King for a Day

I cursed the morning sun glaring into my eyes and tossed the useless sunglasses on the passenger seat next to me. It was the second pair I’d sat on in less than a month and I couldn’t afford more. I tried to use the sun visor, but since the tab that was supposed to hold it in place had snapped off years before, it was pointless to bother with it. It hung limply in front of me, getting in the way so that I had to crouch forward to see the road. Curse words sped through my mind as I traveled the route from the hotel to the school. As I drove, my stomach, in turns, clenched into a hard knot before giving way to a fluttery feeling that made me want to pull the car over and puke my guts out on the sidewalk.

“Mrs. Cambridge,” the principal, Mr. Taten-something, had said. I let the ‘missus’ go and used my cheerful, ‘How can I help you’ voice. I may have even said those words but I don’t remember now. I might not have worried at all if there hadn’t been that undercurrent of ‘deep concern’ principals have a way of using to tell you how you really don’t know your own kid. I let go of the idea that he was calling to tell me my son had just won the “All-State Championship for Smart Kids” or some such thing.

“Mrs. Cambridge. Your son is in my office and it is imperative that you and I speak immediately.”

“Sure. Just a second.” I put my hand over the receiver and called to my supervisor, “Mary, I’m taking my break right now. Important call.” It felt good to say that. Me, a housekeeper for the most rundown motel this side of the tracks, was taking an important call.

“All right. Go ahead, Mr. Taten . . .”

“Tatenbauer.”

“Yes." I shook my head. Why could I never remember the man's name? "Uh, what is this concerning?” I rolled my eyes and mouthed the F word. It concerned my son. Trust me to ask a stupid question like that.

“I would like you to come down to the school if you can. Your son is involved in a rather delicate situation and we need to discuss the best course of action to take.”

“What does that mean? Like the strap or something? I can’t imagine Gray doing anything that bad.”

“The strap has been abolished for quite some time, but I’d prefer not to discuss this over the phone. Are you able to meet with me this morning? The sooner, the better.”

I tried to picture my son, Grayson Cambridge, in the principal’s office but my mind refused to wrap itself around such an awkward image. My skinny little Grayson? In trouble at school? It was . . . there was a word for it. Unreal? That was close. Then it came to me: surreal, that was it. I saw his clear gray eyes, his blonde hair that bordered on mud yellow skimming the collar of an overused shirt. I could see that perfect row of small white teeth worrying at his lip as he bent over yet another library book, teaching himself things about math and history that nobody in their right mind would find even remotely interesting. Grayson. Just thinking of him made me smile and made me glad I'd given him such a Wall Street kind of name. It matched his personality, that was for sure. He was more likely to wear out the elbows of his shirts before the knees on his pants. He didn’t get into scuffles. Grayson was not like most twelve-year-old boys so the principal's call came as a complete shock.

I pulled into the parking lot, ignoring the sign that read “Staff Parking Only.” I smoothed my red and blue housekeeping uniform blouse and fought the urge to fix my creeping underpants as I strode past classrooms. Children’s eyes are drawn like magnets to any movements outside the windows, especially out-of-place ones—in this case, me. I was definitely out of place. I hadn’t liked schools when I’d had to go through the whole educational thing myself. I hated it so much, I'd quit as soon as I turned sixteen. Schools were even more nerve-wracking for me now that I had to force my own kid into the system. Not that it was an issue with Grayson. Unlike me, he loved school.

The first person I saw when I walked into the orange reception room was Grayson. He had been staring at the floor but his head snapped up when he heard me come in. He didn’t look scared like I’d been expecting. He looked very sure of himself, almost angry in fact.

“Gray? What’s goin’ on?” I sat down next to him and he shrugged. He leaned in to whisper to me.

“Mrs. Cambridge I assume?” a receptionist with a stiff, black puff of hair on her head rose from her chair and peered over the high counter.

“Yes.” I said, practically jumping to my feet to approach the desk.

“Normally, you need to check in with reception before you approach any of the children."

“But this is my kid.” I said. She sniffed. I knew she’d sniff. She looked the type with her funny puffed up hair and skinny little lips.

“Of course.” She smiled slightly. “However, we insist that all visitors report to reception.”

“Okay,” I said. I stuck my hand in the air. “Present!”

Behind me I heard Grayson snort—that always happened when he was trying not to laugh. I tried not to laugh myself. Miss Snotty Receptionist gave me a dirty look and rose fully from her chair.

“This way, Mrs. Cambridge.”

“Ms,” I corrected as I followed her down a short hall. I turned back to wave at Grayson.

“Of course.” She half-smiled, half-sneered as she knocked on the door, opened it for me and announced, “Mizz Cambridge here to see you sir.”

He gave a slight nod to the receptionist and I wondered if she had rolled her eyes behind my back or something, maybe crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, or made that little ‘crazy’ motion with her bony finger. The door closed behind me, but the principal didn’t get up to shake my hand. The knot was back and already giving way to that puking feeling. He looked to be about fifty, and hoping to get into a ‘Gentleman’s Quarterly’ ad but somehow missed the mark. All business, no warmth.

"Mr. Taterbower," I said with a polite smile.

"Tatenbauer."

I opened my mouth to apologize but he cut me off as he nodded his head toward one of two scratchy-looking orange chairs in front of his oversized desk. “I have some other things I need to attend to at the moment," he said. "It’ll only take a few minutes but that should give you enough time to read this.”

He pushed a thin stack of lined paper towards me. I picked it up and after recovering from the shock of seeing a bright red ‘F’ at the top of it, I read the title. “If I Were King For a Day," by Grayson Cambridge.

I remembered Grayson mentioning something about the ‘King or Queen for a Day’ contest his grade six class was having. Whoever wrote the best essay would read it aloud to the entire school at the next assembly and it would be declared a special treat day in that person’s honor. The winner would choose the little snack. Grayson’s favorite treat was ice cream. With the budget we lived on, Grayson didn’t normally get to take part in ‘treat days’ at the school.

“So, you called me here to read an essay?”

“Not exactly. I suggest you go over it, and we can discuss it when I return.”

He smiled, that same small one the receptionist had; the one that said, “I don’t like you, but I’m polite.” He rose, walked behind me and opened the door.

“Oh, hey!” I turned in my chair to face him. “Since this is about Grayson, shouldn’t he be in here?”

“I think it’s best we discuss this in private.”

“I disagree. Whatever it is, if it’s about Grayson, he has a right to know.”

I felt like licking my finger and making a mark in the air when I saw him stiffen. Point for me! I felt my nervousness fluttering away already.

“Very well. I’ll send him in.”



“Wow Gray.” I had just finished reading the four-page, double-sided, double-spaced essay to the end and set it delicately on my lap as if it were gold. “This is awesome, buddy.” He shrugged and squirmed under my adoration. “No, I really mean it, Gray. You wrote it so good. I could never write anything this good. I could even tell you used all the right words and the things you said . . . wow. I’m really proud of you. It should have got an A.” I tousled his hair and he smiled and pushed my hand away. “You’re a great kid. Why are you in trouble for an essay anyway?”

“There’s a little more to it than that, Mom. For one thing, my teacher said it’s propaganda and that’s not allowed in school.” Grayson gulped and picked at the crease on his jeans. "Plus—"

We both heard the door open then and I turned to smile as Mr. Taten-whatever walked in. He didn’t speak.

“This is really good." I said. "Why’d it get an F?”

He sat down and gave Grayson a stern look. I didn’t like it and felt the little hairs rising on the back of my neck.

“Miss Cambridge, do you know what propaganda is?”

“Yes I do.” I sat up straighter. He didn’t need to insult me. Of course I knew what propaganda was—sort of.

“Then you know that it is the spreading of allegations to damage an institution or a good cause.”

I nodded as if I understood and agreed with his definition.

“That’s not quite right,” Grayson said in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

“Grayson, this is between your mother and me now.”

“No, it’s not." I piped in. "This is about Grayson." I patted his arm. “Go ahead Gray. What were you saying?”

“Miss Cambridge, this is inappropriate—“

“So expel me.” I gazed hard at him for a moment before turning my full attention to Grayson, praying he’d go through with it and not clam up now. I patted his knee and nodded.

“Actually, propaganda is sharing information, and it can be true or false, good or bad. Plus, it’s not exactly to tear down an institution. The information is given mostly to promote an idea and reveal the flaws of the opposition.” Grayson shrugged and went back to picking at his jeans.

“Well, we could squabble over definitions all day and solve nothing. The point here is that Grayson wrote an essay that clearly goes against all that our country stands for. He is actively spreading negative propaganda.” He threw another one of those judgmental looks at Gray.

I laughed nervously, still not understanding the point of this interview, but for as nervous as I felt, I could feel my anger rising too. The arrogance of the man, my own ignorance and my son's shame were all mixing up inside of me, and getting me frustrated.

“The truth is I don’t see what any of this has to do with my son’s essay which did not, by the way, deserve a damn F!” I sat forward and slammed the essay on the desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Grayson sinking lower in his chair. “It’s King for a Day for God sake. The kid talked about how he’d want equality for everyone. No wars, peace on earth, food and shelter for everyone. That sounds like pretty typical twelve-year-old stuff to me.”

“If he hadn’t quoted," the principal bellowed, "directly from The Communist Manifesto I might be inclined to agree with you Miss Cambridge.” I sat in amazement as the principal’s face turned from pale pink to purplish red. His outburst caught me off guard.

He stood up with the essay and flipped through the pages. “He talks about the society we live in and says ‘ . . . for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.’”

I glanced over at Grayson, now slunk deeper in his seat. I feared the next time I looked, he’d be under the chair.

“Or how about this! ‘. . . as the repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases.’ Or this, ‘No sooner is the exploitation of the laborer by the manufacturer, so far at an end, that he receives his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portion of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc.’” I stared in awe as the Taten-dowdy continued.
"Okay, the political part and exploiting something—I'm sorry, but that's a littel over my head." I could feel my cheeks burning and hoped I wasn't blushing too much. "But that last part, it sounds like that means if you work a crap job, you get crap wages, and that as soon as you get even a little ahead, somebody's there to take it from you. That sounds like our society all right. What's the problem?" I asked.

Spittle flew as he talked and I was tempted to ask for a towel. “These are all direct quotes from The Communist Manifesto Miss Cambridge. Don’t tell me you support this!”

“Well, I think I do.” I looked down at my chalky hands, still covered in a light dust from the rubber gloves I wore at work all morning. I saw the pale bleach stains on my pants and the dirty Keds on my feet. I could only imagine how I must look to this polished man. My hair, the same strange color as Grayson’s, was probably coming loose from the rubber band that held it. My naked face probably looked a little shinier than I'd have liked, from a morning of manual labor. I glanced over at Grayson and felt like crying. If I'd finished school, got a good secretarial job, maybe he wouldn't know what it was like to live like us, and he wouldn't even be interested in writing stuff about the working class. Maybe if I'd been as smart as Gray, things could have been different. Yet, at the same time, I felt so proud of my son. I wanted to just grab him and hug him, and tell him what a great kid he is. Instead I looked the principal right in the eye.

“Yeah, I do support it. I think he’s just standing up for the working poor.”

“No he is not.” Mr. Tatenbauer stated vehemently, “He is not, I assure you! Standing up for the working poor would be devising ways to help them out of their plight. What your son is suggesting is that we as a society, give up everything we’ve ever worked for; our homes, our cars, our land and share it with people who have done nothing to earn it. He's suggesting that everything you own should not rightfully belong to you. Can you grasp that?”

“First of all, Mr. Tatenbone,” I said, rising and planting my fists on his desk, leaning in towards him, “I am damn sick of how you’re talking down to me. Second of all, I wouldn’t know what it’s like to own anything. I don’t own my house. I rent a rundown, overpriced apartment and have to practically get on my knees to make my landlord fix the heat, and I’m sure you know exactly what I mean by ‘get on my knees.’" I turned to Gray for a second and pointed at him, "But you better not know what I mean."

I turned back to Tatenwhatever. "I’m still making payments on a piece of shit car that’s out there falling apart as we speak. Third,” The principal walked over to the window, turning his back on me. I followed and pulled his arm, forcing him to face me, “and third, I have one hell of a smart kid and if he has the balls to quote some political thing just to get a good grade on a stupid school project, and write it as good as he did, he deserves a damn A on that paper.”

“It goes beyond the essay, Miss Cambridge.” he said. “Your son, upon learning that he did not win the contest, stood up on his desk and began to read his essay aloud to the class. Now, that Miss Cambridge, is where the true problem of your son spreading propaganda comes in.”

I couldn’t help but smile. My shy little Grayson. I turned to him and winked. He sat up a little prouder. The smile annoyed the esteemed Mr. Tatenwhatshisname.

“Do you not see the seriousness of this situation? He stood up in that classroom, and said ‘Communism means you give up everything you deserve. Communism is the way to go.' Your son is proposing the abolition of our entire political, economical and social structure!” The old guy looked ready to have a heart attack. “Expulsion for this sort of behavior is the only recourse, Ms. Cambridge.”

I couldn't help but laugh. “He’s twelve,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s twelve for God’s sake. Does that count for anything?”

“If he’s willing to quote from that trash, he will be treated accordingly.”

“Did half the kids in that class even understand what he was getting at?”

“Did he care? All Grayson Cambridge cared about at that moment was himself and his communist ideals. It was all for his own petty, selfish motives.” The spittle flew, the man’s face grew more purple, “He is suggesting that the wars we fought and won for our freedom were worthless! He’s a jealous little boy who wants what everybody else has and he’s mad because all he’s got is an uneducated mother who scrubs toilets for a living. This paper borders on criminal!”

"Criminal? What the hell is your problem? I think I get that part now, that part about people high up exploiting the lower ones. That's you, doing what you can to keep a really bright kid from getting ahead. You know what I see? I see a kid who wrote a good paper and the grown-ups he was trying to impress are feeling threatened for who knows what reason, and getting their underwear tied in knots over it!"

I glanced over at Grayson again and wished I had taken Tatenjerk’s advice and kept Grayson out in the reception area with Ms. Snotty. It looked like he was crying. I paused, considering whether or not I should suggest he leave, thinking it might be best after all, yet not wanting to see the smug look of satisfaction on the principal’s face. But I had to put my own feelings aside and think about Gray.

"Maybe you should wait—" I started, but Grayson cut me off.

“That’s not why I did it.” Grayson’s thin voice cut through the anger in the air like an arrow and pierced my heart.

Tatendowner and I were both caught by surprise when the skinny little child at the heart of this freaky conversation, spoke. I felt my own eyes growing moist as I saw the tears glistening in my son’s eyes. His shoulders shook as he drew in a ragged breath, as if he was trying hard not to cry despite it being obvious such a thing was already too late.

“I’ve never gotten an F before. Never. I wanted to prove that I did write an A paper. Everybody knows I’m the smart kid. I don’t have the same clothes as them, and I don’t have a computer and all that, but I’m smart. I get the best grades in the class. And . . . it just made me mad that . . . that they were making fun of me . . .” His voice broke.

“Oh, Gray baby,” I cried and went to him. He hooked his hands around my arm and let me hug him.

“They were laughin’ at me, Mom.” I held him as we cried, and the principal walked slowly toward his desk.

Gray drew away and wiped his cheeks with the cuffs of his shirt. “I’m the smart kid. It’s all I've got. I didn’t mean to cause any trouble. I just wanted to win the contest but instead everybody was saying that I must have turned stupid. I just wanted to show them. I knew it was a good paper.”

Tatendower straightened his tie and slowly lowered himself into his chair. He placed his hands carefully on the desk. He cleared his throat.

“I think in light of the new evidence, expulsion may be unnecessary. I’ll explain the circumstances to your teacher and perhaps she can change your grade, though I cannot speak for her. However, due to the nature of the essay, you will not be crowned 'King for a Day'.” I stayed crouched beside Grayson’s chair and held his hand. The principal got that stern look again. “I must warn you young man, that from now on, you must be very careful when you’re gathering your information, and refer to more reliable sources.”

I rose to my feet, shaking my head. “No. No, let's not get me started on freedom of speech now.”

I heard Grayson’s little snort of laughter as Mr. Tatenbowow stiffened in just the way I expected he would. I tried hard to hide my smile but failed. I laughed. “Geez, buddy. Lighten up.”

He gave us his polite, I-hate-you smile as Grayson and I started for the door.

“Pick up a permission slip from the secretary and you may return to class Grayson. Thank you Miss Cambridge, for coming in.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, turning to the principal. “Grayson will be away for the rest of the day. At our ol’ working class, toilet-scrubbin' rental, King for a Day means all the ice cream you can eat and no school. All he needs from you is an education. He doesn't need your approval. He's got plenty of that already. He showed that he believes in himself, even if you don't, when he stood up on that desk." I opened the door and nodded for Grayson to go ahead of me. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm off to spend the day with my son, reminding him how free it feels to be twelve. Good day Mr. Tatenbauer.”

As we strolled out of the school, I gave Grayson a playful jab in the ribs. Grayson laughed.

“You know what I noticed in there Mom?” he asked as we got to the car. “You swore a lot. And you remembered his name finally too.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” I said thoughtfully as I unlocked the passenger door and walked round to my side. “I did remember his name.” I shrugged. “Guess I just have a knack for bad words.” I smiled, fixed my crawling underwear and got in the car. Once I got it started, the King and I headed for the nearest Ice-cream Shop, and I was thinking, maybe I'd ask him to help me study for my G.E.D.