Shell Shocked (10 page)

“Maybe you should leave it to us to figure out what needs to be done to get down here,” Jack said. “But I'm still not sure what I'm going to be doing while George is playing newspaper reporter.”

“Ah, yes,” Bill said. “I'm afraid you'll soon be coming down here again to see Mr. McGregor. You're going to be expelled.”

“What?” Jack exclaimed.

“Yes. We need an explanation to justify you leaving school.”

“But … but ...” Jack was almost speechless—a very rare occurrence.

“It's necessary for you to leave school in order for you to begin your employment at the plant. You'll begin working there before the end of the week.”

“I'm going to work at the plant!”

“Yes. Maintenance Department. That will give you free access to the entire facility, which is essential if we are to fully utilize your observational skills.”

That made perfect sense. Both Jack and I would be free to wander around the plant. Jack could report things to me and I could report them to Mr. McGregor, who would get the information back to Bill and Little Bill.

“Wait a minute,” Jack said. “Let me get this straight—my mother agreed to let me get expelled from school? She didn't
mind
?”

“Well, to suggest that she didn't mind might be going too far, but yes, she did agree, on the understanding that this would be a short-term arrangement only. As George has already deduced, we anticipate that any action against
the plant will happen sooner rather than later. You'll be back at school before too long, Jack—if not here, then somewhere else. And if you need any extra tutoring because of classes missed, we'll do what we can to help.”

“Oh, thanks,” Jack said, somewhat sarcastically, I thought. “Thanks a
lot!
”

“Now, if there are no further questions, I suggest that you two boys return to class. I'll make my own exit before your secretary returns,” Bill said.

We both stood up, and Bill and then Mr. McGregor offered us their hands.

“It's a pleasure to be working with you boys once again,” Bill said.

“Thanks,” I mumbled.

“Now both of you, back to class.”

When we left, the outer office was still empty; the secretary hadn't returned.

“Somehow this doesn't seem fair,” Jack said.

“What do you mean?”

“First off, you got to keep your name and keep your grade. Me, I had to be John and I had to fail a grade.”

“Well, that's all going to end now, at least.”

“Yeah, you get to win a contest and I get to be expelled! How's that for fair?”

“On the bright side, you get to spend more time with Daphne,” I said.

“That
is
a bright side,” he agreed as he burst into a big smile.

“And you won't have to lie about what grade you're in because you'll be working at the factory, too,” I added.

“Again correct. And there's one more good thing about this,” Jack said.

“What's that?”

“I get to choose how I'm going to get expelled.”

“What do you have in mind?” I asked.

Jack smiled. “You'll have to wait … at least until lunch.”

“Lunch … today?”

“In a few minutes. No time to waste. If you want to watch, be there in the yard.”

“Jack … you're not going to do anything stupid, are you?”

“Of course I'm going to do something stupid. If I don't, I won't get expelled. See you in a few minutes.”

I choked down my lunch, watching the clock, waiting for the bell to sound and release us so we could go out to the yard. I really wasn't very hungry. The second hand swept around. All I wanted to do was get out there and—the bell rang out at last, and everyone scurried to leave the classroom. I stuffed my lunch bag into my desk and jumped to my feet. Whatever Jack had in mind, I had no intention of missing it.

I was one of the first out, and I watched as other kids started to spill out into the yard. I didn't care about anybody else except Jack. The high school kids came out through the middle double doors—the ones I was standing right in front of.

What sorts of things could you do that would get you expelled? Defying a teacher … breaking something … a fight … or would that only get you the strap, or suspended?

Jack came out through the doors. He saw me, smiled and gave me a little wave. He looked amused, as though he had a really good secret or a story or a joke that he knew but nobody else did, and soon, he was going to share it.

I started to move toward him but he shook his head. I stopped in my tracks. Jack started walking away from the kids on the pavement and over to the large tree in the yard. Standing under the tree were the oldest kids, the grade thirteen students. There were a dozen of them, mostly girls. A lot of the boys in grade thirteen had turned eighteen already, dropped out of school and enlisted.

Jack stopped right in front of the group. They didn't seem to notice him standing there. I went closer, but stayed a safe distance away.

“Hey, ugly!” Jack yelled out.

Everybody turned around and looked at him. A lot of the playground noise stopped.

“You sure are ugly!” Jack said loudly.

Again there was no answer from anybody.

“Are you deaf as well as ugly?” Jack asked now.

“You talking to me?” It was Brad.

“You're the one who answered, so you must think you're ugly, too!” Jack snapped.

He stepped forward menacingly. I knew Brad the way every kid in the school knew him. He was big—a lot bigger than Jack—and he was a bully. He was always shooting off his mouth and picking on somebody, sometimes kids who were a whole lot younger. I'd seen him take a football from a kid in grade four and kick it over the fence into the woods. The kid burst into tears, and Brad laughed at him.

“You looking for a fight?” Brad demanded.

“If I was, I wouldn't be talking to you,” Jack said.

“You better not be.”

“Yeah, 'cause I've been watching, and it looks like you only fight little kids. You wouldn't want to mess with somebody as big as me.”

“You're not that big,” Brad snarled.

“But you are that
ugly
,” Jack said.

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd that had started to circle around the two of them.

“I'm tired of you acting like you're a big man, picking on little kids,” Jack said. “Come on, try picking on somebody your own size.”

“Nobody here
is
my size,” Brad boasted.

“Then I guess I'll have to cut you down to
my
size.”

“You're going to regret ever messing with me,” Brad snarled.

“The only thing I regret is not kicking the crap out of you the first time I saw that ugly face.”

More and more kids were joining the crowd now. I had to struggle to make sure I maintained my spot in the front. As they were talking, Jack and Brad were slowly circling around each other. I knew Jack could fight, but this guy was big—
really
big.

“So you gonna dance or are you going to fight?” Jack demanded. “Because you're so ugly this is the only dance you're going to get.”

“Shut up!” Brad yelled.

“Maybe you should
make
me shut up. Just pretend I'm only ten years old … pretend I'm a girl … no way …
you're
the little girl … a stupid, ugly, little—”

“Aaahhhh!” Brad screamed as he rushed at Jack.

Jack sidestepped and then stuck out his foot. Brad tripped over it and crashed to the ground with a thunderous thud! He jumped to his feet and spun around and that's when Jack smashed him right in the face! There was a gasp from the crowd, and Brad tumbled over backwards, hitting the ground like a fallen tree! His hands
were clasped over his face, and there was blood, lots of blood, flowing around his fingers.

“Break it up!” came a voice from behind.

It was Mr. McGregor. He moved forward and the crowd parted for him like Moses at the Red Sea, letting him through. He looked at Jack and then looked down at Brad, who was still on the ground but was now sitting up. Blood was dripping down his shirt and his nose looked like it was at a strange angle.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mr. McGregor demanded. “This is a school, not a jungle. There is to be no fighting in my school.”

“It wasn't much of a fight,” Jack snarled.

Mr. McGregor's expression turned to icy anger. “Both of you into my office, immediately!”

Brad tried to get to his feet, but he staggered and sagged back down to the ground. Jack had really put a pasting on him.

“You!” he yelled at Jack. “Help him to his feet.”

Jack shook his head. “I helped him down. Somebody else can help him up.” I couldn't believe that Jack was defying the principal … wait, that was what he was supposed to be doing.

“That is an order!” Mr. McGregor yelled. “You are already facing a suspension. If you do not do as you are ordered then it will be an expulsion!”

“Don't waste your breath, old man. I've got better places to be than here. I'll consider myself expelled!”

Jack stomped away, brushing first past Mr. McGregor and then Brad. He walked right toward where I stood and the rest of the crowd stepped aside, making way for him to pass. He nodded at me and then gave me a little wink as he walked away. I turned and watched—everybody in the entire school watched—as he walked across the yard, through the gate and disappeared down the street.

Wow … I had to give him credit. It had taken him less than an hour to get expelled, and he'd done it in a way that nobody there would ever forget. Especially not Brad.

I SEARCHED
the typewriter keys looking for the letter
q
. It didn't seem to be there … okay, there it was, hiding in plain sight above the
a
key. I pushed it down. Using a typewriter seemed to be the hardest part of my new job. Finding something to write about was easy. Typing it up was hard. Now I had even more admiration for those secretaries down in the plant offices. They could type like there was no tomorrow. They didn't even have to look at the keys. It was amazing.

“So, here it is!” It was Mr. Chalmers, the editor of
The Commando
and my boss. “Hot off the press. And you're on page one.” He slapped a copy of the newsletter down on the desk.

There it was, just below the fold of the paper, and the headline read, “Helping My Father Fight the Nazis!”

“I didn't expect it to be on the front page,” I said.

“And I didn't expect it to be so good.”

“Thanks.”

“Especially after that first article you wrote,” he added.

“You didn't like it?” I asked, feeling both surprised and hurt.

“Not particularly.”

My first article had been introducing myself and explaining that I was going to be writing a regular column in the newsletter.

“But I have to be honest,” he said, “I wasn't crazy about this whole idea to begin with. Matter of fact, I told them it was downright stupid … not to mention insulting.”

“Insulting?”

“Yeah. Every darn fool who can hold a pen and knows the alphabet thinks he can write. Here I am trying to put out a professional publication, and they think that any school kid can help write it.”

“I'm sorry … I didn't mean to—”

“It's not you, kid,” he said, cutting me off. “You've been nothing but respectful. I think you could make a fine reporter one day.”

“That's what I'm hoping for,” I said.

He looked surprised. “You are?”

“Yes, sir. Telling the truth is one of the best ways to support democracy and fight Fascism.”

Now he looked even more surprised. “I couldn't have said it better myself.”

“I know that one of the first things Hitler did was shut down the newspapers,” I added. “He was afraid of the truth, and that's what a newspaper report is there to do, report the truth.”

“When I hear you talking like that, it's no wonder you won that contest.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. I still felt a little guilty because I knew the contest had been fixed. If William Shakespeare had entered an essay he would have finished second to me.

“I'd really like to see the story you wrote to win the contest.”

So would I
, I thought. Over seventy students had written entries, but I wasn't one of them.

“I think my principal, Mr. McGregor, has it.”

“Perhaps you can get it from him.”

“I'll try to remember to ask.”

“This story is exactly what we need to write,” Mr. Chalmers said, as he tapped a finger against the article. “Letting people know who your father is. You must be very proud of him.”

“I am.” Although, the father I wrote about in the article was a pilot in Europe, not a soldier in Africa—all part of keeping my cover intact. So much for my big talk about
“the truth.” I guess it was like Little Bill said, “Truth is the first casualty of war.”

“One of the missions of this newspaper is to use truth to build morale and increase production. You talked about your father, but what you were doing was reminding people that our fighting men are people's fathers and brothers and husbands. And by working harder on the line, taking pride in the ammunition they're making, they're keeping our fighting men safe and helping to win the war.”

“Thanks.”

“So how long have you wanted to be a reporter?”

“Since I was young.”

He laughed. “As opposed to the old man you are now?”

“Well ...”

“Nothing wrong with being young … although it's so long ago that I was young that I can hardly remember.”

“You're not that old,” I said.

“You're not that good a liar. If I wasn't old I'd be over there fighting instead of here writing about the fighting.”