Afternoons and Coffee Spoons
Jason Scroggins
If anyone could be considered “The Queen” of Worthington-Killbourne High School, it was Erin Smith. She was the stereotypical rich, snooty, popular bitch and although I hated her, she was worshipped by the masses. Every school has their Erin and I suppose ours was no different than any other. You know the type so I won’t waste your time with the details. Bottom line, she was just a pushy-loud-mouth-keg-sucking-know-it-all-bitch who made every afternoon in English a living hell for me, and I had finally had enough. Simple.
Whenever we had a classroom discussion, every comment she made seemed to start with “when I was in IB...” I wanted to scream. Yeah we get it bitch. You were in the International Baccalaureate program, and we’re all inferiors. Why aren’t you there now brillo head? But of course, I kept this to myself. What good would it do? She would remain unscathed, and I would end up in the principal’s office. As annoying as this was, it could have been endured, but no matter what the discussion, Erin Smith or “Smitty” as her letter jacket read, would do her best to crush any idea that didn’t agree with her own.
While she did this to nearly everyone, I seemed to be her favorite target. I could see the utter disdain she felt towards me radiating from those cruel eyes, cooking me from the inside out. She made such cutting, ruthlessly sarcastic comments, that even though I am not a violent person, I often fantasized about smashing her face repeatedly into the desk.
If the classroom was the only place I had to deal with her, it might have tolerable, but it was in the halls too.
“There he goes. Look at his pants. Helloooo the eighties are over. What a fricken geek. Shhhhh here he comes.”
I knew she was talking about me, laughing at me, but I pretended not to hear. If I confronted her she would just lie and say she wasn’t talking about me. I really had no proof. And that is the most difficult thing about dealing with the Erin’s of the world. They know how to bully and humiliate without getting caught. It got to the point that I hated coming to school because of her. Everyday was an inner struggle just to get myself to walk through those doors. I couldn’t walk down the hall without feeling that any laughter was at my expense. I was sure she had something to do with putting the sign on my back, but of course I couldn’t prove it. That was the one and only time I was foolish enough to go to the Dean of Students. I tried to explain her behavior to him, but it came out sounding paranoid. The coup de grate came as I told him about the sign. It was obvious he could barely keep a straight face. He nodded at the appropriate times, and asked a few follow up questions.
“Did she ever say anything inappropriate to you Alfred?”
“Well no, but...” I stammered.
“Did she threaten you with physical violence?”
“No but...”
“Did you see her put the sign on your back that said...What did it say?”
“It said Alfred Hits Cock.” I knew he remembered what it said. He was just getting his kicks by making me say it again.
“Like the movie director? I remember that movie The Birds. As a young kid that really freaked me out. I remember that scene when the lady...”
“Thank you for your time” I said. I could tell he too, was laughing at my expense. What did I expect from that idiot? He was one of them. I could tell. He could bully whomever he wanted, and he was getting paid to do it.
“I’ll have a talk with her” he assured me as I walked out the door. Bullshit, I thought. He wouldn’t talk to her, and if he did, it would be that standard I-don’t-think-this-is-a-big-deal-but-I’m-covering-my-ass speech.
From then on when he passed me in the hall, I could tell he was holding back a smirk. I should have expected this reaction. Her type always gets out of jail free. They’re bullet proof. They rule the school and always get the last word. Winter ball proved that. Erin was with a group who was clearly drunk when they got to the door. She managed to get out of it, as usual. Some poor sap in her group took the blame.
By the middle of the year I had reached my breaking point. We were having a class discussion on “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and I brought up how Prufrock’s inner struggle to face his overwhelming, soul crushing fear was on some level, admirable. Erin was quick to open her keg hole. “Please. That guy is a wimp. Talk about a pathetic loser. All he does is sit there in fear, afraid to act while his life passes him by. Coward. You know something else? He will never act. His kind never does. Good old Alfred is just waiting to die. Measuring out his life with coffee spoons. The really pathetic part about old Alfred is that he is aware of the fact that he is wasting his life, and yet he does it anyway because he is too afraid to act.”
She kept emphasizing Alfred, clearly meant as another jab at me. That afternoon in sixth period English I came as close as ever that day to acting out my fantasy. The smug, contemptuous look on her face nearly blinded me with rage. At the same time I knew that some of what she said was right, and I hated her for it. Students and teachers alike mock me because I am timid and afraid, and it is obvious that Alfred and I share more than the same name. At least the teachers mock me when I'm not there, or they think I can’t hear. Of course, because of what I am, I let her comment go without rebuttal. I could here the Eternal Footman snickering. That was it. The simple analysis of a poem during an in class discussion was what ultimately led me to act out my revenge.
As I stood in front of the mirror that night, I looked at myself, glasses, fat, not a very stylish dresser. I was a prime target. I was Prufrock.
I waited, and thought, and watched. I had to come up with something that would really hurt her where she lived. People get away with so much because their reputation and position in society allows it. For them, image is everything. It seemed to me, the best plan would be to attack her image.
Erin, like most human beings, was a creature of habit. Everyday she brought her Worthington-Killbourne Knights water bottle to class, filled with water. Because she was such a big time athlete, she was constantly drinking water to “stay hydrated”, and Friday was no different. She had only taken a few swallows when the evacuation drill announcement came over the loud speaker, as I knew it would. My eyes were riveted on the bottle. If she took it with her, I would have to strike some other time. Meanwhile, I pulled my “special” water bottle out of my bag. The night before, I put several spoonfuls of Visine into my own Worthington-Killbourne High bottle. Clear, odorless, and great to hide hangovers, Visine is also a potent laxative. Since she was queen, let her sit on her throne all day. The thought of her doubled over, in a most undignified manner on top of the toilet bowl made be laugh so hard I spilled nearly half the Visine before I was able to get control of myself.
My heart skipped as she reached for the water bottle. All of my planning had been for nothing; I would have to try again. Then she put down the bottle to put on her coat. Her friends were already on their way out the door and in her rush to catch up with them, she left her bottle on the desk. I was filled with giddiness and my heart started pounding. For a moment I nearly changed my mind, then they looked at me. The look was so smug I wanted to slap her. I knew I was going through with it. To hell with the consequences.
Making sure I was the last one out of the room, I switched her bottle with my “special brew”. It only took a second and nobody noticed. When we returned from the drill, I could barely keep a straight face as she sipped away. That’s it bitch, keep sipping on it. I thought.
Now this may not seem like a terribly clever plan so far, but Worthington-Killbourne High School has very strict rules about players missing school on the day of a game. She had to stay in class all day or she couldn’t play. She must have just kept on sipping right up until game time because, apparently there was an “accident” in the second half of the soccer game. I overheard Jenny Hanoian, one of her inner circle, telling someone else about it before class started the next day.
“OH. MY. GOD! Did you here what happened to Erin at the game? She went to kick the ball and totally shit her pants. It was running down her shorts and onto her socks and everything. It was totally gross. You could totally see it from the stands.”
“No way. EEEWWW”.
“I know. Melissa told me she smelled so bad on the bus, they had to open all the windows, and they nearly froze to death on the ride back! I think some scouts were there too. Yeah. Like hi we saw you shit your pants. Come to our college.”
This was too good to be true. As I pretended not to hear, I bit my lip so hard I nearly drew blood. As Erin entered the classroom, I could hear the snickers and whispering behind her back. “Dude, there she is. She’s the one I was telling you about.”
As she passed me, I noticed a sign taped to her back that read “Shitty Smitty”. As much as I wanted to leave the sign on her back for the next class to enjoy, I could not resist the urge let her know that I had seen the sign. “Erin, there seems to be something taped on your back. It looks like some sort of sign.” In utter horror, she removed the sign from her back. The look on her face was priceless. For the first time all year, “Shitty Smitty” was silent for the entire period.
Let me tell you one last thing. True it was petty and as an adult I should have been above this, but in 20 years of teaching, that was the most satisfying lesson I have ever taught.
