Bernstein, Alex

Bankrupt

Alex Bernstein

(September, 2013)

They make me go to the locker with them. Like I am part of this. Like this is somehow what I want. Mallor is there – his shaggy, unkempt, mop – his head hung low. Behind him are Lymon & Benken – like two prison guards making sure he can’t escape. I did not ask them to do this. If I could I would go back and erase from existence those brief seconds back in the classroom – those words I said unthinking – that resulted in all of this. But it’s too late now.

Why are you late? said Ms. Schreiber

I – I – I –

What?

I lost my thermos.

Giggling, snickering throughout the room. And I realize I should have denied it, should not have even spoken.

Oh - does someone know something? Does someone have something to say?

Nothing. Stone silence.

Who has this boy’s thermos? Speak up.

Nothing. No one. No admission. And then it starts. Miss Lymon & Dr. Benken – going room to room – checking desks. Backpacks turned inside out. Activities, classes halted. No. No, we will not tolerate this behavior. And everyone glares at me. Why did he have to start all of this? Couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut?

The search escalates. Now, lockers are ransacked as if a real crime has been committed. The school waits quietly for an outcome.

Over the PA system they call me to the hallway, to Mallor’s locker. Of course it’s Mallor. No kidding. But whatever. Fine. Open it. And Lymon suddenly produces massive bolt cutters, leans in close and snaps the skull-decaled lock off the door. Mallor just steels himself.

And I would like to tell him – this small criminal who has forever made my life miserable – that I’m sorry. That I’m sorry he did this to me – to us – and brought us to this moment that I never ever asked for.

The maimed padlock falls to the ground. The latch is jiggled, the door opened. Dr. Benken looks at me.

Is this yours?

I –

Is this yours?

Yes.

What?

Yes.

Why don’t I say no? Because – because it is mine. I didn’t ask for this – but yes, it’s mine. Dr. Benken turns to Mallor.

Do you have something you want to say to Lowell?

Mm.

What?

Sorry.

What?

Sorry.

And in that moment, Mallor looks at me. This isn’t over, his eyes say. His day started out so well, an ordinary day, and now, within a few hours – he’s ruined. I’ve ruined him. And in a few days – when he’s standing over me – a bloody rock in his hand while I cower pathetically on the ground – he still won’t be completely satisfied.

Go back to your class, Dr. Benken says to me. And I do, but glancing back as they escort Mallor to their offices.

I return to angry, confused glares, to shunned silence. Why did you say anything? Why were you so weak? After all we’ve put you through, have you learned nothing? And of course I want to die.

And as I walk home alone, I pause at the crosswalk by the wire mesh garbage can and throw away my precious, unviolated thermos. And the crossing guard stares at me, oddly.

And ten minutes later I’m home. And my mother unpacks my lunchbox.

Where’s your thermos? she asks.

I don’t know, I say.

What?

I don’t know.