Math--Episode II: The Not-So-Harmless Prank

There are a few details about my 7^th grade math teacher Ms. Palenik that will never disappear, no matter how hard I try to eradicate them. She was short and rather nondescript other than the fact that her skin was elephant wrinkly, and her thin gray hair always flopped into her eyes, so she continually flipped her head in an effort to see. She knew her math, but I often wondered if she hated children.

Above all, one trait and one incident have been seared into my memory: Ms. Palenik was a coffee consumer; she always had several Styrofoam cups on her desk scattered like chess pieces in a half-finished game, standing over the crooked board of grade sheets and assignments. A few were empty and knocked over, but many remained partially full and cold, effigies to her caffeine addiction. She often had a half-full ceramic mug or two as well. I believe she guzzled more brownish-black wake-up serum than the rest of the faculty combined. Possibly because of her dependence on the stuff, her voice cracked and croaked whenever she ran dry.

                Because my last name begins with A, I was seated in the front of the room, and from there I could smell her coffee breath quite distinctly when she talked to the class and wrote on the board. She rarely cleaned the chalkboards in the front of the room, so a perpetual dust cloud hovered around me. I coughed quite frequently. When she would write on the board each day, she would wear a foam mitten thing—kind of like a bath sponge—that she would use as an eraser. Only it didn’t work very well; it just smeared things with built up chalk dust. Even worse, she would often stick the chalky mitten in the waistband at the back of her pants, which were mostly polyester track suits or something equally as hideous that should have been left in the ‘70s. She and her yellowing teeth would often get in our faces—much too closely—if we had a question. I never asked many for that reason alone.

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                I was the new kid, but before I proceed, let me back up a little to provide some context: Smack in the middle of my seventh grade year, Dad was transferred from Yokota AFB in Japan to RAF Mildenhall, England. My new school was quite a bit different from the 7-12 Yokota High School I had attended in the Pacific. Lakenheath American Middle School was located on a smaller base (RAF Feltwell) forty-five minutes from our house in the village of Little Downham. The school campus was housed in several older buildings constructed in the ‘40s and ‘50s to house allied forces during and after World War II. The classrooms, former offices and barracks, were constructed of brick and cinder block with dark hardwood floors, smoothed over time. Original pipework still jutted from the walls and ceilings here and there, and the heating units on the walls continually hissed and groaned like creatures trapped in time, just waiting to be freed.

                I don’t remember which kids comprised my math class that half year I was with them. Patrick started school the same day I did, so I know he was there. And I think Tim, Carrie, and Lori were there, too, but I don’t really remember. One boy that I knew was there for sure was Chris Gallaway, and I think I remember him mostly because of this episode (and the fact that on a field trip later that year he pestered a llama at the zoo so intensely, it spit all over him, chunks in the face and all, but that’s another story). I remember he was often defiant and getting into trouble. He blatantly fought against Ms. Palenik in just about everything. However, at the time of this incident, it had been a while since he had been sent to see the vice principal.

Now it wasn’t a common practice for Ms. Palenik to send someone to the office to get her more coffee, but I do remember that one cold morning Chris volunteered to traverse the blacktop to the office building which contained the teachers’ lounge and Ms. Palenik’s beloved life blood. While he was gone, Ms. Palenik commented to the rest of the class about how wonderfully he had been behaving as of late. She may have even forgiven him for mooing at her; I don’t know. I remember that he came back all smiles, but the teacher was not in the room; she had just stepped out. He set the mug on her desk and started whispering to some of the girls on the other side of the room.

My first inclination as to what was happening was when Lori, smacking her gum like a cow or camel or some other cud-chewer, asked in a very disgusted, very non-quiet whisper, “Chris, did you really spit in her coffee?”

                “What?” someone asked, and pretty soon the whole class was abuzz.

                Chris stood up, a rather proud look on his face. “Yep. Hawked a big ol’ goober into, too. I even stirred it around with one of those stick things. Couldn’t even tell when I was done.” He laughed.

                A hush fell over the room, and soon our math teacher strode back into the room. She seemed surprised that we were all working diligently and complimented us accordingly, something that normally didn’t happen first thing in the morning.

                My mind was not on math any more. And I, having no real knowledge of coffee, wondered if the big greenie swimming in the coffee would be obvious. Whether or not she could tell the snot glob was in there, it didn’t matter. I knew—we all knew—that what Chris had done was wrong. He had definitely crossed a line. I felt like I should say something, but I was scared to do it. I was the new kid. I was not a tattle-tale. I wanted friends. I wanted to belong.

                The class held its collective breath as she maneuvered over to her desk, thanking Chris again for fetching her drink. She drank deeply—she never sipped—chugged, then suddenly croaked.

                “Ack!” She threw her mug directly into the garbage, where it shattered, bringing us out of our daze. She glared at us, and shaking a finger, threatened that if we even moved a muscle before she got back, we would regret it.

                We sat a moment in a stunned silence. 

                “Dude. She must have swallowed it.” Someone on the other side of the room voiced the exact thoughts running through my mind.

                “Chris, what have you done?” someone else shrieked. The implications started settling into our seventh grade minds. Previously he had been known as a joker, and his open abhorrence for math, our math teacher, and school in general had just manifested itself at a new level. I’m not sure whether to describe it as a new high or low; I guess it depends on how you want to look at it. Our silence at his disgusting prank had dragged the rest of us into his ongoing warfare against Ms. Palenik.

                Not long after her abrupt departure, Mr. Allan, the vice principal rushed into the classroom, his cheeks still red from hurrying across the quad from the main office. For a moment he glared at us from under his bushy eyebrows and shock of windblown, curly, brown hair. His striped ‘70s tie hung askew, poking out from his normally crisply pressed yellow dress shirt and brown sports coat with stylish patches on the elbows. He tucked the tie into his now-buttoned jacket and cleared his throat. Again, a guilty silence fell over the room. Hands went to hips. “I am very disappointed in you…all,” he began, but before he could say more, Ms. Palenik returned, accompanied by Mrs. Heard, the principal. Her large, imposing frame filled the door; her presence filled our souls with dread. The only time she ever left her office was for assemblies or serious trouble. We knew there was a dead man sitting among us.

                Our math teacher didn’t say anything, but her body shook. Tear trails streaked her blotchy, red face. She simply pointed a finger at Chris, who stood immediately, owning his transgression. Leaving his books, he marched over to the adults in the doorway, and the three of them disappeared. I don’t think he even got to request a last meal.

                We didn’t see Chris again for a week. Maybe two.

                Ms. Palenik returned after a day. And even though Chris wasn’t there for a while, she came back with a vengeance. If anyone even breathed wrong, the whole class felt her wrath in the amount of homework problems. She dealt worksheets like a card shark in Vegas, and no one beat the house. I remained buried in redundant math exercises because of someone else’s choices.

                I suppose I could have made a different choice myself, one that may or may not have prevented the class’s plight. But at that point in my life I was not strong enough. Looking back, I wonder if anyone else’s consciences spoke to them, or if anything would have changed if someone had spoken up about the foreign object in Ms. Palenik’s coffee, but I’m not sure. Perhaps our silent cruelty was bred out of a longing to belong, a fear of standing up and standing out. Junior high can be harsh.

Oh, My Eye!

                  This morning I had a little bit of a struggle putting in my contacts.  First, an eyelash got stuck, then it was too dry, then it slipped off my finger.  In short, this morning included sight for sore eyes.  Yes, that was a bad pun, but I’m not going to apologize because it has inspired me to write about a prank pulled as a junior at Belleville East High.

                  Before I proceed, I have to acknowledge another, larger prank that was inspired by an itchy contact lens: April Fools Day, 1992, was a feat to remember.  Perhaps, with some time, I’ll rehash the incident.  Let me think about how it might affect the people involved first.

                  And just a year later, I had forgotten to plan anything special for pranking my fellow BTHS—East Lancers at school.  Sometimes that works out for the better.

                  Lunch was ending, and I needed to head to chemistry for a quiz or something equally heinous.  (Seriously, chem after lunch should be outlawed due to the toxic chemical and mental reactions that occur between polar opposites like…oh…students and chemical equations.)  I had gathered my crap and was heading to dump it by the back entrance of the cafeteria, which was on the second floor of the building.  I also need to point out that there were six lunch periods at this school, and mine was close to the last one.  I think it was Lunch 5B, which was coupled with a study hall for period 5A.

                  And then my contact started wigging out.  It downright hurt, so I stopped to rub my eye.  (Yes, I know I shouldn’t, but who’s telling this story?) A gentle rub did nothing, so I started digging, and soon my eye decided it should lubricate itself and produce tears.  Duh.

                  While I was searching for optical relief, one of the lunch ladies—red hair poking out of her hair net, latex gloves covered with indescribable food product—came over.  “Poor, dear.  Did you lose your contact lens?”

                  As Despicable Me’s Gru frequently verbalizes: “Light bulb.”

                  And so I lied, my eye pink and puffy and even a bit swollen by this time.  “My contact popped out somewhere over here.”  I gestured a wide arc with my hand toward the doorway that led to the stairs.

                  Immediately, the professional tuna casserole helper started yelling at kids to back away from the area.  She dropped to her knees and barked orders at random passerby to drop their trays and start scouring the linoleum for my missing contact, which was actually still in my eye.

                  By the time I got tired of the joke, and proclaimed that I had found the lens and placed it back in my eye, I had missed most of chemistry, and was guaranteed an excuse from the lunch lady (yes, I felt bad for her), there were at least thirty students, two lunch ladies, and an assistant principal down on hands and knees sweeping over the floor—the intensity similar to Tommy Lee Jones’s manhunt for Harrison Ford in The Fugitive.  It was that extensive.  Who knew, back when I got my contacts in 9^th grade, that they could be so much fun?

                  P.S.  I never had to make up the quiz in Mrs. K’s chem class either.

How to Lose a Good Babysitter

I think I was nine when we got our first guy babysitter.  Up until them it was always some dumb girl who we didn't like, especially if she wore too much perfume.  David usually caught the brunt of the cheek pinching and the hugs.  Blech!  Marc and I usually holed up ion our room playing Star Wars or Transformers or something.  But when Mom and Dad got Tyler to come over, the games began, and I mean in a serious Calvin and Hobbes sort of way.

I remember him teaching how to blow up or G.I. Joes so their body parts flew apart whether you shot them with rubber bands or bottle rockets.  We’d roam the neighborhood playing capture the flag or smear the queer way past dinner and way into the dark.  But he always got us in bed before the parental units returned.  I remember listening from my bed as he would scramble to clean up the typhoon that was the kitchen or eliminate the evidence from the ice cream fight.  He was cool…until the one day he vowed never to come back.

Our neighbor, Doug, who was in tenth grade, just like Tyler, was jealous—I believe because he was never asked to watch us.  I could write a whole chapter on the reasons Mom never though twice about him, but that’s another story or seventeen.

We were coming in from a snowball fight, or massacre rather, and we were brewing up some hot chocolate.  Tyler had to run to the can, and that left me, Marc, David, Doug, and probably a few other local stray kids huddled around the table.  Doug was feeling malicious and asked what was in our fridge.

Before we could reply he had whipped open the door and started hauling out all types of hot sauces and other liquid condiments and started pouring them into Tyler’s mug.  Pickle juice, Tabasco, gravy.  They all went in.  We boys were trying not to gag as he stirred them in smoothly.  I had no idea how Doug was going to get Tyler to drink it because instead of a nice, rich dark cocoa color, it looked like mud—not good mudball fight mud, but the sick, greenish-grayish stuff that slucks your shoe off and reeks of stale diapers and eggs.

To answer my question, Doug whipped out a handful of marshmallows from the top of the cupboard—how he knew they were there I’ll never know—and covered the top of Tyler’s sludge as well as all of our cups.  To the innocent observer, it looked like nothing was different.

As soon as Tyler returned, he grabbed the mallow-topped mug and threw most of it down the hatch in one swift action.  His eyes bugged before he spewed the nastiness across the table.  He stuck his head under the faucet, trying to flush the taste out of his mouth.  He hung there for a good minute or two before he stormed out, chasing Doug.

David, Marc, and I sat there ogling, wondering what to do.  Like Sally and her brother watching Cat in the Hat and Things One and Two, we were helpless to the situation—innocent (or not) bystanders to the horrible fall of our favorite babysitter.  When neither one came back immediately, we went upstairs and plugged in the Nintendo.

Tyler showed up a while later, but he didn't even come upstairs.  I assume he stayed until my parents came home.  I think he even cleaned up the kitchen, but he never came back.  I don’t think he ratted out Doug, although I’m fairly confident he delivered a good thrashing.  I never saw the two of them together again.