Chill Page 3

  “I am a man of words, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” said Mr. Sfinkter, “so my word is my bond.”

  “Is that like a promise?” I asked.

  “Yes, Mr. Fitzsimmons, that’s like a promise.”

  He didn’t read anyone else’s career plans that day.

  “I don’t want to overload your developing minds, so we’ll just do a couple of students a day. Give you all something to look forward to,” he said.

  And look forward I did.

  Chapter Eight

  I was no longer sure what to think of our new teacher. The chance he’d offered me was something beyond my wildest dreams.

  Maybe he was just difficult because he thought that it was the best way to get us working. Maybe his outfits were eccentric and not a desperate cry for attention. Maybe there was more to him than I first thought.

  Chill didn’t like him. Chill didn’t like anyone who trampled on other people’s dreams, and that’s what Mr. Sfinkter did at the beginning of every week. He’d take out two of the essays and go through them in front of the class.

  It’s embarrassing to have yourself exposed. It was obvious that everyone had the underwear dream that semester, but on top of revealing everyone’s dreams to their fellow students, ensuring certain attack, he then provided the ammunition.

  Mr. Sfinkter found fault with every career choice, picking them apart student by student. I got off lightly and was the only one who received the slightest bit of encouragement. Maybe it was because I wanted to be what he was.

  Or maybe he saw something in my writing that he thought worthwhile. Whatever the reason, I took it and ran, starting to work just as hard on my writing as Chill did on his art.

  If I could paint a picture with my words half as well as Chill could with a brush or pencil, I’d do great and Mr. Sfinkter would guide and teach me and make all that I could wish for come true.

  I told myself that over and over again at the beginning of every class so that I wouldn’t have to hear Mr. Sfinkter go on at the other students. But Chill, robbed of his sketchpad, had to listen to every word.

  Chill’s design for the mural was chosen as the best entry. Every morning throughout the semester, he and I spent first period working on the mural in the front foyer. When it was finished, it would be the first thing people saw when they entered the school.

  There was little I could do to help him in the sketching part, which would take a couple of weeks. So I worked on my story while he did the mural outline. I kept a pencil close, and if we heard footsteps, I’d quickly get to work on one corner.

  “What’s it about?” Chill asked me.

  “It’s about a guy who everyone thinks is really mean, but he turns out to be a...it’s about a lot of things,” I said, not wanting to give too much away. Chill’s feelings toward Mr. Sfinkter would probably cloud his judgment of my writing. Especially because the teacher had given me hope while telling Chill he wouldn’t be able to make a living from his art—despite his talents.

  “When am I going to get to read it?” Chill asked.

  “You’re going to have to pay like everyone else,” I said jokingly.

  Chill smiled. He seemed to be as excited as me, or at least he tried to be, about the potential of my writing.

  “Seriously, though, that’s great that he’s going to show it to publishers,” I said.

  “Can you take a look from back there and tell me if the ear looks okay?” Chill asked.

  “I mean, even if he doesn’t like it, he’ll still give me input, and that’s input from a published writer,” I said.

  “Does it look okay?” Chill asked.

  “It looks fine,” I replied.

  “We should be able to start painting it tomorrow,” he told me.

  “Ms. Surette say anything to you about it?” I asked him.

  “She said it was looking good.”

  “It’s nice to get that encouragement from your teacher. Of course, you’ve always had it from your mom, so I guess to you it might not seem like a big deal,” I told him.

  “Sean, I...” he stopped. “You’re a great writer no matter what he says about it.”

  “So you think he probably won’t have anything good to say then?” I asked. It was obvious he was avoiding telling me what he really thought.

  “I’m not saying that,” he replied.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Just don’t take anything he says too... be careful.”

  “Be careful?” I asked.

  “That’s all I’m saying,” he said vaguely.

  “Thanks,” I told him, my anger building. “And you too.”

  “About what?” he asked.

  “The mural,” I said. “Not everybody’s going to like it. And with it being at the front of the school, you’ll have a lot of people taking potshots.”

  “I suppose so,” he said, trying to seem indifferent.

  “You know, saying it looks amateurish, asking what these people have to do with our school, saying you must be pretty full of yourself to think you, or anyone here, could ever be as good at anything as any of these people...”

  “Sean...”

  “I don’t think that,” I clarified. “I’m just saying what they might say, to prepare you. So be careful.”

  Suddenly the bell rang and I jumped to my feet.

  “Don’t want to be late for Mr. Sfinkter’s class,” I said, bolting.

  Chapter Nine

  As the semester went by, Chill and I talked less and less. Even when we worked together on the mural, I spoke to Chill only when necessary, to ask about a color or shade or which brush to use.

  I began giving Mr. Sfinkter updates on how the book was coming, and he gave me long and impressive lists of all the people he knew. He told me how tiring it was when they were always after him to spend time with them and give them advice on their own works.

  Mr. Sfinkter would only talk to me during class. It seemed that students were only visible to him during class time. We appeared when the bell rang and disappeared at the end of the period. It took a powerful mind to do that, the mind of a famous writer.

  The more he talked, the dumber I felt for not knowing who he was when he first came to class. All his books were in the library. Well, they weren’t when I first checked, but within a few days of his being at the school they were on the shelf. His website was filled with the wonderful things that he’d said and done and wonderful things others said about him. I couldn’t find much else on the web about him, but I think that’s because he was just so big he tried to avoid too much publicity.

  You could see by the way he joked with and talked to the other teachers that they all liked him, even Ms. Surette. I think he was only teaching because he loved to share what he knew. Or perhaps he was just doing research for his next book.

  As for his critique of the students’ career choices, he was just trying to get us to look at things in a more realistic way, to prepare us for the “real world.”

  As the semester went by, I became certain that Chill’s dislike for Mr. Sfinkter was simply jealousy and anger at the brutality of his honesty. Chill hated that I was getting the attention for a change. He was jealous that Mr. Sfinkter would let me work on my book but wouldn’t let him work on his sketches. The day I finished the book and brought it into class was the day Chill’s jealousy boiled over.

  Chapter Ten

  Chill and I ended up working behind a large tarp so that no one in the school would see the mural until it was completed. We were allowed to hook speakers up to my iPod as long as we kept it low. It made it easier to work without talking—less awkward.

  “I’ve got to go,” I told him one day.

  “Where?” he asked. “The bell won’t go for a while.”

  “I want to get to class early to give Mr. Sfinkter my book.”

  “You finished it? That’s great!” he said with what could have been taken for genuine excitement. “Can I read it?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I told him. �
��I’ll get you a copy when I get a chance.”

  “You can just e-mail it to me.”

  “Okay,” I said, collecting my things. “Is it okay if I go?”

  “Of course.”

  I started to get out from under the tarp when he called after me.

  “Sean,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Good luck.”

  “Sure.”

  Impatiently I waited at the front of the class for the bell to ring and for Mr. Sfinkter to appear. I think the rest of the class was there, although I didn’t notice. I hadn’t noticed them for most of the semester.

  Mr. Sfinkter came in wearing a bright green jacket and red bow tie, his glory almost blinding me as he approached.

  “Mr. Fitzsimmons, having trouble finding your seat?” he asked.

  “I finished it,” I told him, almost bubbling over.

  “What did you finish?”

  “The book.”

  “This is an English class, Mr. Fitzsimmons. You’ll have to be specific as to which book you finished.”

  “My book, sir. The one I’ve been writing.”

  “What?” he said. “Oh yes, that. Good for you. I remember when I finished my first book. It was quite a feeling. My publisher was almost salivating when I gave it to him. The size of it alone was intimidating and struck him with awe.”

  He got taller when he talked about his book.

  “But enough about me. We must get on with studying the works of my peers. Now take your seat.”

  “I have a copy for you, sir.”

  “You do? Oh, yes of course you do. Well, I can’t very well read it now, can I? Set it on the desk and take your seat.”

  “You will read it, though?” I asked.

  “Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “Now take your seat.”

  I set it gently on his desk before returning to my seat.

  I sat down, twitching with excitement. I looked over at Chill. He seemed to be looking at me the way you look at someone who just received bad news, like their cat had died or something.

  I couldn’t figure out why at first. Then I figured that his jealousy had just turned to self-pity. I gave him a sympathetic smile in return. Maybe I’d been too hard on him.

  “Well, thanks to Mr. Fitzsimmon’s little delay, I’m only going to be doing one student’s career today. And who’s the lucky person?” He picked up my manuscript and tossed it in his drawer before shuffling through the last few papers and pulling one out.

  “Miss Langdon,” he said. “You want to be...” He quickly skimmed the paper. He laughed. “A doctor? Brains aside, with your clumsiness you’d be more likely to cause injuries than cure them. No, I think you’d best go for a rethink on that, perhaps picking a profession in which your work environment has no sharp edges. But nothing with small children, please. You’d kill them for certain.”

  I heard a snap and looked over at Chill. He was holding a broken pencil.

  “Mr. Holinground, is there a problem?”

  “None I wish to discuss,” he said with the confidence and authority I used to admire.

  They stared at each other for a while before Mr. Sfinkter finally spoke. “Good. Now everyone take out your copies of Romeo and Juliet. We’ll be working on it for our final weeks,” he said. “This play has a lot to teach you. It shows not only that children should always listen to their elders, but the dire consequences which result when they don’t.”

  As we all took out our copies of Shakespeare, I saw Chill slip his sketchpad into his notebook.

  For the first while he was doing a good job at covering up, looking up at the front and down to the pad as if taking notes on the passages that Mr. Sfinkter wanted us to pay the closest attention to. But as the class progressed, Chill’s sketching became more frantic.

  “Mr. Holinground,” the teacher said. “Mr. Holinground!”

  Chill dropped his pencil. “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s nice to see you taking such detailed notes.”

  “It’s a great play, sir,” Chill replied.

  “Despite what you may think, Mr. Holinground, I am not an idiot. Now bring your sketchpad to the front.”

  “Sketchpad, sir?”

  “Bring it!”

  Chill looked down at the sketchpad and then up to Mr. Sfinkter. I could only imagine what he’d drawn in his anger. I was sure it wasn’t going to be complimentary to Mr. Sfinkter.

  Chill took a breath. With his usual sureness, he got to his feet, sketchpad in hand, and started to make his way to the front.

  “Pick up your feet when you walk, Mr. Holinground,” barked the teacher.

  At first, like everyone else in the class, I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. I knew that Mr. Sfinkter didn’t notice us outside class, but could we really be that invisible to him?

  The only one who didn’t seem the least bit surprised was Chill. He kept moving.

  “Pick them up!” Mr. Sfinkter repeated.

  Chill stopped.

  “I can’t,” he said.

  “You can’t or you won’t?”

  “I have a bad leg, sir.”

  “What do you mean by bad?” the teacher asked. “You sprained your ankle, perhaps tripping over that bag you leave lying around the school?”

  “It’s been that way since birth, sir.”

  “Oh,” Mr. Sfinkter said, making it obvious that he’d just never noticed before now. “Well, I guess God’s punished you enough then, hasn’t he? Take your seat.”

  Chill spun around and returned to his chair without looking at anyone except Sara. She looked at him without pity, without judgment, with just pure understanding. I realized then what Chill saw in her.

  At the end of class, Sara took extra care with her books. Chill rushed out of the class, and I went after him.

  “He didn’t mean anything by it,” I said.

  “Which part?”

  “About your leg, he really didn’t know.”

  “What about Sara? And everybody else that he takes enjoyment in belittling, even you? You’re just too...”

  “I’m just too what?” I asked.

  Chill shook his head. “I hope he helps you out, Sean. I hope he does all the things that he says he’s going to do. But I can’t turn a blind eye to all the things he’s done.”

  And he walked away.

  Chapter Eleven

  All the way home I tried on different excuses for why Mr. Sfinkter did what he did. I needed a reason. I needed to believe that this man wouldn’t be so cruel.

  If he was really as nasty as he appeared, then what were all those people that he mentioned really like? Even the other teachers thought he was great. There had to be something more to him.

  He did it to prepare us for the “real world,” for things to come.

  Once he did what he said he was going to do with my book, it would prove that he did want to help his students and not just put them down to build himself up.

  By the time I got in the door, I’d made that excuse fit quite nicely. It had to fit. If it didn’t, what would that say about everyone he’d told me about who looked up to him and were his close friends? What would it say about me, that I would defend such a person?

  No, I thought. Whatever Mr. Sfinkter is doing, he’s doing it for the best. Preparing us all for the disappointment that’s bound to come in life.

  At home that disappointment was everywhere.

  Dad worked for a construction company and the only time he talked about his job was to bitch about the boss. Mom was a nurse and I always had to listen to her saying how useless most doctors were.

  I hadn’t told either of them about the book. There wasn’t any point.

  I went upstairs when I got home and read until 6:00, until the news came on. Now that I wasn’t hanging out with Chill, it was the only time that I got to see Orchid, so I watched it even more religiously than before.

  I was still thinking about what had happened in class that day when the Crime Stoppers segm
ent came on. It was about a man suspected of flashing women in the west end of the city. The description was of a large heavyset man in his forties with a beard and bushy orange hair. A composite sketch of the suspect appeared on the screen.

  Staring back at me was Mr. Sfinkter. My world came crashing down.

  “It can’t be!” I said out loud. “It can’t be! How could he have fooled so many people? How could I have been so stupid?”

  And then, just before the sketch left the screen, I saw, in the corner, Chill’s unreadable symbol of original design.

  “He’s gone too far this time,” I said. “He’s gone too far!”

  I paced the room, trying to decide what to do. Should I call the police? Should I call the television station? Should I call Chill? Should I call Mr. Sfinkter?

  I went downstairs to where my parents were setting the table for dinner.

  “I need to ask you guys something,” I said.

  “What’s up?” Dad asked.

  “Well...” I started, and I stopped.

  “You see, Chill...” I tried again.

  Mom stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

  “Chill what?” she encouraged.

  “Chill, he...”

  I couldn’t do it.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well it must be something,” Mom said.

  “No, really, it’s just a school thing. To do with a project. But I think I just figured it out. Thanks,” I said and ran up the stairs.

  “Hey,” Dad called after me. “It’s dinnertime.”

  “I’m not hungry,” I yelled back.

  For the rest of the night I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning it was all over the school.

  “Did you hear what happened?” was the first thing out of everyone’s mouth. I played dumb. Something that became increasingly easier to do.

  “I heard he was arrested.”

  “I heard he’s wanted across the country.”