Whisper Down the Lane, Clay Chapman [best short books to read txt] 📗

a pony. What do you think? Help me out here.”

Sandy studies it for a moment, taking her time to make an astute assessment. “A goat.”

“A goat it is!” The goat hovers above their heads, springing up and down with each smack of the broomstick, prancing about as the kids circle around and laugh, leaping along with him. Each kid takes a turn to break him apart. I blindfold them one at a time with a bandana, guiding them along. The sawed-off broomstick I place in their hands is now their mighty sword.

“Time to slay the bleating beast!”

Watching each student swing—and usually miss—gets the kids giggling. It takes several turns before someone finally establishes contact. Nobody deals the death blow just yet.

Trey misses. Sam misses. Larissa isn’t even close.

“Who’s up next?” I call out. “Eli! How ’bout you?”

He tenses. I did it again. I called him the thing—the name—I’m not supposed to. Allowed to. Shit. The other kids egg him on, chanting, “Eee-liiiii, Eeeee-liiiii, Eeeeeee-liiiiiiiiii!” as I blindfold him and spin him around. I can see he’s blushing under the bandana. This might be more attention than he’s comfortable with.

I don’t see the broomstick coming right for my thigh.

You would lose your head if it wasn’t attached to your shoulders, Tamara would say if she were here to see this, and she’d be right. It’s a surprise you haven’t walked off a cliff yet…

Laughter from his classmates swells all around. Cheers, even. Elijah pulls off his blindfold. Elation spreads all over his face, that look of anticipation. He thinks he’s just busted the goat…but then he realizes what he’s really hit. Elijah, the Teacher Slayer.

The other kids think it’s downright hilarious. Beating up his own stepdad. Bunch of bloodthirsty pricks. Elijah lowers his chin.

“It’s okay,” I say, playing down the pain. “I’m okay. Don’t worry about it.”

I have to keep things moving.

“Who’s next? Sandy—how about you?”

Sandy timidly steps forward. She runs her hands along the sides of her floral print dress, straight out of the Mormon sewing pattern catalogue, wiping the sweat from her palms. Some students exude overparenting vibes. Sandy has them in spades. Something about the way she engages with the others, students and teachers alike. Always hesitating for just a breath. It’s barely noticeable, but to the trained teacher, you can sense a litany of questions going through Sandy’s mind: Am I allowed to eat that? Does it have gluten in it? What artificial additives are—

THWACK.

Sandy takes the head straight off my goat. Its body bursts open in a ripe explosion of hard candy, bleeding Tootsie Roll intestines all over the asphalt. Didn’t see that coming. The mob drops to their knees and scavenges for sweets. Even Eli takes the plunge, rummaging about its guts. Sandy stands back, watching the class grab fistful after fistful of candy.

“Nice swing, Sandy,” I say. “You sure you don’t want a jawbreaker?”

She tilts her head and squints. “My mother doesn’t allow me to eat processed sugar.”

“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I want to offer an olive branch. Just between you and me.

“No, thank you.”

“Suit yourself.” To the rest, I call out, “One more minute and we’re heading back in, guys. Fill up your pockets!” The other teachers are not fans of my piñata project, given that they have to contend with the sugar shock rocking their classrooms for the rest of the day.

There’s still time left on the clock before the bell rings, so I let the kids doodle in their notepads back in the classroom. I busy myself by picking up the damp piñatas to take back to the drying racks. Each student has a placemat with their name on it, making it easier for me to remember whose project is whose. Too many names, too many faces. They all blur together after a while.

When I pick up Sandy’s piñata—a bunny—I notice it’s crushed. “What happened here?”

Sandy doesn’t answer. She merely dips her chin, afraid to say. The shell has collapsed in on itself, as if someone stepped on it, and I’m suddenly filled with a low-grade rage.

“Who did this?” I ask the other students at her table, but none of them respond. The best I can drag out of them is a shrug. Snitches get stitches. I can’t believe this.

“It fell on the floor,” Sandy offers. I know she’s lying. Protecting her oppressors.

“Sandy. Come on…You put a lot of work into this. Who stepped on it?”

“It fell,” she repeats, her voice a dull monotone.

“Nobody’s gonna to own up to it?” I ask the entire class, hoping one of them will weed out the asswipe who did this. “Nobody? Guess that means I’m keeping everybody’s piñatas…”

A collective cry of injustice rises up from the kids.

“Sorry.” I go about the room, picking up the last of the piñatas. “You don’t disrespect your classmates like that. I won’t tolerate destroying each other’s artwork. Until someone—”

One piñata is left out, even though the drying rack is full. There seems to be an extra. That’s odd, I think. Everybody’s project is already on their own mat. Whose is this?

It’s a man. Boy? He has gray skin. The kids aren’t painting their piñatas until tomorrow, after the papier-mâché dries, but this one already has eyes. There’s an uneven line rippling across his mouth. A grimace. An expression someone makes after tasting something sour. Something yucky.

Mr. Yucky. The name pops into my head—plip—and I’m immediately brought back to—

The bell rings. Students leap from their seats and head for the door.

“Whose project is this?” I call out over the commotion, but nobody answers. My kids are already caught up in the stream, riding the current to their next class.

Maybe Eli knows. He’s already heading out the door with Sandy. “Elijah. Hold on a sec.”

He turns, doing his best to suppress his embarrassment.

Better make this quick, I think. “You know who made this?”

He stares at the man in my hand. The effigy. The doll. Whatever it is.

Mr. Yucky.

No.

It’s Mr. Yucky.

Elijah shrugs. Sandy takes his hand and the two