by Kevin M. Folliard
(This story contains drugs and violence.)
Principal Prentis left Burlsbury Elementary promptly, after students had served their weekday detention. Halfway home, she pulled her blue Buick into the corner Safeway to fuel up. She parked alongside pump 3, behind a beat-up pickup. The truck hadn’t pulled up quite far enough, and Principal Prentis had to stretch the rubber hose to fill her tank.
She huffed as she ran her credit card. The radio from the pick-up blasted rap music, the kind of vulgar noise she would have confiscated along with walkmen and discmen back in the day. Today, all the children’s media was in their phones, in the cloud. And those damned phones were so expensive, parents raised hell when you tried to take one.
She rolled her eyes and carefully wiped down her windshield, keeping her pressed pantsuit away from the rust-crusted back bumper of the ruffian’s truck.
Suddenly, Principal Prentis sniffed a noxious waft of tobacco. She wheeled around on her high heels and waggled the gas station squeegee at the grizzled young man pumping into the pickup. “Put that out right this instant.”
The man arched bushy eyebrows. He clenched a glowing cigarette between his teeth. “Pardon me, lady?”
“I said put out that cigarette! How dare you smoke at the pump! It’s incredibly dangerous.”
The man took a long drag, then puffed gray smoke. “I’ll be careful. Mind your business.”
Principal Prentis’s face fumed like an oven. She gripped her squeegee, stalked up to the man, and snatched the cigarette clean out of his mouth. “It’s a filthy enough habit without having to blow us all up in the process. Honestly!” She marched to the well of wiper fluid, carefully extinguished the glowing tip of the cigarette in liquid, then tossed it into the trash. “You’re worse than the delinquents I deal with every day!”
“Lady you’ve got nerve.” The fuel nozzle clicked off, and the man yanked it from his tank.
“You’re the one with nerve!” She shook her finger. “Don’t. Smoke. At the pump!”
The man glared, then burst into laughter.
“You think this is funny?”
“Oh man! You’re her!” He slapped his knee with his left hand. In his right, he held the dripping gas nozzle. “Principal Prentis!”
Her stomach sank. What hope was there for the denizens of detention if this could be a parent? She straightened her blazer, stood tall. “I am. And you are?”
“You don’t remember me?” He removed his tattered hat, turned his face left and right. Grinned yellowing teeth. “Too bad I couldn’t stick around longer.”
Principal Prentis’s heartbeat quickened. There was something achingly familiar about those glassy eyes. That snide grin. Behind her, the nozzle of her own pump automatically clicked off. She recalled showdowns in her office, how this boy would challenge her. How he loved to pick on girls. How he’d laugh in her face when she threatened discipline—a wild, insane-sounding cackle. “Bobby Hardcastle,” she said. “Class of 97.”
“Well, I would have been.” The now thirty-something Bobby Hardcastle pulled another cigarette from his shirt pocket and stuck it between his teeth. “If you hadn’t expelled me.”
“For smoking!” She gave an exasperated laugh. “In the boy’s bathroom, as I recall! How serendipitous.”
“Serendipitous! S-E-R-E-N-D-I-P-I-T-O-U-S. Serendipitous. I wasn’t very good at following rules, but I could spell.”
“You won the school spelling bee,” she said. “Then lost interest and bailed on regionals.”
“I had more pressing matters.” He plucked a silver lighter from his jeans pocket and sparked a yellow flame. “You do remember me. I’m flattered.”
“The geniuses and the hoodlums tend to stand out.” She placed her hands on her hips. “You were a little of one and a lot of the other. It doesn’t appear that much has changed.”
“Actually, a lot changed, Principal Prentis.” Bobby Hardcastle puffed his cigarette. He gestured with the fuel nozzle. “Let’s see. After you expelled me, my dad busted my nose. He and Ma got into a big fight, and the neighbors called the cops. Me and my younger sisters ended up split into different foster homes. In 1998, I repeated the 8th grade at a different school. In a worse neighborhood, where the kids didn’t just smoke, they sold drugs and shot each other. In order to fit in, I started dealing. Got busted. Ended up in Juvie.”
“Goodness.” Principal Prentis’s hand went to her heart.
“Without me around to protect them, my sisters ended up having kids with one scumbag after the next—gentlemen like dear old dad, who preferred to use fists, rather than words.”
Her stomach turned. “Bobby. I—I’m—”
“The story’s not over yet.” Bobby puffed smoke. “See, I was never really able to finish high school, but after my first offense as an adult, a social worker talked me into joining the Army. I did two tours in Iraq and ended up with this, after an IED exploded next to me.” Bobby yanked up his left pant-leg to show a prosthetic ankle. “Gotta raise hell every few years to get the V.A. to cover replacements. Then there’s the PTSD.”
“Bobby, I truly—”
“Don’t apologize, Principal Prentis.” Bobby flailed his arms. He squeezed the handle of the fuel nozzle. Gasoline squirted and splatted the concrete.
Principal Prentis choked on the fumes. She backed against the hood of her Buick.
“It’s not your fault my family fell apart and my leg got blown up. Not your fault one of my sisters died of an overdose and the other joined a cult out west. All you did was catch a straight-B student sampling his first smoke during recess. Your discipline certainly left an impression on me.” He took a long drag. The tip of his cigarette glowed like a hot coal. “Except for the smoking part. Didn’t fix that one bit. I have been meaning to quit.”
“Well Bobby,” Principal Prentis stuttered. “Certainly, we can agree that I only disciplined you as was expected of my position. And furthermore, it certainly does not excuse you—a culpable adult—from smoking at the gas station!”
“I don’t appreciate your hypocrisy, Principal Prentis.” Bobby shook his head. “H-Y-P-O-C-R-I-S-Y. Hypocrisy.”
“Hypocrisy! Me? Hardly!” She crossed her arms and glared with renewed indignancy. “If there’s one thing I am, young man, it’s consistent!”
Bobby lurched forward, squeezed the handle of the nozzle and sprayed Principal Prentis with noxious gasoline.
She screamed, twisted away, and fell onto the concrete. Bobby soaked her pantsuit. Her hair. Fuel stung her eyes. Burned her nostrils. “Please! Help! Someone!”
Bobby glowered. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and pinched it between his thumb and pointer finger. “If you were consistent, Principal. Then why are you too now smoking at the pump.”
Bobby scowled. Flicked his cigarette.
Principal Prentis cowered.
The cigarette sailed over her and splooshed into the washer fluid.
A mischievous smile carved Bobby’s face. “Look at that; I missed! How serendipitous for you.”
Bobby unleashed a wild cackle as he climbed back into his truck and slammed the door. He shouted as he peeled away. “S-E-R-E-N-D-I-P-I-T-O-U-S!”
Category: Featured, Short Story