When Chester first ate paste, he didn't really know what it would do to him. Its power was a mystery unsolved, and its addictive properties were only vaguely understandable to boys of nine years or less. With juvenile pride--the kind of pride that makes almost anything seem possible, from rebuilding the rusted Chrysler Newport in Johnson's hay field to running faster than anyone ever has--Chester let his curiosity take over, but never imagined he would find it so hard to go back. The first taste was savored slowly and deliberately, when none of his friends were looking. Eating paste was like kissing Marcy Bagster…fantastic, but not something you wanted your friends to see. Surprisingly, despite all warnings to the contrary, it was very smooth…creamy, like thick peanut butter…the consistency of candy that had melted in the car and then reformed as it cooled, taking the imprint of every wrinkle and fold of the mangled wrapper. And, he did not get sick. "They'll tell you anything to get you to do what they want" he later thought. Second and third tests proved necessary, and soon, Chester had lost count of how many times he had gone back to the well. Eventually, he was almost caught, nearly betrayed by the small white crumbs on his shirt, and a tiny dab of crackled white paste that stuck to the corner of his mouth, just beyond reach of his tongue. Occasionally, he tried to think of something else…model cars or trains…exploring the abandoned Chrysler…even Marcie Bagster. But it was no good. No matter how hard he tried, his imagination was filled with the looming image of the giant white plastic jar…the blue, 'sure grip' lid so large that it took both hands to open it…the opaque whitish color it presented, whether empty or full. At one time, he had foolishly imagined that he could take it or leave it, like an alcoholic or a cigarette fiend. Soon, however, he found himself wanting paste more and more.
Chester (or Chet, as his playmates called him) dreamed of paste almost constantly, and once even stole a school supply catalog, thinking he could order it for himself. Sadly, lack of credit stopped him in his tracks. But, the dog-eared pages of that catalog, whose cover featured a kindly teacher in front of a blackboard, her desk only burdened with a single bright red apple, consumed his waking hours as nothing had. Now, if his teacher only looked like the one on the cover, he could be happy. She looked so sympathetic…he could imagine her telling him, in a hushed and motherly tone, "Now, don't tell the others, Chet, I know what this means to you…I know how it tugs at your insides…don't mention this to the rest of the class, Chet, but I used to eat it too!" The catalog soon became his favorite magazine. Sometimes he imagined having a subscription to it, and racing home early each month to see if the new issue had come out…the thrill of slowly and deliberately opening the mail box, peering in through the widening crack to see…YES…there it was…the NEW issue of Fassbinder's School Supply Catalog…and a whole fold out section, all about school paste…and spreaders…and different kinds of jars…and…and…it positively wore him out sometimes, dreaming like this. But he still had that one copy to peruse. Chester had memorized the location of the paste and glue section (pages 29-31—only two pages! There seemed to be some crime in only devoting two pages to something as wonderful and sublime as school paste).
In third grade, rumors are fact, and unlikelihoods can become specters that haunt day and night, long tentacle-like fingers reaching out to snatch away everything good that a boy might have. Paste was a third grade thing, the voices said, it was not for older children. It was not an adult glue, it was for little kids and would be withdrawn as soon as students could be trusted with liquid white-glue. Eventually, Chet found himself failing assignments on purpose, just to stay in the third grade. But this would not work forever. His parents would put a stop to it, and then the whole thing could unravel. He might be sent away to some kind of "tough love" camp, or perhaps be forced to start seeing a therapist. There had to be another way…a way to continue experiencing the joys of paste while moving forward with an educational career.
The large plastic jars that held the paste were kept in the coatroom closet, due to limited storage space in Mrs. Helga's third grade room. Chester was forever asking to go out and get cough drops, or pencils, or his sweater. Insisting on getting one's coat, when the school boiler made the classrooms tropically sweltering, even in January, became a cause for alarm with Mrs Helga. She worried that Chester might have some kind of pneumonia …or another disease that might thin the blood and make a child cold all the time. But Chester was able to quell her fears by telling her that his parents kept the house very hot, all year round, partly due to their home business, candle making. So, he was often cold. This, of course, was a lie…but the kind of lie that sometimes becomes necessary when a larger goal is in sight. And, she bought it, so what was the harm? He was safe, and his almost daily trips to the coatroom became the pivot of his day. He would nestle behind the bottom row of coats hung on the south wall, and ease the closet open, revealing shelf upon shelf of fantastical jars of white paste--non toxic, water based school paste…the kind that hardens into lumps under the paper, and eventually cracks like an African riverbed in dry season. This was heaven. He staggered his targets so that no jar would appear to be depleting faster than the others. Last Friday, he had reached the bottom right side of the closet, and he had to start again at the top. It was quite a stretch, and he needed a chair to make it to the uppermost jar of paste. He quietly slid the thickly varnished desk chair away from the single dusky window, at the far end of the coatroom, and pushed it into place in front of the open closet. As he climbed up on the chair, it rocked a bit. He realized that one of the anti-slip pads was missing from the front leg, and this was causing some instability. Chester was worried…not so much that he would fall, but that in stretching for the paste, the chair might slip, making a tell-tale noise. Then he would be caught. He would have to explain what he was doing…but there would be no plausible excuse. The paste closet would then be locked, and his mother would be called. In short, his whole world would come to an end. How could he live without that sweet taste? How could he stand even a day without squeezing paste through his teeth? He would sometimes catch the stray strands of paste in his hands, and recycle them. What if paste were removed from this routine? He had tried it with toothpaste, but it burned his lips, and his hand smelled like mint all day. This was unacceptable.
As Chester reached for the paste, he discovered that he was about 3 inches too short. The old chair that used to be in the coat room had been changed. The new one was shorter…and rocked. He got down, and slid the chair against the wall next to the closet. Chester would have to climb up onto the seat, and then scale the first rung on the back of the chair to reach his goal. It all seemed to go well at first, but as he slid ever so slightly to the right, to reach up, at an angle, and grab the jar, the chair shifted, and fell backward from the wall. Chester was thrown into a cluster of winter coats on the opposite wall, and on this wall he hung like the picture of Washington, at the front of his classroom. He was amazed, and looked down to see the chair, at an impossible angle, still under his feet. He raised his head, and looked dejectedly at the white globe, shining on his crimes from the ceiling. Just then, the chair fell out from under him. It dropped to the floor but curiously made no noise, as it came to rest on several thick winter coats that had fallen in the coatroom. But Chester did not fall…he remained suspended in the air. What had happened seemed impossible, but it was true. Unlikely things happen, surely, and sometimes two in a row, but not to him, Chester thought. Still, as the situation became clearer, Chet was not sure whether it was a blessing or a curse. Silence was on his side, for sure, but at what cost?
When the chair had tipped, Chester had fallen backward with it, against the wall of the coatroom. His fall was painless, as the mass of coats still hanging cushioned his fall. He did not realize that his left arm had gotten tangled in a dull gray parka, and had actually gone down the sleeve. When the chair fell to its resting place, Chester was left hanging by the left arm. His back collar was hung up on a heavy duty coat hook, as was his other cuff. He could not move. He could not get any grip with hand or foot that would pull him up, or lift him. And his coat, new this year, was so sturdy that it would not tear or stretch. His feet were nearly 2 feet off the floor. Then…FOOTSTEPS! He was somewhat relieved, but the problem of excuses began to consume him. When the anonymous feet reached the door, they stopped momentarily, and then suddenly the big white globe overhead went dark. The footsteps went on past, and disappeared down the hall. The principle, Mr. Dawson, must have seen the light on, and snapped it off as he passed by, en route to his office. It was a strange sensation…far off voices…muffled furnace clanking, steam radiators hissing, office phones ringing, the snap of chalk on the 5th grade blackboard…it was all like a dream. He could hear the teacher talking about addition and subtraction in echoed tones, and even felt the slight vibrations of chairs being slid in and out as his classmates were called to the board to solve problems. He was good at problems, and was sorry to miss the chance to show up his buddies. He almost responded to one of the problems that his friend, Tommy Smith, was failing to answer. But, he kept his peace. One last shift in the contents of the coatroom allowed an unclaimed army jacket from the impossibly high top row to drop onto Chester, catching on his head, and completely covering him, except for his rubber buckle boots. They seemed to protrude from the disheveled line of winter garments about two feet off the ground. They might as easily have been boots hanging on a hook, waiting for use in wet weather, or something purposely left behind by a kid who refused to wear them. Nothing gave Chester away, and his slight frame nestled neatly behind the jackets, windbreakers and parkas. He sighed to himself, and began to notice discomfort in his left armpit…his circulation was cut off by the way he was hanging.
His right hand was getting hot, too. The hook that had snagged it was the last in the corner, and no one ever used it. One reason was that it was right next to the radiator pipes that went to Mr. Mitchell's sixth grade room upstairs. Once, when the coatroom was especially full, Billy Caper had hung his ski jacket on this exact hook, and when the school day was over, the pipe had melted a long, hard groove into it. It had been discolored where it had touched the pipe, and the zipper never worked again. His parents were mad, both at the school and at Billy. But, no one had thought to remove the hook. And now, Chester was its newest victim. "That coat was plastic, I think" thought Chester, "…and I'm not…" He was satisfied that he would not melt like the ski coat. Then it occurred to him that being burned was the alternative to melting. He choked up a bit and felt as though he wanted to cry. Oh God, he sure could use a mouthful of that smooth white paste now…just one more squishy glob before he dried up and baked like that mouse his mother had found in the little closet next to the chimney upstairs. The constant heat must have made its last moments unpleasant, but it dried out nicely, and the hair even stayed in place. Chester wondered how he would look dried out, whether he would look like an old person, or just a withered boy. He thought of that show he had seen a few weeks ago about mummies, and how they were made. He wondered what it would be like to be a modern day mummy. And, he wondered what time it was. He could not see or even touch his watch, the way he was strung up.
Grown-ups forget the sounds of grammar school life…sometimes, when they hear them, their minds are taken back to their youth. Yelling on the playground, the sound of sneakers sliding in gravel…the creak of the swingset…and, life run by the bells. Bells start and stop everything. They tell everyone when to do everything, even the teachers. No one violates the bells. The last one, the one that lets you out for the day, seems to sound sweetest, but it's really like the rest of them. Chester was getting sleepy with stifling heat, and oblivion came quickly and without warning. Then, suddenly, bells jarred everything. He had gotten so overcome that he had no idea which bell he was hearing. Lunch? Recess? How long had he been asleep? If it was lunch, he was destined to hang there until 1:30 recess. If it were recess, everyone would be coming in to get their coats, as it was very cold out today. A mass of sliding chairs pierced the stagnant silence of the school hallways…rushing feet and giggling and chattering. Closer…closer…suddenly Chester heard the coatroom door open, with a creaky turn of the knob and a whoosh of the door, he felt a breeze rise up his body and into his armpit, now aching with the tightness and stricture of the coat. Coats were being removed everywhere. Someone brushed against his boots…someone even pushed them aside, to get at a parka on the bottom row. Comments were made about the mess of clothing on the floor. Chet heard Mrs. Helga's unmistakable "angry" voice near the door, asking who had made such a mess of the coatroom…no one confessed. Then she called out Scott LaPointe by name, and he stopped with a sneaker-squeek that echoed down the hallway. He didn't do it…he couldn't have, he was with Robbie Graves, by the water fountain…she could ask Robbie…he swore that he had not done it…but Chester could tell that Mrs. Helga did not believe him. He had been at the root of the problem all too often. Gum in Diane Foskett's hair, names (and other things) scratched into the new formica desks…even oranges from the lunchroom jammed down the toilets…all the work of Scott LaPointe. People said that he had scrubbed the tops of the desks so often with Ajax that he had no fingerprints left. This would be convenient, as he would surely be a criminal when he grew up. And how stupid to use Robbie as an alibi! Robbie Graves was perhaps the most aggressive liar the school had known in the last 40 years. Scott was being sent to the Principle's office. And he had done exactly nothing…Chester smiled, and almost laughed out loud when shockingly abrupt sunlight flooded his view…there, on his own level, was Mrs. Helga. She stared at him, eye to eye, with a look of shock and fear. A face appearing out of the mass of tangled coats might scare almost anyone. This soon fell away, leaving a most curious look of exasperation, melting into anger, and before Chester could say anything, he was yanked down from the hooks that had held him for what might have been an hour or a week. He wanted to speak, and looked up at the teacher with tear-filled eyes, all the while rubbing his armpit, and twisting his shoulder in an effort to make the pain stop. Before he cold speak, Mrs. Helga put her finger to his lips, in a sort of vicarious "sshhh".
"You don't have to say anything, Chester. I know all about it. Its something that I had trouble with when I was your age…" Unbelievable! Was this what Chester had dreamed about so many times? The bond between teacher and child was about to grow ten-fold. Mrs. Helga was about to become the ideal teacher from the cover of Fassbinder's School Supply Catalog.
"Oh Mrs. Helga, I can't believe you understand…it's been so hard for me…I didn't know who I could tell…how did you know?" Chester spoke quickly and allotted only one breath for all these words, so the last few were lost in the noises of Scott LaPointe loudly protesting his innocence to Mr. Dawson, somewhere down the hall.
"I could see it a mile away, dear," Mrs. Helga said, in the gentlest voice Chester had ever heard come from her mouth. "No one wants to admit they are getting picked on…and to be hung up in the coatroom by bullies…I'd have been surprised if you had told anyone about it! You don't have to be embarrassed with me though. When I was 12, some boys from my class pulled my…well…my skirt and other things out from under the stall door while I was in the bathroom, and I had to go for help half dressed!"
Chester stared at her, unable to believe what was happening. The shock turned to a bizarre delight at this image, a tiny Mrs. Helga with no skirt or shorts, wandering out into the hall of some far away school, braving the withering stares of teachers and kids alike.
"Mrs. Helga…I mean, what happened after that…I mean to the boys that stole your…" Mrs. Helga coughed uncomfortably, and smiled at him.
"Don't worry about that, dear…they got what they deserved. And, Scott will get what he deserves, too. He has some lessons to learn. I don't think you'll have to worry about him again."
Somehow, this was comforting. Chester had never really worried about Scott LaPoint before, but still there seemed to be some comfort in this idea. He smiled, and turned to go out onto the playground. He went down the steps, and bounded into the crowd of 9 year olds, thrashing his way through with newfound confidence. He felt vindicated, and could not help laughing. But, through it all, there was something missing from his triumph.
"Boy, I could sure go for some paste right now…". He smiled wistfully, and looked back at the main door, just now easing shut. With bravery he had never felt before, he reached into his coat pocket for a piece of gum, and slowly started chewing his way down the road to recovery.
Chester (or Chet, as his playmates called him) dreamed of paste almost constantly, and once even stole a school supply catalog, thinking he could order it for himself. Sadly, lack of credit stopped him in his tracks. But, the dog-eared pages of that catalog, whose cover featured a kindly teacher in front of a blackboard, her desk only burdened with a single bright red apple, consumed his waking hours as nothing had. Now, if his teacher only looked like the one on the cover, he could be happy. She looked so sympathetic…he could imagine her telling him, in a hushed and motherly tone, "Now, don't tell the others, Chet, I know what this means to you…I know how it tugs at your insides…don't mention this to the rest of the class, Chet, but I used to eat it too!" The catalog soon became his favorite magazine. Sometimes he imagined having a subscription to it, and racing home early each month to see if the new issue had come out…the thrill of slowly and deliberately opening the mail box, peering in through the widening crack to see…YES…there it was…the NEW issue of Fassbinder's School Supply Catalog…and a whole fold out section, all about school paste…and spreaders…and different kinds of jars…and…and…it positively wore him out sometimes, dreaming like this. But he still had that one copy to peruse. Chester had memorized the location of the paste and glue section (pages 29-31—only two pages! There seemed to be some crime in only devoting two pages to something as wonderful and sublime as school paste).
In third grade, rumors are fact, and unlikelihoods can become specters that haunt day and night, long tentacle-like fingers reaching out to snatch away everything good that a boy might have. Paste was a third grade thing, the voices said, it was not for older children. It was not an adult glue, it was for little kids and would be withdrawn as soon as students could be trusted with liquid white-glue. Eventually, Chet found himself failing assignments on purpose, just to stay in the third grade. But this would not work forever. His parents would put a stop to it, and then the whole thing could unravel. He might be sent away to some kind of "tough love" camp, or perhaps be forced to start seeing a therapist. There had to be another way…a way to continue experiencing the joys of paste while moving forward with an educational career.
The large plastic jars that held the paste were kept in the coatroom closet, due to limited storage space in Mrs. Helga's third grade room. Chester was forever asking to go out and get cough drops, or pencils, or his sweater. Insisting on getting one's coat, when the school boiler made the classrooms tropically sweltering, even in January, became a cause for alarm with Mrs Helga. She worried that Chester might have some kind of pneumonia …or another disease that might thin the blood and make a child cold all the time. But Chester was able to quell her fears by telling her that his parents kept the house very hot, all year round, partly due to their home business, candle making. So, he was often cold. This, of course, was a lie…but the kind of lie that sometimes becomes necessary when a larger goal is in sight. And, she bought it, so what was the harm? He was safe, and his almost daily trips to the coatroom became the pivot of his day. He would nestle behind the bottom row of coats hung on the south wall, and ease the closet open, revealing shelf upon shelf of fantastical jars of white paste--non toxic, water based school paste…the kind that hardens into lumps under the paper, and eventually cracks like an African riverbed in dry season. This was heaven. He staggered his targets so that no jar would appear to be depleting faster than the others. Last Friday, he had reached the bottom right side of the closet, and he had to start again at the top. It was quite a stretch, and he needed a chair to make it to the uppermost jar of paste. He quietly slid the thickly varnished desk chair away from the single dusky window, at the far end of the coatroom, and pushed it into place in front of the open closet. As he climbed up on the chair, it rocked a bit. He realized that one of the anti-slip pads was missing from the front leg, and this was causing some instability. Chester was worried…not so much that he would fall, but that in stretching for the paste, the chair might slip, making a tell-tale noise. Then he would be caught. He would have to explain what he was doing…but there would be no plausible excuse. The paste closet would then be locked, and his mother would be called. In short, his whole world would come to an end. How could he live without that sweet taste? How could he stand even a day without squeezing paste through his teeth? He would sometimes catch the stray strands of paste in his hands, and recycle them. What if paste were removed from this routine? He had tried it with toothpaste, but it burned his lips, and his hand smelled like mint all day. This was unacceptable.
As Chester reached for the paste, he discovered that he was about 3 inches too short. The old chair that used to be in the coat room had been changed. The new one was shorter…and rocked. He got down, and slid the chair against the wall next to the closet. Chester would have to climb up onto the seat, and then scale the first rung on the back of the chair to reach his goal. It all seemed to go well at first, but as he slid ever so slightly to the right, to reach up, at an angle, and grab the jar, the chair shifted, and fell backward from the wall. Chester was thrown into a cluster of winter coats on the opposite wall, and on this wall he hung like the picture of Washington, at the front of his classroom. He was amazed, and looked down to see the chair, at an impossible angle, still under his feet. He raised his head, and looked dejectedly at the white globe, shining on his crimes from the ceiling. Just then, the chair fell out from under him. It dropped to the floor but curiously made no noise, as it came to rest on several thick winter coats that had fallen in the coatroom. But Chester did not fall…he remained suspended in the air. What had happened seemed impossible, but it was true. Unlikely things happen, surely, and sometimes two in a row, but not to him, Chester thought. Still, as the situation became clearer, Chet was not sure whether it was a blessing or a curse. Silence was on his side, for sure, but at what cost?
When the chair had tipped, Chester had fallen backward with it, against the wall of the coatroom. His fall was painless, as the mass of coats still hanging cushioned his fall. He did not realize that his left arm had gotten tangled in a dull gray parka, and had actually gone down the sleeve. When the chair fell to its resting place, Chester was left hanging by the left arm. His back collar was hung up on a heavy duty coat hook, as was his other cuff. He could not move. He could not get any grip with hand or foot that would pull him up, or lift him. And his coat, new this year, was so sturdy that it would not tear or stretch. His feet were nearly 2 feet off the floor. Then…FOOTSTEPS! He was somewhat relieved, but the problem of excuses began to consume him. When the anonymous feet reached the door, they stopped momentarily, and then suddenly the big white globe overhead went dark. The footsteps went on past, and disappeared down the hall. The principle, Mr. Dawson, must have seen the light on, and snapped it off as he passed by, en route to his office. It was a strange sensation…far off voices…muffled furnace clanking, steam radiators hissing, office phones ringing, the snap of chalk on the 5th grade blackboard…it was all like a dream. He could hear the teacher talking about addition and subtraction in echoed tones, and even felt the slight vibrations of chairs being slid in and out as his classmates were called to the board to solve problems. He was good at problems, and was sorry to miss the chance to show up his buddies. He almost responded to one of the problems that his friend, Tommy Smith, was failing to answer. But, he kept his peace. One last shift in the contents of the coatroom allowed an unclaimed army jacket from the impossibly high top row to drop onto Chester, catching on his head, and completely covering him, except for his rubber buckle boots. They seemed to protrude from the disheveled line of winter garments about two feet off the ground. They might as easily have been boots hanging on a hook, waiting for use in wet weather, or something purposely left behind by a kid who refused to wear them. Nothing gave Chester away, and his slight frame nestled neatly behind the jackets, windbreakers and parkas. He sighed to himself, and began to notice discomfort in his left armpit…his circulation was cut off by the way he was hanging.
His right hand was getting hot, too. The hook that had snagged it was the last in the corner, and no one ever used it. One reason was that it was right next to the radiator pipes that went to Mr. Mitchell's sixth grade room upstairs. Once, when the coatroom was especially full, Billy Caper had hung his ski jacket on this exact hook, and when the school day was over, the pipe had melted a long, hard groove into it. It had been discolored where it had touched the pipe, and the zipper never worked again. His parents were mad, both at the school and at Billy. But, no one had thought to remove the hook. And now, Chester was its newest victim. "That coat was plastic, I think" thought Chester, "…and I'm not…" He was satisfied that he would not melt like the ski coat. Then it occurred to him that being burned was the alternative to melting. He choked up a bit and felt as though he wanted to cry. Oh God, he sure could use a mouthful of that smooth white paste now…just one more squishy glob before he dried up and baked like that mouse his mother had found in the little closet next to the chimney upstairs. The constant heat must have made its last moments unpleasant, but it dried out nicely, and the hair even stayed in place. Chester wondered how he would look dried out, whether he would look like an old person, or just a withered boy. He thought of that show he had seen a few weeks ago about mummies, and how they were made. He wondered what it would be like to be a modern day mummy. And, he wondered what time it was. He could not see or even touch his watch, the way he was strung up.
Grown-ups forget the sounds of grammar school life…sometimes, when they hear them, their minds are taken back to their youth. Yelling on the playground, the sound of sneakers sliding in gravel…the creak of the swingset…and, life run by the bells. Bells start and stop everything. They tell everyone when to do everything, even the teachers. No one violates the bells. The last one, the one that lets you out for the day, seems to sound sweetest, but it's really like the rest of them. Chester was getting sleepy with stifling heat, and oblivion came quickly and without warning. Then, suddenly, bells jarred everything. He had gotten so overcome that he had no idea which bell he was hearing. Lunch? Recess? How long had he been asleep? If it was lunch, he was destined to hang there until 1:30 recess. If it were recess, everyone would be coming in to get their coats, as it was very cold out today. A mass of sliding chairs pierced the stagnant silence of the school hallways…rushing feet and giggling and chattering. Closer…closer…suddenly Chester heard the coatroom door open, with a creaky turn of the knob and a whoosh of the door, he felt a breeze rise up his body and into his armpit, now aching with the tightness and stricture of the coat. Coats were being removed everywhere. Someone brushed against his boots…someone even pushed them aside, to get at a parka on the bottom row. Comments were made about the mess of clothing on the floor. Chet heard Mrs. Helga's unmistakable "angry" voice near the door, asking who had made such a mess of the coatroom…no one confessed. Then she called out Scott LaPointe by name, and he stopped with a sneaker-squeek that echoed down the hallway. He didn't do it…he couldn't have, he was with Robbie Graves, by the water fountain…she could ask Robbie…he swore that he had not done it…but Chester could tell that Mrs. Helga did not believe him. He had been at the root of the problem all too often. Gum in Diane Foskett's hair, names (and other things) scratched into the new formica desks…even oranges from the lunchroom jammed down the toilets…all the work of Scott LaPointe. People said that he had scrubbed the tops of the desks so often with Ajax that he had no fingerprints left. This would be convenient, as he would surely be a criminal when he grew up. And how stupid to use Robbie as an alibi! Robbie Graves was perhaps the most aggressive liar the school had known in the last 40 years. Scott was being sent to the Principle's office. And he had done exactly nothing…Chester smiled, and almost laughed out loud when shockingly abrupt sunlight flooded his view…there, on his own level, was Mrs. Helga. She stared at him, eye to eye, with a look of shock and fear. A face appearing out of the mass of tangled coats might scare almost anyone. This soon fell away, leaving a most curious look of exasperation, melting into anger, and before Chester could say anything, he was yanked down from the hooks that had held him for what might have been an hour or a week. He wanted to speak, and looked up at the teacher with tear-filled eyes, all the while rubbing his armpit, and twisting his shoulder in an effort to make the pain stop. Before he cold speak, Mrs. Helga put her finger to his lips, in a sort of vicarious "sshhh".
"You don't have to say anything, Chester. I know all about it. Its something that I had trouble with when I was your age…" Unbelievable! Was this what Chester had dreamed about so many times? The bond between teacher and child was about to grow ten-fold. Mrs. Helga was about to become the ideal teacher from the cover of Fassbinder's School Supply Catalog.
"Oh Mrs. Helga, I can't believe you understand…it's been so hard for me…I didn't know who I could tell…how did you know?" Chester spoke quickly and allotted only one breath for all these words, so the last few were lost in the noises of Scott LaPointe loudly protesting his innocence to Mr. Dawson, somewhere down the hall.
"I could see it a mile away, dear," Mrs. Helga said, in the gentlest voice Chester had ever heard come from her mouth. "No one wants to admit they are getting picked on…and to be hung up in the coatroom by bullies…I'd have been surprised if you had told anyone about it! You don't have to be embarrassed with me though. When I was 12, some boys from my class pulled my…well…my skirt and other things out from under the stall door while I was in the bathroom, and I had to go for help half dressed!"
Chester stared at her, unable to believe what was happening. The shock turned to a bizarre delight at this image, a tiny Mrs. Helga with no skirt or shorts, wandering out into the hall of some far away school, braving the withering stares of teachers and kids alike.
"Mrs. Helga…I mean, what happened after that…I mean to the boys that stole your…" Mrs. Helga coughed uncomfortably, and smiled at him.
"Don't worry about that, dear…they got what they deserved. And, Scott will get what he deserves, too. He has some lessons to learn. I don't think you'll have to worry about him again."
Somehow, this was comforting. Chester had never really worried about Scott LaPoint before, but still there seemed to be some comfort in this idea. He smiled, and turned to go out onto the playground. He went down the steps, and bounded into the crowd of 9 year olds, thrashing his way through with newfound confidence. He felt vindicated, and could not help laughing. But, through it all, there was something missing from his triumph.
"Boy, I could sure go for some paste right now…". He smiled wistfully, and looked back at the main door, just now easing shut. With bravery he had never felt before, he reached into his coat pocket for a piece of gum, and slowly started chewing his way down the road to recovery.
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