light that gave me a soft glow to work from. I did not need a lot of light to see and
write. My eyes were good, and adjusted
well to the dark. I took my writing pad
out and stared blankly at it. No ideas
were coming forward.
I sighed, and then
felt a large hand covering my mouth. It
was a large, muscular hand. If it chose
to choke me, I would not be long for this world. My heart stopped with terror.
The hand forcibly
pulled my head up and I saw who it was that was holding me. It was my worst nightmare, Jack Kessler, the
big burly football player who acted as David Izzner's muscle. He wore a terrifying scowl on his face,
menace pouring from his narrow brown eyes, his coal black hair worn in a
buzzcut. "Think I'd forgotten,
huh? You little weasel!"
I looked at him
with a baffled expression, as if I had no idea what he had been talking about. "You know, Marty Martian. And here I thought you and that pretty four
eyes were just snockering each other.
Ol' Daddy's boy finally spilled the beans, didn't he? Thought ol' Jack here would forget."
I tried to shake
my head no, but it was almost impossible to do, the way he was holding me. He could just flick his wrist and it would
snap my neck.
"Now, I'm
gonna pull my hand away, and you are not gonna scream like the little girl you
are. You can't believe how painful I
make things if you scream."
I did my best to
nod yes. He pulled his hand away. I was not stupid enough to scream, but I did
try to quickly calculate how I could run away.
But he wouldn't let go of me, keeping one hand at my throat and another
roughly grabbing my arm. "Now cough it up, Marty. Who told your Dad? Was it you or little miss four-eyes? Or was it both?"
"It wasn't
either one of us!" I blurted out.
"I don't have any idea how Mr. Tate found out!"
Jack looked down
on me with derision. I desperately tried
to think of a credible story, but my imagination fled from me. "There had to be a lot of people who
knew, or suspected. It could have been
anybody!"
"What? You think I just fell off the truck with the
turnips? I know it was you and that girl!
No one else would be that stupid."
He took his hand off my throat and reared back to punch me.
"Why would we
wait weeks? That makes no sense. Why would we not tell right away?"
Jack hesitated a
second. "How would I know how your
cowardly Martian brain works? Maybe you
finally got over your bed-wetting long enough to tell."
"You don't
want to do this! You don't want this on
your conscience!"
Jack just reared
back and laughed, like it was the funniest thing he had ever heard. "You need to confess. I don't know Four-eyes' name, but it won't
take me long to figure out. I'm sure I
can get your friends to point her out to me."
I knew what I had
to do, whatever the consequences to myself.
I had to make it clear and decisive as possible, so he would have no
doubts. I had to convince him, even if
it was the last thing I would ever get to do.
"Alright! It was me! I confess!
I told Mr. Tate yesterday. I didn't
even go to my Dad; I just went straight to Tate. Lisa didn't want me to tell. We broke up yesterday because she was so
committed to me keeping my mouth shut!"
Jack looked at me
for a couple of seconds. I wasn't sure
what his mind was processing. Finally,
he said, "You know what, Marty? I
believe you. Sure, why not? But, what the hell, why give her a pass? I think it might be fun to seek her out
anyways, establish my 'authority' over her, if you know what I mean." And he gave me am evil, contemptuous,
horrifying wink.
I lost control.
"No!" I screamed, rushing at him, pushing him against the chest,
landing a feeble punch against his jaw.
It had all the
effect of a fly buzzing a giant. He
looked at me puzzled, slightly stunned at the insanity of my attack. He pushed me to the floor of the auditorium
and got out a knife. "I'm gonna gut
you like the pig you are." He stood
over me, knife raised, ready to end my existence in the Trap, ready to wink out
my fading star.
Then we heard a
loud explosion, one that threatened to shatter our ear drums. The ground began to rock and buckle, like a
large earthquake was getting ready to open up and send our whole school to the
pits of hell.
Jack Kessler fell
violently backwards, hitting his head hard as he did. The ground stopped shaking, I took that
opportunity to get up and run to the door.
I left without glancing back to see if he was alive.
The July
nightmares were now in full swing.
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