by Jonathan Horowitz
The squirrel was burnt to a crisp, on its back with paws in the air, shriveled, in a tangle of crunchy, blackened grass, motionless against the spring breeze. I looked to the empty sky, the pleasant morning blue which mocked this creature, whose final breaths must have been full of agony and horror, an unbearable moment, a moment to haunt any witness to such suffering.
Someone torched this squirrel, some messed-up piece of crap trying to impress another piece of crap—that would never be me, I had convinced myself. I skated with a dirtbag who claimed to have stuck an M-80 in a cat’s butt, whom I believed because he had the aura of someone who’d stick explosives in a cat’s butt. That act of animal abuse invaded my mind every time a cat sauntered through our skate spot looking to get petted. But this squirrel was at my feet.
The closest I had come to animal abuse was in fifth grade when I stomped a dead bird and ran away convinced its eyes had popped out. I’d stare at the anole carcasses ripped to pieces in an outdoor fan at my uncle’s house in Florida. I’d linger on National Geographic photos of fresh kills and feel sorry for animals even though I knew that was nature. Even roadkill made me sad. I saved worms stranded on sidewalks. This squirrel’s fate wasn’t caused by nature or dumb luck.
I scanned the landscape. The whole front grassy area next to the street, separated from the two-family house by a sidewalk, right below the street wires, was burned away. I continued to school. This was all too much to handle at 8 a.m. on a Monday.
***
“Yo, why you staring like a weirdo?” Isaac asked, pulling down his headphones and hood, the Wu-Tang drums echoing in the sweatshirt three sizes too big on purpose. “You smoked?” he asked with suspicion. He was always looking for an excuse to smoke, or a reason why someone smoked without him, as if there were conspiracies to leave him out of sessions.
I didn’t want to speak on what I saw, what I thought, the headwork I was doing for closure. I shrugged him off and scanned the lunchroom for a lead. Each table had an offensive title: The Russian Mafia, the Homeys, the Dirts, Mossad, the Asian Connection, the Herbs. Our area didn’t have a title, according to us—two long tables stretched end-to-end, nearly twenty people, the coolest up front with ample elbow room, while the late entries into the peer group, which had formed in elementary school, got corners and barely enough room for trays.
Malik rushed up to the table, ecstatic, almost out of breath. “Holy shit, yo, yo, yo, check this.” Once the full crew was at attention, he whipped out a tape recorder from his Jansport and played the sound of the dismissal bell low enough so only we could hear. “We’re doing this for Hickenlooper’s today.”
This substitute teacher was in too deep. As juniors about to hit summer break, we had early onset senior fever. Just a couple weeks earlier, the real science teacher had taken a leave of absence for a “family emergency.” Mr. Rob had had multiple family emergencies over the years, each lasting a couple months. He was at rehab.
Beloved, respected, and feared, Mr. Rob didn’t explode things to look cool—the teacher who made explosions, and gave girls backrubs, ended up being a molester. Mr. Rob taught us about life. The only teacher with a Black Flag tattoo on his neck, he had a Henry Rollins on MTV presence. He maintained a controlled chaos in his class because he was chaos—a recovering lunatic from the heyday of punk who survived grungy Central Jersey dive bars. He aimed to infuse the next generation with the punk spirit that kept him on the edge of sanity. Mr. Rob balanced individuality and hormones, channeling our craziness into a self-exploratory strategy that tricked us into learning how to learn. On the other hand, Mr. Hickenlooper was old school, in a way we didn’t respect since he expected respect. And he was clearly insane.
“My name is Mr. Hickenlooper. Technically, I’m a doctor, but you can call me mister. A little bit about myself: I’m a former NASA scientist. I have two boys about your age,” he said with the smile of cartoon villain. “I like long walks on the beach, and I’m currently going through a bitter divorce,” he added to silence. “I kid, I kid. It’s okay. I’ve moved on.”
Isaac shot up his hand, and said, “Dr. Hickenlooper, why are you getting a divorce?”
“That’s personal,” said one of the Front Row Sarahs—Sarah Rubenstein-Pinheiro or Sarah Ye.
“It’s my fault I brought it up. As always, it’s my fault. Let me teach you all a life lesson. Let’s just say sometimes things don’t work out, and you have to accept your destiny. Even when you don’t make mistakes, you still have to move on,” he recited and gritted his teeth.
“That’s wack, Dr. H. I bet your wife was a major biyatch,” said Isaac.
“I plead the fifth,” said Mr. Hickenlooper with a mischievous smile.
Over the next few weeks, we learned he got laid off, lost custody of his kids, and rented a small apartment in a neighboring town. He looked decent the first week or so, but gradually his shirts became untucked, shoes untied. One day, he taught the whole morning with his polo on inside out—a teacher passing in the hallway rushed in and whispered in his ear. He started to peel off the shirt right there until she hustled him into the storage room of all the lab equipment.
Day after day, prank after prank, it was so easy.
The crown jewel was when he had decided to show us a video about mitochondria—the powerhouse of the cell—and Malik had managed to slip a porno into the VCR when he wasn’t looking, cued up to the best part. Malik gladly sacrificed the tape for the good of a prank.
“Oh, dear, how did that get there,” Mr. Hickenlooper said, fumbling with the VCR remote to eject the tape. The class roared with laughter, even the Front Row Sarahs.
“Money shot!” shouted Isaac.
Hickenlooper yanked out the cord, turned to the class, and said, “I think that was my wife.”
Isaac said, “Don’t you mean ex-wife?”
The silence in that room gave me stomach pains.
The pranks kept happening, until they weren’t fun anymore. We just felt bad. Watching Mr. Hickenlooper flail around trying to find the source of the fish smell was not hilarious. It was painful. The day some nerds decided to pull a prank—a harmless one—and turned all the desks around when he left the room, Hickenlooper literally put his head down on his desk and sobbed.
“Look at what you did!” Isaac said to the class. “It’s all good, Mr. Hickenlooper. I’ll clean up that shit,” he said and proceeded not to clean up the mess.
Today, Malik had a prank that was practical and wouldn’t make Mr. Hickenlooper look dumb since it was low stakes and genius—or so we hoped.
“We can’t do it too early, or it won’t work. We can do it like 10-15 minutes before the real bell, and he won’t even notice. I hope he doesn’t notice,” Malik said, seeming to second-guess the plan.
“Seriously, yo, he might wig out and fight you, Malik.”
That was a possibility.
Malik said, “I just hope he doesn’t cry again. That was mad sad.”
***
We took our seats at our desks, arranged in columns in the middle of the room sectioned off by eight lab tables. Mr. Hickenlooper stalked in front of the chalkboards, at the head of the class, mumbling to himself and counting on his fingers, as the class hummed.
“Today I don’t have a lesson planned,” he said to no one in particular. “You can use this time to study in groups since finals are next week.”
“Yo, Hickenloop, sir?” Isaac asked. “Are there going to be questions about how your wife is a triflin’ hoe?”
Mr. Hickenlooper chuckled. “I can’t expect you to memorize that much material.”
Weeks earlier, Isaac had moved up to the front row right between the Sarahs. He and Mr. Hickenlooper had a weird relationship. Isaac was by far the worst in the class, but Mr. Hickenlooper had a soft spot for him. Maybe he reminded him of his sons, because I’m sure any sons growing up in the Hickenlooper household had issues. The Sarahs hated this—they were used to being the favorites. Isaac turned and grinned at me and Malik in the third-to-last row, at the edge of the studious: the last two rows were reserved for students who wanted to sleep across desks.
“Mr. Hickenlooper.”
“What is it this time, Sarah Rubenstein-Pinheiro?
“I don’t appreciate how Isaac speaks about women,” she said without even looking at the culprit. “That type of derogatory language is highly offensive.”
“Isaac, no more cursing in front of the lady.”
“No, that’s not what I mean at all,” she said, and her voice faded. Mr. Hickenlooper stared off into the abyss. Isaac shrugged his shoulders and whispered an apology.
“Mr. Hickenlooper.”
“Yes, Sarah Ye?”
“Will there be formula sheets?”
“No.”
“Mr. Hickenlooper?”
“Yes, Sarah Rubenstein-Pinheiro?”
“Will we need to show all our work or will it be multiple choice?”
“Multiple choice.” He only did multiple choice. “You ladies sure are chatty.”
He turned to the board. A great thud resounded from the back of class. We all turned to Royce in the back row, his hands folded. He hacked up a laugh. A textbook lay sprawled out on the linoleum-tiled floor far from any students. Throwing things was his thing.
“Settle down, everyone,” Mr. Hickenlooper said, facing the door. His hands trembled, and he mumbled to himself. He scuttled around, scratching formulas on the board, pausing to itch his head, transforming his hair into a bird’s nest. His eyes were twitchy.
Malik whispered to me, “You notice anything different with him today?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
I remembered the squirrel: lying there prone, paws up, legs to the sky—the image was imprinted in my vision whether I closed my eyes or not.
After a few minutes of confusing silence, the class gradually realized he had forgotten we were there. The first few rows of students broke off into study groups; most of the rest sat at lab tables where they could face each other. A couple kids in back searched glass cabinets for equipment to steal. This was generally how things went: Mr. Hickenlooper wandered about the classroom making small talk, and no one accomplished anything. This time he stood isolated.
The phone rang, which rattled him into stumbling over to answer the call.
“Yello?” he said. “Deez? Is that right? Am I pronouncing that right? Deez? Is that Slavic? No? Oh, okay. Yeppers. Hold on just a moment and lemme check.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece. Malik started to giggle; he grabbed my shoulder, his butt falling off the corner of his seat. The class hushed in anticipation. Mr. Hickenlooper said, “Anyone here named Deez?”
Isaac said, “Ask what his last name is.”
“Yes, yello. What is the student’s last name?”
“Nuuuuuuuts!” The phone vibrated with the shrill answer.
Mr. Hickenlooper hung up the phone, perplexed. His pressed lips made his face pointier than usual. His eyelids convulsed, and he returned to the blackboard.
Another ten minutes passed as he stared at the board, occasionally flaring his nostrils.
“When should I do it?” Malik asked.
“Not yet. But soon.”
Almost half the class was over. Things continued at the same rate. Mr. Hickenlooper remained lost in his world. The students enjoyed the free period. The phone rang again.
Mr. Hickenlooper ignored it.
The phone rang again, and again, and again, repeatedly, aggressively.
Finally, Mr. Hickenlooper walked over and knocked it off the hook.
“Mr. Hickenlooper, you can’t do that,” Sarah Rubenstein-Pinheiro said. “What if there is an emergency?”
He grinned a fragile smile and placed the phone back on the holder.
The phone immediately started ringing.
“Miss Ye, would you do me a favor and pick it up?” he asked.
Sarah Ye reluctantly got up from her seat and raised the phone to her ear. “Hello? Yes, I’ll get him.” She held the phone out. “It’s for you.”
He said, “Tell them to call me back in five minutes.”
She hesitated, then repeated his message and hung up the phone. He rushed into the back room and fumbled around. There was fifteen minutes left in class. Malik stared at the clock.
Mr. Hickenlooper returned from the back with a shoebox-sized contraption he had cobbled together. He was a former genius, so the class watched with sincere curiosity. He plopped the machine right on the teacher’s desk. Wires sprouted from a black box connected to a meter and other electrical stuff we were never allowed to play around with—especially after the Bunson burner incident, when Royce lit his bookbag on fire and almost burned down the school.
Malik asked me, “What is that?”
I said, “I don’t know.”
“Maybe we should do the prank another day.”
Mr. Hickenlooper perched on a stool, staring at his creation with a twitchy mouth and beady eyes, his fingers steepled like Mr. Burns.
I thought about the squirrel happily going about its day until some kid with a lighter and probably lighter fluid snatched it up and made it suffer through no fault of its own.
The phone rang, and everyone went silent. Mr. Hickenlooper shuffled over. He looked out to the audience like a magician about to do a big reveal, grinning madly. He raised the phone and held its mouthpiece to the contraption. He flipped a switch, and a high-pitched noise burst from the machine into the mouthpiece—there was a crackling and a pop. Now the phone leaked a steady, simmering hum. Mr. Hickenlooper hung it up lightly, and the phone kept humming, its scratchy crackle uncomfortable, as uncomfortable as the tension.
Right then, the bell rang. Not the real bell—Malik’s bell. Mr. Hickenlooper waved off the class and slouched in his chair. Everyone rushed out, even the Sarahs.
***
I walked home the same route I always did, slowing my steps once I approached the squirrel spot. Once I arrived, I stood there and observed the scene again.
“Holy nuts, did you see this! I saw this! I saw it happen!” One of my younger neighbors rushed up. “I saw it for real!” I got on the defensive, waiting to hear a story that would distress me or change the way I looked at someone. He perked up. “A squirrel bit the wire, and he lit on fire and fell and then ran around. Me and my friend tried to save him but couldn’t catch him. He was already gone. He lit the whole lawn, and we stomped it out before the house caught on fire.”
We stood over the contorted carcass.
“Poor little guy,” he said.
I tried to parse the words and figure out exactly what he was saying. I looked at the blue sky and saw a dangling wire dancing in the breeze, a PSEG truck with a man in the bucket was parked across the street. I hadn’t even noticed it.
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