Entry #674459, added on 11-02-09 @ 11:12 pm EST
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At six a.m., the sun was just starting to show on the crest of Hell Hill. It was coming up pink, lavender, and salmon, like the colour scheme for a girl’s blog. Braden sat in his Ram, parked in the strip mall, waiting for an answer to his texts to Josh and Matt.
Matt’s text came in to a merry Rammstein tune. “c u in 5” it said. Before Matt’s five minutes had passed, a lone vehicle pulled up to the intersection, saw the caution tape, put on its blinkers and turned right. Braden held his breath waiting for the vehicle to return, or a teacher to come up on foot, but the car was gone. Someone was just passing through.
The next vehicle was Matt’s silver Mustang. He pulled into the strip mall next to Braden and got into the cab of the Ram with him. Although it was nearly July, mornings were still a bit nipply for standing around outside. Matt had a piping hot Seven-11 coffee in his hand, and passed it over to Braden.
“Where’s Josh?” Matt asked.
Braden shrugged. Josh hadn’t answered any of his texts yet. He’d probably slept in. Josh was a hard person to wake up, and his parents wouldn’t bother him until the normal time.
Another car pulled up to the intersection, and this time, seeing the caution tape, it didn’t detour straight away. Braden poked Matt and pointed. They watched in joyful anticipation.
The car turned on its blinker and turned left. It went right past the strip mall parking lot and accelerated into oblivion.
Braden and Matt slumped into their leather clad bucket seats.
“What time you reckon teachers start showin up?” Matt asked.
Braden shrugged again. He reached and turned on the stereo. His iPod was plugged into it, and he searched through until he found some nice relaxing Gorillaz.
Nothing happened for about 20 minutes. No teachers or any other school staff showed up, Josh didn’t answer his texts or get his ass out of bed, and none of the hard-working crew came along to enjoy the fruits of their labour until nearly six thirty, when the sky was a nice indigo and the street lights were starting to shut off. Then, it all went so fast, it was hard to be on top of every development.
Three separate groups from last night showed up almost at once; two cars pulled into the strip mall lot next to the Ram, and then an early morning bus stopped and a pile of kids jumped out.
Braden turned off the music, and he and Matt hopped out of the Ram to greet the new audience members. Then a car pulled up to the intersection, didn’t turn right or left at first, then turned right and went around the block to get to the other side of the school. When it emerged on the other side, the twenty or so kids who had accumulated walked over to observe the reaction of their first guest.
It was Ms. Bishop, one of the secretaries. She parked her car on the bit of road that was still clear in front of the school, in a no-parking zone, and, forgetting to turn off her headlights, got out and stood staring at the inside-out school with her pretty pink lips so far apart her esophagus probably showed if you got close enough. She saw the kids coming towards her, and started to say something, realised it didn’t make any sense, and stopped.
She spotted Braden and Matt and immediately knew who was responsible for the mess she beheld. Her mouth started moving again and this time she managed to say, “This is an outrage.”
Braden laughed. “This is a school,” he corrected her. “Inside out. Great, eh?”
Ms. Bishop was not good with children. She was good with telephones, and filing systems, and even databases, but not children. She crossed her stout arms across her pink-suited bosom and said, “You boys are going to be in an awful lot of trouble.” Her nicely plucked eyebrows came closer together in her attempt to look very strict, and she shook a finger at the kids, bingo-wing flapping below her short blazer sleeve, “You’d better start cleaning this up before Mr. Branaghan gets here,” she said in her best admonishing-voice, and then turned and headed for the school main doors. Main doors which were sealed with a layer of school newspapers, “The Bull”, and several Caution-tape crosses.
Ms. Bishop stepped right up the steps in her pink pumps and didn’t stop until she was right in front of the caution taped and newspapered doors. There, she placed her hands upon her generous hips, pink frosty nails glistening in the early morning sun, and stood looking at the doors, not knowing whether to turn and face the naughty boys and girls giggling behind her, or start scratching her way through the newspaper with her pretty pink claws.
“Miz Bishop, you left your lights on,” one of the kids called to her, but she didn’t react. She just stood there, holding her pose, worrying about what to do.
She didn’t have to worry for long; another car pulled up into the strip mall, and graduating girls piled out, then another car parked behind Ms. Bishop’s and the principal, Mr. Branaghan, got out. Three years, and the boys had never realized Mr. Branaghan came to school at such an early hour. They never showed up until exactly one minute before the late bell rang for first class. As Mr. Branaghan was stepping out of his car, after sensibly turning off his lights, radio, and seat warmer, two more cars parked in the strip mall and an avalanche of kids landed in the road cafeteria.
All eyes turned to Mr. Branaghan, including Ms. Bishop’s. Mr. Branaghan was a very stoic man, patient enough to wait 45 minutes for a guest to his office to answer the question, “What are we going to do about this?” without taking his eyes off his subject. You have to be a patient, stoic person to run a ship like Mr. Branaghan’s, with a crew of 14 to 18 year olds, half of whom apparently had some form of ADD.
Ms. Bishop was not stoic in the least. She immediately started pointing out the problem to Mr. Branaghan, the problem being, in her eyes, that these kids had caused all this damage to school property, had vandalized the school to an extent that had never been seen before, had desecrated the sanctity of their prestigious building. All the while, her arm with its pink pointer flapped around, pointing out this desk, that stove, this cleverly-hung lamp, and that welcome mat, over on the road.
Still no reaction from Mr. Branaghan. More kids arrived in more cars, some of whom had not even been there the night before, siblings and friends of pranking grads, and another staff car parked behind Mr. Branaghan’s. Branaghan didn’t move; not even a muscle twitched in his stoic face.
Braden began to wonder just how much trouble they were going to be in.
Ms. Bishop brilliantly pulled out her cell phone and called 911-emergency. Contemplated for only a moment before answering the “police-fire-or-ambulance” question with “police” and then reported vandalism on a major scale at Sir Winston Churchill High School.
“The vandals are all here,” Ms. Bishop told the 911 operator. “They’re here waiting to answer for their acts of… of… vandal!”
Mr. Branaghan’s head slowly moved towards Ms. Bishop.
As she snapped her phone closed, he said, “You left your lights on, Ms. Bishop.”
The onlooking students erupted into laughter. More cars full of students were arriving, and kids were starting to run among the outside classrooms, labs, library, offices, pointing at things, calling out to each other, “Hey! Check this out!” “Look at this!” “Holy s***, dude, this is freaking awesome!”
Mr. Branaghan’s face turned toward Braden, who was still standing in his original location, in the middle of the cafeteria, where he could look upon most of his creation.
“I will have to assume you are somehow responsible for all this, Mr. James?”
Braden grinned at Mr. Branaghan and nodded. “Not bad, eh Sir?”
Mr. Branaghan did one of those slow head-shakes that people in authoritative positions in schools always do before saying “I’m very disappointed in you, student X. I thought you were more (sensible/intelligent/responsible) than that.”
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© Copyright 2009 katt (UN: kattbee at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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