It’s the third week, and my reputation as a pyromaniac arsonist must have reached even the most ignorant freshman or the nerdiest senior by now. Moving from one classroom to another feels like wrestling through the quicksand of whispers, pointed fingers, and piercing looks. Trying to ignore it, I move along with all the students on their way to a new class, staying as invisible as possible until I come to an abrupt stop against the backs of two older students who are standing still, staring at something on the ground.
“Please pick it up, Cynthia,” the boy whispers, anxiously. I follow his gaze to an empty sachet on the floor. Whether she dropped it on purpose or by accident is unclear.
“No, I won’t!” she answers defiantly. Her boyfriend glances over his shoulder as if afraid of being caught. I involuntarily look too, but the corridor is completely empty.
“Please!” he almost begs now. “Before you know it, we’ll be heading for the vice-principal’s office.” For a moment, she looks at him with piercing eyes, and then something seems to snap.
“Fucking rules, fucking school. Almost six years of this bullshit! I’ve had it!”
“Don’t be stupid,” the boy whispers, quickly picking up the sachet himself.
“Leave it there!” she snaps. “It’s my sachet; I can do what I want with it.”
“No, you’re with me. They will…” the boy protests, but he is cut off when, out of nowhere, a hand lands on his shoulder. It belongs to a teacher I’ve never seen before. Where did he come from? All the color drains from the boy’s face.
“Cynthia, Doug… why?” says the teacher softly, sounding more worried than angry. “You know we can’t let you get away with this.”
“But it was an accident,” the boy mumbles, his voice fading away.
“It was not!” objects the girl, but with less conviction than before.
“We know it wasn’t,” the teacher acknowledges. “So please come with me. Rules are rules. You know how the vice-principal sees these things. Today a plastic bag, tomorrow a graffiti tag, the day after, chaos. We have to be strict. Come, let’s get it over with.”
In growing astonishment, I watch them disappear into the crowded corridor. I know that the discipline in this school is extreme, but to see it play out before my eyes like this adds a whole new dimension. How is it possible that those two got caught over such a small misdemeanor? It’s a far cry from my old school, where students skipped class, smoked cigarettes, drank beer and played cards all day long in the canteen without any repercussions. Teachers seldom used the vice-principal as a threat simply because he wasn’t one. What a difference with this new school, where the teachers keep everybody in line by only hinting at him. I don’t even know his name, but when he’s mentioned, voices die down and clothes stop rustling. Silence is the respect he commands. It’s as astonishing as it is impressive.
“That sucksss,” Gnat hisses next to me. I sigh. Of course he’s here. Somehow, accompanying me from class to class has become his favorite new routine, mainly using me as his personal guide, although the fact that it annoys the hell out of me must be a big bonus.
Not every day, though. At irregular intervals, I'm granted a Gnat-free day. Those are the days he wanders through school all by himself, irritable and muttering insults under his breath, looking nothing like the arrogant, unfazed boy standing next to me now. "Janus Head," Gran would call him, and it would be enough for her to like him, as she just loves people with obvious flaws and shortcomings. Luckily, I’m not Gran.
Today Slug completes our unlikely trio, although I’m not entirely sure if he’s aware of that himself. Slug, in contrast to Gnat, has only one setting: happy-go-lucky. Nothing seems to bother him. And despite my consistent grumbling, I have to admit that a lot of the time their company is a welcome distraction from the persistent and intimidating buzz that follows me everywhere.
“It’s all fucked up, Spark-brain,” Gnat adds with an impatient edge to his voice. And if to prove a point, he nods to the door on our right. “Vice-principal.”
“What?” I heard him the first time, but I find it very satisfying to make him say things twice. Childish, I know, but I can’t help myself.
I look at the door we’ve passed countless times over the last weeks. Nothing suspicious about it. Just a normal door. No nameplate or other sign indicating that this is the office of the most feared person in school.
Gnat scans the corridor, looking for cameras. He’s convinced the school is packed with them. His mind is a big sprawling conspiracy theory, and when it concerns the vice-principal, his paranoia knows no bounds.
“They watch everything, Fire-head,” he whispers.
“Your paranoia is getting the better of you, gadfly. Next, you’ll think this school is an experimental lab of aliens.” Gnat retaliates immediately.
“I’m not the loser here, Thunder-ears.” Gnat shoots back. “At least my father had enough money to raise me properly.”
“What do you know about my father?”
“Google,” he answers dryly. It takes me completely by surprise. Not because my father can be found on the internet, but because he took the time to search for him. “That man has serious problems. How many times did he sue the government? And how many times did he actually win?”
Shit, I think, of course, some of my father’s Don Quixote-like battles against 'injustice' must have found their way to the internet, but letting this posh fashion doll use that against me? Never! Insulting my hopeless father and his pathetic upbringing is my prerogative. Anyone else can piss off.
“I’m sure my father got fewer views than yours,” I retaliate immediately. “That scandal of his bankruptcy was world news.”
I know it’s a cheap shot, but he started this. The effect is as immediate as predictable. His face turns red, his mouth moves, but no words leave his lips, as if too many possible curse words clog his throat. Instead the lamps above us start to flicker, harder and harder, before they extinguish completely. A symphony of ringtones erupts around us as the mobile phones of all the students shut down simultaneously in a collective technological suicide.
A long hiss escapes Gnat’s pale pursed lips while his facial expression transitions seamlessly from anger to suspicion.
“I knew it. Electromagnetic Pulse!”
“Elek-eh-eh-what?” I stammer.
“Advanced military technology. They can shut down all electronic devices with the flick of a switch. This is bad, Firecracker.”
And then, as unexpectedly as it started, the lamps light up and the mobile phones switch back on again, drowning out all other sounds with an ear-deafening ringtone mashup. The resulting explosion of excited voices is cut short by a booming voice. "WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING HERE?!"
The effect is absolute. All students shoot to a side of the corridor in a well-practiced move. Only Gnat and I are still standing in the dead center with no place to hide as Fred Flintstone walks towards us with big, tile-shattering steps. Despite the gravity of our situation, I can't help but be astonished by how much he actually resembles the cartoon character I've re-watched so many times on YouTube. Everything about his physique is crude and angular, like a rough pencil sketch. Maybe he's dumb and slow like his cartoon counterpart, but he's definitely not as good-hearted. Somewhere in the deep dark hollow caverns under his low hanging brow, a malicious light glistens.
The floor shakes violently with every step. Above us, windows rattle in their frames. Behind him scurries a girl, scrawny and crooked as metal wire, her hair so red that it hurts my eyes. She looks exactly like Wilma Flintstone, Fred’s friendly, decisive wife in the cartoon. What is the chance? This real-life version, however, doesn’t look friendly at all. She oozes generous amounts of sadism and cruelty and, even more disconcerting, a boundless admiration for Fred. Every few seconds, she glances up to him, checking his face for a sign of approval, but Fred ignores her completely.
To the left and right of us, our fellow students peek through the coats and bags hanging from the racks. It would have been nice if one of them had warned us about an eventuality like this beforehand. Gnat hides behind me, like the little hero he is. Fred looks down at us from an intimidating height.
“So, what is all this about?” he rumbles in a low voice.
“Yes. What is this all about?” Wilma echoes high-pitched and shrilly.
“Eh... electromagnetic pulse?” I try.
“ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME? Electermigno... lus...?” His tongue’s obviously not made for words with more than two syllables. Behind him, some students start to giggle.
“Are you two little shits making fun of me?”
“No respect, Robert,” shrieks Wilma excitedly. “Teach them some respect!” And before my brain figures out what to do, my mouth shoots off as if it has a will of its own. “Maybe you want easier words to practice?” It seems to take forever before it dawns on Fred’s Neanderthal brain that he’s being insulted, but when he eventually does, red spots move up from his neck to his face. A broad grin slashes across Wilma’s face. And what do I do? Nothing. I should run but I don’t; I stay where I am. I’m just not wired to do anything else.
I raise my chin in a last desperate act of defiance and think how devastated Gran will be when she comes to visit me in the hospital.
“Tired of life, cockroach?” Fred growls. “I can help you end it quickly.” His gigantic left hand rises into the air. Everyone is holding their breath, and still, I don’t move. I’m not proud of it. It’s stupid and self-destructive. I can only hope that my head’s still attached to my body when he’s done.
I brace myself, but before his fist swings down, completely unexpected, music echoes through the corridor. The opening chords of a song recently reissued after the unexpected death of a famous singer.
The tune repeats again and again before Fred hesitantly delves a ferociously vibrating mobile phone out of his pocket, looking ridiculously small between his enormous index finger and gigantic thumb. It’s a small miracle that he’s able to press one single button without pressing them all. The silence is almost tangible. “Roberto here.” The answer is only audible to himself, but the effect is unmistakable. “But... but... I had... we agreed...”
Notwithstanding his protests, his voice sounds uncharacteristically timid and insecure. His eyes flash to the door next to him, the door of the vice-principal’s office. Merely a glance, but enough to tell me who’s on the other side of the conversation.
After he hangs up, he stares vacantly into the distance before opening his mouth again. "Get the hell out of here! All of you! And fast." I’m so stunned that I don’t move right away. How is it possible for someone to have so much control over this oversized caveman? But then I feel a sharp tug at my backpack, and before I know it, Gnat drags me around a corner and then we start running. Three long corridors later, we stop, trying to find support against a wall, panting like dogs. "What... was... that?" I stammer.
"Welcome to the totalitarian state we call our school, Cracker-head. This is where freedom comes to die. Oh man, I hate being right all the time."