Flightplan
Steven M Nedeau (20220627)
Drops of rain fell on the car windshield, sounding out the intermittent pattern that marked the start of every storm, like an orchestra preparing for the command of the conductor. Waiting for the rhythm of a steady downpour to begin, for the deluge to drive away the upcoming judgment, fate shattered my hope. The rain held off.
“Yes, we have to go in. It’s your first day,” my mother said, her hands rooting around in her purse for the papers the office would need.
“Dropping those off at the office won’t be a problem. You don’t have to walk me in. It’s eighth grade.” The humiliation of my mother walking me to school, especially on my first day for that school, was going to be a hard image to quell in the minds of any potential schoolyard bullies.
“That’s how it is. You’re embarrassed to be seen with your parents,” she shrugged, “but these are the rules.”
The walk to the office stretched out, a distance of two hundred feet feeling like several miles of trying not to make eye contact with my soon-to-be classmates. Like vultures to me, they gathered in the schoolyard, all gawking at the new student, all making judgements about his clothing, about his mom, about their car, his haircut, or about how he walked or wore his backpack. The day of adjudication had begun. These new peers would cast a verdict. They would decide today, some as a group, and some individually, if this boy were to be someone they would accept or someone they would shun.
My gaze fell down to my shoes, the plastic soled knockoff of what a sneaker should be. These never had any grip. If this loser had to run home today the best route would be through the woods. The sidewalks wouldn’t allow the traction needed to gain any speed at all.
Thankfully, the path was already learned. Through the woods between the new home and the school there was only one section that caused concern, a swampy stretch, with boards laid out by the local children to keep their feet from sinking into the muck as they traveled the path. The boards looked too unsteady on my first look, so they weren’t tested. At least the boards were easy to find from either end of the path, from both the new home and the schoolyard.
The two ends of the path just have to connect. The thought filled me with hope. Just make it through the first day.
Looking past the gawkers, the entrance to the path, an opening in the trees, showed itself along the far end of the schoolyard. It’s a long way, but once there, any chaser will have to follow single-file, giving me the advantage. Just don’t slip.
There was one more item in my plan, there would be no books in the backpack, no matter how much homework was given, no matter the consequences. Far better to be weighed down by a couple of missing assignments than to have a couple of extra pounds jostling on my back during the escape.
Hours of the day passed by, with repeated introductions performed by every teacher. “We have a new student today. —Please stand up. Everybody welcome…” The script repeated, and every time the new kid stood up, the eyes stared, judging, deciding, planning.
At the bell, the backpack was on and the race began. The pounding of my feet matched the pounding of my heart, yells behind me pressing me on without looking back. The opening in the trees surrounded me with thorns and stinging insects, protecting me from the grasp of tormentors, shielding me from the blows of antagonists.
Shouts drew closer and the words “Spread out!” came as my feet stepped onto the wooden planks. Balance saved me, my plastic shoes sliding on the boards. Behind, the trio had encountered the muck, falling face down in the stink. Their threats and swears echoed in the trees as the new home made an appearance in my sight.
Whoever had placed the planks would forever be a hero in my memory. Had someone else run this path? Has someone else needed to elude the undesirable elements in the junior high? It didn’t really matter why someone had placed them there. Whoever it was had my gratitude.
At home and contemplating the upcoming events of the next day, it was clear the trio would not wait for the bell to ring again. There would be a fight, or a beating, more likely. It would, no doubt, happen at recess, but this time the ‘loser’ would be ready.
Two cans of soda has a nice heft to them when there’s nothing else in the backpack. It would make a good enough weapon.