Six Kids and a Stuffed Cat (3 page)

“Yeah, if it was really bad, they'd be telling us to hide under desks and cover our heads,” Mason said, looking at me as if reading my mind. “Like that time last year, remember? This is sooooo not a big deal. The teachers haven't even checked on us.”

“The weather cell will pass by and then someone will get on the loudspeaker and announce we're free to go,” Regan said in the most bored voice I've ever heard. “I give the whole containment thing another twenty, thirty minutes tops.”

“I have to call my parents; they don't know where I am. No one knows where I am.” Avery was about a nanosecond away from totally flipping out. I sat up straight and looked concerned and attentive—but still cool, calm, and collected—hoping Avery would get the hint and settle down.

“That's not entirely true; WE know where you are,” I said in my most consoling voice.

Regan, who is surprisingly emotionally tone deaf for such a popular person, didn't get the invisible memo that we were treating the skittish kid gently and, instead, poked Avery in an already sore spot: “Besides, you're fourteen years old—your folks aren't gonna freak out about where you are at four o'clock in the afternoon on a school day.”

“My parents freak out if I lock the bathroom door when I take a shower.”

As much as I wanted to be understanding and non-confrontational because of Avery's fragile state of mind and obvious panic at being trapped in the john during a storm, I couldn't keep from rolling my eyes when I heard that.

Avery saw my skepticism and tried to explain. “What if I slip on a bar of soap, hit my head, get knocked unconscious, land in the water that collects at the bottom of the tub after my forehead bumps the drain thing shut, and then drown because they can't get to me fast enough because they're having trouble trying to unlock the door with a Phillips head screwdriver?”

“And they think that's a likely scenario?” I wondered what kind of family Avery came from if that was the logical conclusion to their kid wanting a little me-time in the shower.

“My parents have heard of stranger things happening.”

Sometimes Taylor's lack of a filter gets to the heart of the matter in a way diplomacy never can. Like this time: “Your parents are neurotic.” Then Taylor turned to Mason and smirked. “Hah! Neurotic: vocab word.”

“Now spell it.” Mason is very hard to impress. I was on Taylor's side in this situation.

“You're a buzzkill,” Taylor said. “I used it correctly in a sentence. And I keep telling you: I don't need to know how to spell.”

“Yes, you do. We've gone over this before. Spellcheck on your computer is not the same thing as knowing how to spell.” If a person could expire from sheer frustration, I think we would have had to figure out how to store Mason's body until we were released from the Non-Storm Watch-for-Nothing.

Avery, who wasn't nearly as worried about Mason's will to live as I was, started pacing, collar-tugging, hands-through-hair-running; your basic gestures indicating full-on panic mode. Avery would be a great charades partner; very readable clues and expressive movements.

Even Regan finally noticed Avery's agitation. “You okay?”

“Not really,” Avery's eyes got huge. “Is it just me or does this room seem to be running out of, I don't know, oxygen?”

“Highly unlikely.” I took a deep breath to demonstrate how oxygen-rich the room was. “Yep, oxygen levels seem fine to me. Look at my hands: My fingertips and nailbeds are nice and pink which means my O2 saturation is good.”

“Are you getting claustrophobic? Do confined spaces make you uncomfortable?” Regan apparently never heard that people, especially edgy people under stress, are highly susceptible to the power of suggestion and that you should always offer positive ideas and never give them more grist for the crazy mill. Like offering up additional crises to factor in to the already tense and, let's face it, unstable, mix.

“Not as much as the lack of air. Can we open a window?” Avery eyed the window above the sink. I wondered if Avery was thinking about trying to chisel one of the glass bricks free to try to suck in some additional fresh air. I had a compass in my backpack that might help.

“During a storm?” Taylor snorted. “And people think
I'm
the dumb one.”

“No one thinks you're dumb,” I said. “We think you're disagreeable. Maybe even a little abusive.”

Mason protested: “I think Taylor
might
be dumb. I think we can't entirely rule out that possibility.”

Regan finally noticed that Avery was starting to actually pant in fear, and dug deep for a little human compassion: “Sit down and put your head between your knees, breathe deep and slow. We'll all just breathe together, calmly. No one's going to panic or run out of air.” Regan was speaking slowly and carefully, like a hypnotist putting someone under, gesturing to the rest of us to start breathing together too. “It's allllllllllll goooooooooood. Verrrrrry comforting and laaaaid baaaaaaack.”

The room was silent. Mason, Taylor, Regan, and I were quietly breathing, synching our breaths, soothing Avery down together like some Zen crisis-response team. We were a nanosecond away from busting out some yoga poses and chanting.

Until Devon shattered the silence with an ear-piercing, blood-curdling, toe-curling, heart-stopping, mind-numbing shriek: “ROCK AND ROLL!”

I looked up and all I could see of Devon were finger-snapping and head-bobbing. Devon was twirling in a funky shuffle-slide across the floor, head back, eyes closed, complete abandon.

“Thanks, Dev, way to add to the tranquil atmosphere.”

Devon couldn't hear me, but fist-pumped and danced in circles as if to agree.

Despite the fact that my heart hurt really bad because of the sudden stop/pause/restart that had just occurred because of Devon's unexpected bellow, I couldn't help but admire the unselfconscious joy of a musician in the midst of a heavy groove.

Although the moment was clearly over—our brief blip into the serene enlightenment of third-eye-opening meditation was a thing of the past—and we were back to being a bunch of tense middle schoolers hunched next to the toilets, it wasn't half bad to sit there watching Devon jam.

I've been to real concerts before—you know, professional musicians, actual instruments, audible music—that were a lot less fun that sitting on the bathroom tiles watching Devon air-guitar.

Devon was smart; all you ever hear is about how more traditional musicians and bands have legal hassles with their management or financial disagreements with their labels and distribution problems and struggles to get air time on the radio. But Devon's artistic freedom and creative integrity were still intact.

Apparently, there's a lot to be said for marching to the beat of one's own drum. Or guitar, as the case may be.

“Hey, I know!” Regan bounced off the floor and looked as enthusiastic as only a natural-born leader can. Regan's probably been waiting for a chance like this for ages, ever since the webinar on how to rally the morale of the masses during a crisis. “Let's take our minds off being trapped in the bathroom. Taylor, put the book down and come over here. Wanna be like King Tut?”

Regan grabbed a roll of toilet paper from the shelf next to the sinks and started wrapping Taylor from head to foot and then tossed Avery another roll. “Here. Make a mummy cat. The ancient Egyptians used to bury their pets with them, so it's historically valid, plus you'll feel better with something to do.”

Why we didn't think of wrapping up Taylor years ago, I'll never guess. I had a brief image flash through my mind of using strips of newspapers dipped in paste instead of TP, turning Taylor into a ginormous piñata. Or at least paste over Taylor's mouth, just until the storm passed. Or until we graduated and went our separate ways.

We didn't have newspapers and paste, so Mason and I started tossing toilet paper at each other, like two-person juggling, keeping three rolls in the air at all times. Avery wrapped the cat in layers of toilet tissue and started to smile as it looked more and more like a tiny dead ancient Egyptian house pet. I could tell that the previously ragged breathing had started to regulate when Avery started humming happily.

“Thanks. I do feel a little better.”

“Sure you do,” Mason said. “Always good to keep your hands busy. Takes your mind off your worries.”

“So does talking.” I was dropping more rolls than I was catching or throwing so it was time to turn this boat around. I'm not very athletic or coordinated, but I am articulate and clever. “Let's play ‘would you rather?'! Mason, would you rather have a job cleaning up after a kangaroo with loose bowels or live in a sweaty giant's work boots?”

“I would rather not play ‘would you rather.' Regan, poke an airhole in the toilet paper so Taylor can breathe. I'm pretty sure someone like Taylor doesn't have any brain cells to spare.”

“Okay, then, how about ‘guess who it is by the smell of their armpits'?” I should work for a toy company; I am never at a loss for something to do, I am a veritable font of good ideas for amusement. Lucky for these guys I was there.

“No fair.” Regan did a quick pit sniff. “I just ran laps before the weather got bad. I stink like fetid death.”

“Good point.” I sniffed and actually smelled Regan's point. Eww. “How about ‘truth or dare'? Truth: What's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?”

“Brought a stuffed cat to school on my first day.”

“Well, since you mentioned it: What's the deal?” Mason stole a peek at the cat who was mummy-wrapped and still half-poking out of Avery's bag.

Avery started in on that multiple syllable thing so I knew, for some reason, the nerves were kicking in again. “Oh, uh, well, my, uh, my little brother must have, uh, hidden it in my bag this morning. Just snuck it right in there without me even noticing. Because I was worried about the new school.”

“That was thoughtful. Has it helped?” Regan sounded like the answer was obvious: Hadn't helped a bit.

“If you consider sleeping through the whole day helping, then, yeah, huge assist.”

“Again, since you brought it up, why'd you sleep all day?” I asked.

“I only meant to nap through science. They were dissecting fetal pigs.” Avery looked miserable at the thought of baby pigs on the business end of a scalpel.

“Squeamish?” Regan, who is squeamish about nothing and could probably perform a self-appendectomy if it meant saving some time and not screwing up the schedule, asked.

“No. Vegan. I'm not down with animal rights violation. I don't ingest, wear, or partake in the use of animals.” Avery lifted a foot to demonstrate. “Even my shoes are made of canvas and hemp and contain no animal products, by-products, or derivatives.”

“Why?” A life without cheeseburgers and belts; I couldn't imagine still wanting to live.

“Because well-planned vegan diets have been found to offer protection against many degenerative conditions, including heart disease.”

“And that's a legitimate concern for a kid in middle school?”

“My parents have heard of weirder things happening.”

Good thing I hadn't whipped out a leg of lamb or a rack of pork ribs to gnaw on when Regan asked if I had food. That might have sent Avery clear around the bend. I tried to hide my leather sneakers and wondered what other animal parts I might inadvertently be wearing. Pretty sure jeans aren't made of anything that once had a face. If asked, I'd lie and say my shoes were made old string and recycled tennis balls or something.

Taylor proved that a mask of toilet paper was not nearly enough to enforce silence, and mumbled, “Mmmumph gurrrrble dunderschmickzen.”

“Yeah, what Taylor said: How did ‘science class' become ‘all day long'?” Taylor and Mason have been spending wuh-hay too much time together if Mason could translate what Taylor had just garbled.

“Once you've gone to sleep at school and missed a class or two—or five—it's kind of hard to find the correct reentry point,” Avery said. “Every time I woke up, I worried about calling attention to myself by showing up late to class. So I just rolled over and went back to sleep.”

“Timing
is
everything,” I said. “A good entrance is essential when you're attempting to make a strong first impression. I'm feelin' you.” I never believe my entrance and exit lines are strong enough. I frequently wish life had do-overs. Because then I could kill with the perfect one-liner—I never think of the perfect response until way after the moment has passed.

“Devon's lying down on the floor again. Another acoustic set?” Avery wasn't panicked so much as curious this time. Amazing how fast someone adjusts to Devon's concerts.

“Intermission.” Regan, Mason, and I got up and stretched.

“Sure, I should have guessed.” Avery watched as Devon leapt up and started playing again and said, in an announcer-like voice: “Annnnnnnnnnnnnd welcome to the second half of the show.”

The loudspeaker squawked again. Not so much because anyone in a position of authority was terribly concerned with our comfort level or because we needed to know what was going on, but because it gave the school limited culpability in case of a lawsuit. In case anyone got blown to another state or ruined their shoes in a mud puddle, it was not the school's fault.

“Occasional gusts of wind are moving west at nearly three miles per hour. They pose no immediate threat to this area. In the interest of the safety of the population of this school, however, please remain where you are. Until we are assured that all danger has passed, do not emerge from your safe location in an interior room, away from windows and flying objects.”

In one of those perfect moments that you dream of experiencing and never forget (everyone, except, of course, for Taylor, who was still wrapped in toilet paper, blinded and immobile) I immediately and wordlessly picked up the nearest roll of toilet paper and hurled it at Taylor. This should be a carnival game; people, at least in this school, would pay big bucks to chuck stuff, even soft stuff, at a helpless Taylor.