It takes only three minutes to make it abundantly clear that today is really not my day. Around the corner, halfway down the corridor towards the vice-principal’s office, Barney Rubble, the last member of the Flintstones-destruction-squad, casually leans against the wall, staring casually at the floor in front of him. How is he even here? No one’s allowed in the corridors during class hours, no exceptions, and why does it look as if he’s waiting for someone?
When he slowly lifts and looks me straight in my eyes, it becomes glaringly obvious: he's not just waiting for anyone, he's waiting for me. Is this my life now? Does it only take 20 meters before I find myself knee-deep in a new pile of sh*t?"
Barney Rubble is arguably the most dangerous of all the Flintstones. Fred is strong and cruel, but he’s also not very bright and thus easy to provoke and manipulate. Barney, on the other hand, is intelligent, in an unsettlingly cunning way. I think you could call him handsome in a generic magazine cover way: broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, blond-haired, and dark-tanned, as if he spends his life on the beach, despite the sea being at least a two-hour drive away. Yet, even when he always looks relaxed, exuding the effortlessly detached coolness of a surfer, students, mainly the young ones, start crying, fall silent, or drop to the ground as he walks by. How he does it is a mystery, but the devastating effect he has on people standing too close to him is all too clear.
I promised myself to stay away from him as far as possible, but there he is, leaning against the wall with his don’t-mind-me-I’m-just-hanging-around-minding-my-own business-attitude. No way to avoid him now.
He cocks his head, his expression changing to fake surprise. “That must have been the shortest history lesson ever, little mouse.” How does he know I just had history class, let alone sent away? “History lessons are important,” he continues menacingly slowly, “it’s where you learn that you don’t achieve anything by cheating.” This leaves no doubt. He’s not here by accident. He’s here for me.
I accelerate abruptly, attempting to slip past him by surprise, but just as I think I've succeeded, the air solidifies, first rubbery like jelly, but quickly hard as a fist. Invisible air-fingers tighten around me, making it almost impossible to breathe.
“Look, rodent, you might think you're something special because you've had a bit of luck, but...” He casually checks his perfectly manicured fingernails. “The fact is, you're nothing more than a piece of toilet paper stuck under my shoe, an insect. Putting you out of your misery would be an act of mercy, and I’m a merciful guy. First you, then your sad little friends. I promise they won’t suffer, not for very long. Scouts honor.”
“They... are... not... my... friends...” I manage to groan through gritted teeth, struggling for air. It’s clear that Barney is here to put me back in my place, and it certainly has an effect on me, but not the one he expects. Who the hell does he think he is? Deep in my gut, something starts to itch. A spark catches. It grows into a flame. The flame becomes a fire. I close my eyes. I tune out. I go inside. I fight the heat. I forget where I am, until a hysterical cry jolts me back to reality.
My eyes shoot open but I don’t right away understand what I’m seeing. Barney has tucked his hands under his arms. He looks confused and bewildered. But why? Is that smoke escaping from his armpits? Suddenly, the invisible grip on my chest is gone. I take a deep breath and lunge forward.
Alarmed by Barney’s screams, doors are thrown open. Excited students and panicked teachers stream into the hallway. I sprint the last few meters to the vice-principal’s office, push the door open, throw myself inside, and slam it shut behind me.
Panting and struggling for breath, I press my back against the door to keep Barney out if he tries to follow me in. When I finally realize that he doesn’t, I slowly slide down until I’m sitting on the floor.
Only after I regain some control over my breathing and begin to look around do I notice, from my low vantage point, the enormous desk that almost completely blocks my view of the vice-principal sitting behind it. The man I’ve never seen before and only known by reputation. A mythical figure. A dictator whom no one dares to speak of, yet whose presence is felt throughout the school. Even if you never see him, you sense him in the warnings of teachers and in the pale faces of students who have had to visit him. This is not a man whose office you can barge into unannounced without facing consequences.
I want to mumble an apology, to explain that it's all a mistake, but before I can utter a word, my brain finally catches up with my eyes. How wrong have I been all this time? It’s not his face I’m looking at, it’s hers. The vice-principal isn’t a man; she's a woman, and that’s catastrophically bad news.