The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(22)
“My dad says Batman is a fag; that’s why he wears tights,” Bateman said, zipping himself up.
“What’s a fag?” Leftkowitz asked.
“They’re sissies,” O’Reilly said. “At least that’s what my dad said it meant.”
“What about Superman? He wears tights,” Leftkowitz said.
“My dad says he’s okay because he likes Lois Lane.”
Bateman cranked out what seemed like an excessively long sheet of paper towel from the dispenser, crumpled it in the sink under a stream of water, and mashed it into a giant dark-brown spitball, like the ones I’d seen stuck to the bathroom ceiling. As I watched through the crack, I realized that in my hurry to hide, I had failed to slide the latch to lock the door. I reached for it at the precise moment Bateman wheeled and hurled the wet mass directly at my stall, causing the unlatched door to spring open.
Bateman’s eyes widened, then the corners of his mouth slanted upward. “Well, well. What do we have here, Devil Boy?” He approached. “You taking a shit with your pants on?”
“No,” O’Reilly said. “I think maybe the devil boy pees sitting down, like a girl.”
In my haste, I had not only forgotten to latch the door; I had forgotten to tuck myself back into my trousers, and now the head of my penis protruded out my unzipped fly.
“Yeah, maybe we should call him Devil Girl,” Bateman said. He slapped Leftkowitz’s shoulder. “Watch the door. I think Devil Girl needs a drink of water.”
My fear at that moment caused every limb of my body to grow instantly rigid. If my pants had not remained unzipped, I would have been forced to endure a different form of humiliation the remainder of the day. Instead, given my position atop the seat, the height was such that my inadvertent stream hit Bateman directly in the face.
Bateman screamed, wiping at his eyes and face as if squirted with acid. “It’s burning my eyes. It’s burning my eyes.”
O’Reilly quickly tried to retreat, but his shoes slipped in the puddle of urine Bateman had shot on the floor. He skated unsteadily for a moment, then reached out and grabbed hold of Bateman’s shoulder, but Bateman’s feet were also dancing, as if on a sheet of ice. The two looked for a moment as if they might regain their balance, but O’Reilly’s feet came out from beneath him, and he toppled them both, Bateman cursing a blue streak and shouting threats when they hit the ground. “I’m going to kill you. You’re dead!”
The second bell rang.
Leftkowitz, who’d been standing guard, pushed open the door and yelled what I presume to have been “Bell!” though now I recall it as a silent scream. I shot from the stall, felt a hand grip my ankle, but shook it free and continued running past a surprised Tommy Leftkowitz, knocking him into one of the trash cans. I fully expected Bateman and O’Reilly to tackle me from behind as I scaled the steep steps, but I reached the summit untouched and raced across the quad to where Sister Kathleen stood sentry outside her classroom door waiting for us to line up in single file. Only when we were sufficiently “calm and orderly” would she allow us the privilege of reentering her classroom. Someone, I don’t know who, had broken that rule, giving me a reprieve. But I could not be bothered with the formality of a line, not with David Bateman threatening to kill me. I raced by my stunned fellow students, a serious breach in line protocol and etiquette, and did not stop until I had reached the front of the line.
“Samuel Hill!” Sister Kathleen said. “You know there is no running in the corridor.”
“Sorry, Sister. I didn’t want to be late, Sister.”
“Well, I admire your determination to be punctual, but perhaps you can give yourself more time to get to class?”
“Yes, Sister. Sorry, Sister.” What I wanted to shout was, “Open the door, Sister—there’s a monster loose!”
“Now go to the back of the line,” she said. When my feet did not immediately comply, she said, “Samuel, did you not hear me? I said walk to the back of the line.”
I trudged to the final spot behind Mary Beth Potts and looked across the courtyard. Ernie and his well-behaved classmates had nearly completed their orderly procession inside Sister Reagan’s classroom when David Bateman raced around the corner. Red in the face, Bateman came to an abrupt stop when he met Sister Reagan’s outstretched palm.
“No tardy students are allowed in my classroom without a tardy slip,” she said.
“But—”
“No buts. Please proceed to the principal’s office and explain why you were unable to make it from the playground to class in the time allotted.”
The last thing I saw before I stepped inside the sanctity of Sister Kathleen’s classroom was Bateman’s menacing glare, and one balled fist smacking an open palm.
4
When the bell rang to signal the end of the school day, I made sure I was first in line, imploring my classmates to line up quickly and quietly. Sister Kathleen opened the door, and I raced out. On the other side of the red steps, the door to Sister Reagan’s classroom opened, and I was just as certain David Bateman would be first in his line, ready to deliver on his threat to kill me. As my feet shuffled down the steps, I spotted my salvation. My mother sat in the blue Falcon with the top down. She smiled up at the sight of me from behind large, round sunglasses, a white scarf tied beneath her chin to protect her hair. She looked like a Hollywood movie star.