Loserkind

         Loserkind had been at it again. A softly reflected tune floated from the back, carrying itself lightly all the way from one of the three Macintosh computers up and across, rising through the heavy afternoon aura that hung about the classroom. Anyone bothering to listen would have agreed it was a trashy sort of tune. They had left it playing as they quested off, a graffiti signature for whomever happened by after them.
         Mr. Bill Walton, administrative vice principal second and veteran eighth grade teacher first, stood in the doorway between the hall and the class. His eyes inspected the room once, twice. What they found were CDs, the majority of them burned with scribbled sharpie markings; discarded backpacks and their burst stuffings jumbled together in a forgotten corner; a variety of strewn pens and pencils sprawled far and wide; leaning stacks of half-used and crumpled binder paper juxtaposed by a pristine pile of sketching paper in the very center; trash bins overflowing with a plethora of unique but useless artifacts; and the perceptible air of mischievous plotting that still hung about the room like their abandoned junk music. He smiled despite himself. His eyes, now finished with their duty, glowed with a spark of candid understanding and frank empathy that signified he knew.
         Normally, today would have been like any other after school had let out. But there was that air today, that deliriously languid and light current drifting about the empty halls. If someone had been right there in the very thick of it, buried in its intense texture, they too would have known.
         For Mr. Bill Walton, despite how much he felt it and knew, he reluctantly had a higher duty to attend to first. Namely, them, Loserkind. This feeling in the air, the charge that this room possessed, was all too familiar to him. And it meant the old gang was up to no good once again.
         Wearing his private smile, his eyes reflective upon the battle-products of discarded staples, loose rubber bands, and wads of modeling clay littering the floor, Mr. Bill Walton strode determinedly into the war zone. He stopped in the middle of the room. On a desk, probably left behind in their haste, sat a clean, organized and well-tended carrying case, its heart’s contents already removed and its chest left open before Mr. Bill Walton. The video camera had vanished, now likely cradled in their hands, its curious eye twinkling up at them. A few video tapes also seemed missing along with the camera battery. What was left was one or two fresh tapes, the battery charger, a link cable for the TV, and all their dreams, visions, ideas, plans, creations, and undying unspoken friendship embodied within a slightly wrinkled, scrawled and scribbled sheet of torn notebook paper.
         For a few moments, Bill Walton merely gazed at this scrap, staring and yet not staring, his twinkling eyes more alive and present than ever before, yet more distant and remote than they had been in his many, many years of feeling and responding and knowing.
         Then the paper was back in his hands once again. His feet landed back on that gunk-covered floor they would soon be vigorously scouring and vacuuming, his head fell into the vulgar atmosphere of music they would be erasing off the Macs, and his eyes once again rested upon the apocalyptic swamp-of-a-mess that signified a few additional hours of cleaning and organizing very shortly for them.
         But first, Mr. Bill Walton considered the beaten sheet of paper he held once more, its little depictions and jotted thoughts for their video scrambled together, and chuckled gently. Then he was out of their classroom, marching down the long corridor and towards the echoing gym in the distance. They would be there. He knew.