Troublemaker Read online

  Mrs. Ormin started to do the math. Let’s say he’s been sent to the office, on average, four times a month . . . so that’s four multiplied by nine months in each school year . . . and he’s in sixth grade now, and he’s been a regular visitor since the middle of kinder—

  “Hey, Mrs. Ormin, is that a new picture?” Clay pointed at a framed photo on the wall. “Looks like the principal’s kids are growing up, huh?” He gave her a big smile.

  Mrs. Ormin didn’t smile back, but it took some effort. The rascal could be so charming. But goodness, what a troublemaker. She glanced down at Clay’s student folder. It was almost two inches thick. The only other folder that had gotten anywhere near this size was the one filled up by Clay’s big brother, Mitchell Hensley. With Mitchell, it had usually been yelling or arguing or pushing or shoving or even fighting that had gotten him sent to the office.

  The two boys looked a lot alike, but Clayton’s brand of troublemaking was different. Yes, he had that same lack of fear Mitchell had shown, but Clay almost never seemed angry. And with Clay, there was so much cleverness in his mischief, and such a wide variety of offenses. It was almost . . . inspiring.

  She smiled to herself. In a way, she was proud of Clayton’s folder. After all, she had written most of what was in it. It certainly wasn’t literature—she knew that. But it still made pretty good reading. It was more like journalism . . . or history. Definitely nonfiction. This folder was her masterpiece.

  Ignoring the boy in the chair, Mrs. Ormin set her pencils and notepad on the edge of the principal’s desk and opened up the file, flipping back through the years. She stopped at the printed transcript from one of Clay’s early meetings with the principal.

  Thursday, October 17

  10:25 a.m.

  Disciplinary meeting with Alfred Kelling, Principal

  Witnessed and recorded by Claire Ormin

  Student: Clayton Hensley, grade one

  Sent to the office by Mrs. Gallio

  Infraction: Running in the halls

  “Can I look at those little squiggles she always makes? What’s that called again?”

  “It’s called shorthand. Now, Clayton, I have to tell you that I am not one bit happy to hear about—”

  “Look! That stuff you just said? It’s all squiggles now! How come she always does that when I’m here?”

  “Mrs. Ormin uses shorthand because it’s a way to write that’s faster than regular handwriting. She’s writing down every word we say. Clayton, you are here today—”

  “How come she doesn’t just make a recording?”

  “Because Mrs. Ormin has to be here in the office with us anyway, and she knows how to write shorthand. Now, the last time we talked you prom—”

  “She’s got to be here with us every single time? How come?”

  “It’s just a rule, for everyone’s protection. Clayton, your teacher has reported—”

  “Does Mrs. Ormin know karate or something?”

  “Karate? I don’t see what that has to do with—”

  “For protection. Or maybe kung fu? She doesn’t carry a gun, does she?”

  “No, it’s not that kind of protection. It’s just a rule. Your teacher tells me that—”

  “How come you don’t teach everybody in the whole school to write fast like she does? I write really, really slow. Can she write down every single thing, even if I talk fast? How about if I talk faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and faster and superfaster and superfaster—Hoosh! Look at her go! She’s still keeping up! Can I try that squiggle stuff?”

  “We’re not here to talk about shorthand, Clayton, so be quiet and listen. We’re here today because your teacher informs me that you have been told six times this week that you are not allowed to run in the halls, and you keep on running. So Mrs. Gallio sent you here to talk to me.”

  “I like Mrs. Gallio. She’s nice. She’s really tall. She any good at basketball? I got a cousin named Baldwin, he’s six foot three, except he can’t play basketball worth a spit. Hoosh! Isn’t that stupid? Is Mrs. Gallio mad at me?”

  “No, she simply wants—”

  “Good. I like Mrs. Gallio. She’s tall. And nice.”

  “I like her too. But tell me, Clay, do you think it would be good if all the children ran in the halls?”

  “Not sure. Anybody ever try? Maybe it’d be okay. How about if tomorrow everybody runs in the halls all they want? But they have to be quiet. And I bet nobody’ll be late! Ever think about that? Might be okay.”

  “But you see, Clay, running in the halls is against the rules.”

  “That’s what the man said at the supermarket yesterday.”

  “You were running in the supermarket?”

  “Yup, except that’s not why I got yelled at. I ate a grape. To see if it was sour. This guy yelled at me, said it was against the rules. So stupid! You want some grapes, and you buy them and get all the way home, and then they’re sour! What then? It’s like the store tricks you into buying the sour ones. Doesn’t anybody taste the grapes? And what about when the store buys ’em from the farmer? Maybe the farmer has the same rule—no tasting the grapes! Stupid rule. Some things you don’t have to taste. Like that goulash yesterday? You just sniff and you know it’s gonna taste like dog food. Ever eat dog food? I did, but just that once. Tasted like that goulash smelled. But grapes don’t smell much, unless you squish ’em.”

  “Clay, we’re talking here about running in the halls, and I am telling you that it’s against the rules. What if everyone in the whole school ran together in one hallway, do you think that would be safe?”

  “’Course not. Be too crowded. Who said anything about that? I sneak out of the room and run around the halls all by myself. There’s lots of room.”

  “But I just told you it’s against the rules, Clayton. And it’s also against the rules to sneak out of your classroom.”

  “How come Mrs. Gallio has to look at me? She hears me running, she should just look somewhere else until she can’t hear me anymore.”

  “Now listen carefully. Are you saying that if there’s a red light on a highway, and it’s the middle of the night, and there are no other cars coming, then it’s all right if you just drive your car right through that red light? Even if it’s against the law?”

  “What car? I don’t have any car. I can’t even drive yet. Hoosh!—I mean, I was just running in the hall, and there wasn’t any red lights, and I didn’t bump anybody. I never do.”

  “Clay, what I’m telling you is that you have to obey the rules—all the rules—and stop running in the halls, and also stop sneaking out of your room, and if you keep on doing things like this, then you’re going to get another note put into your folder.”

  “My folder? What folder? I don’t have any folder.”

  “It’s the school’s folder, Clayton. It’s where we keep your records.”

  “Records? Like my mom’s Elvis records?”

  “No, no. We keep information. In your folder.”

  “Stuff about me?”

  “That’s right. Records about everything you do here at school.”

  “Like that time when I threw up in the boys’ room—is that in my folder?”

  “No, the record folder—”

  “So you don’t really put every single thing in there.”

  “No, not every single thing. Mostly the very good things and the very bad things.”

  “I done any very good things yet?”

  “Clayton, I just want you to remember that you have to stop this running—”

  “You got all the bad things in there? Like when I gave that dead toad a turn on the sliding board? Is that in there?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “How about when I opened the back door on the school bus?”

  “That was very dangerous, Clayton. I’m glad no one was hurt.”

  “Me too. I know that was bad. My football rolled right out and bounced off a mailbox and then got run over by a truck. And since yo
u and me talked about that, I never opened another bus door, and I’m not going to.”

  “Good. Because that was a very bad thing, and yes, that’s in your folder too.”

  “So really . . . it’s my rap sheet.”

  “Your rap sheet? No, it’s—”

  “Like my uncle Loomis has. All the bad stuff he’s ever done. I saw it. He stole three cars. He says his rap sheet’s as long as his arm, but it’s not. It’s just a piece of paper with words on it. How long is a piece of paper? Hold out your arm. I bet my arm’s almost as long as yours.”

  “Clayton, I don’t want to see you in here again.”

  “Can I come back if I do something really good?”

  “What I mean is that I want you to—”

  “Because I like it in here. I like that picture of the president, too. You ever talk to him?”

  “Clayton, I mean I don’t want Mrs. Gallio to tell me you’ve been running in the halls again.”

  “I don’t want her to tell on me again either.”

  “So that means you have to stop the running, Clayton. All right?”

  “I guess so. I’ll see if I can.”

  “I know you can, Clayton. You can stop running in the halls if you want to.”

  “I’m a good runner, and I don’t bump things or fall down much, and when you run, you get places faster. It’s good to get places faster.”

  “But not if it’s against the rules.”

  “Who makes up the rules?”

  “Lots of people. People who care about keeping everybody safe. You want everyone to be safe, don’t you, Clayton?”

  “Sure I do—I’m not stupid.”

  “I know that. You’re very smart, Clayton. And you can understand that it’s smart not to break rules and run in the halls. It makes the school safer.”

  “But also slower.”

  “But you are going to stop the running in the halls, right, Clayton?”

  “I’m going . . . to try. But I might mess up. I mess up a lot. I really wish I could write fast like she does.”

  Student returned to class 10:33 a.m.

  Mrs. Ormin flipped forward through the folder, looking for fourth grade. That had been quite a year for Clay. She wanted to read about the time he got sent to the office for collecting all the uneaten cheese at lunch, and then making it into a statue of a . . .

  “Clayton, Mrs. Ormin—sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Mr. Kelling walked around his desk and sat down, then slid up onto the front edge of his chair. He leaned forward and turned to the secretary. “Do you need a moment?”

  She thought, You know perfectly well I have been waiting here with this boy for the past nine minutes.

  “No,” she said, “I’m all set.”

  It was time to add a new chapter to her masterpiece.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  MITCH

  Clay kept his mouth shut that night at dinner, except when he was eating. It was a great meal—a huge platter of fried chicken, a big bowl of mashed potatoes, some green beans, hot rolls, and three kinds of soda. He and his little sister, Anne, had set the table in the dining room, and his older sister, Janie, had helped with the cooking. The family dinner was in honor of Mitch coming home.

  Dad and Mitchell were doing most of the talking.

  “So, they treat you okay over there in Belden?”

  Mitchell answered with his mouth full. “Wasn’t exactly a vacation, but it could have been a lot worse, that’s for sure. Met a couple of pretty good guys, plus a bunch of rotten ones.” He took a gulp of root beer, then burped a little. “You remember Ronnie Clark, great big guy used to play nose tackle on my high school team? He got busted for stealing six cases of work boots from his father-in-law’s store, and it was his second offense. He’s in there for another whole year, unless he can get parole. And his marriage is over too. Hasn’t turned him mean, though, at least not yet. Good to see him—but I’d have to say that was the only good thing about the last month or so.”

  Clay knew what his brother was talking about. Almost two months ago Mitch got pulled over for speeding on Route 113 over near Belden. Instead of paying the two-hundred-dollar ticket, he went to court and tried to talk his way out of it. The judge didn’t believe his excuses, so Mitchell got mad and started shouting. The judge told him to be quiet, and Mitch kept yelling and then knocked over a chair. So the judge charged him with contempt of court and locked him up for thirty days in the Belden County Jail. He’d had to pay the speeding ticket, a hundred-dollar fine for contempt, plus another hundred and fifty dollars in court fees.

  Clay started working on his fourth drumstick, happy just to eat and listen. He’d get his chance to ask questions later. Mitchell was broke, so he was going to be living at home awhile, sleeping on the bottom bunk in his old room again. At bedtime Clay’d probably get to hear all the stuff Mitch wouldn’t want to say with Mom and Dad and the girls around.

  His mom said, “Your friends have been calling all day—six messages on the machine when I got home from work.”

  “Yeah,” Clay added, “and a bunch of new texts came in on your cell phone today too—but I didn’t read any of ’em.”

  Mitchell smiled at him. “Gonna have to get a phone of your own now, aren’t you? I want that back just as soon as you get all the chicken grease off your fingers. And if you ran up my bill, I’ll be coming after your allowance, you hear?”

  Their mother went on, “Well, I imagine your friends all want you to go out and whoop it up tonight.”

  Clay could tell how she felt about that idea.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Mitchell said. “I’m staying in—don’t care if it is a Friday night. Maybe we can watch a movie on TV.”

  Dad dropped a thigh bone onto his plate. “That Judge Parker?” he snarled. “There’s a piece of work.”

  Clay knew what was coming next. They all did. His dad had some history with the local judge, and they’d heard his opinions about the man before.

  “I ever tell you how we both used to deliver the Post-Dispatch back when we were kids over in Turnbull? He did east of Main Street, and I covered the west side. Always bragging about how his route was better than mine—a real stuck-up, snot-nosed kid. He got four times the tips I got at Christmas, all those rich east siders. Bet he got a big laugh about throwing a Hensley boy in jail. I beat him up once when we were kids, and if I got him alone in some dark alley right now, why, I’d knock the livin’ daylights—”

  “Trent Hensley! You stop that!” His wife looked like she was going jump right across the table at him. “I will not have you talking like that in front of these children!”

  Mitchell took a last gulp of soda, then bent the can between his thumb and fingers. “Truth is, Dad, I don’t blame Judge Parker,” he said quietly. “I mouthed off pretty bad in court. He could’ve given me sixty days in jail, or even ninety. I’ve got no gripe with him. It was my own fault—all of it.”

  Clay stared at his big brother. Everyone else did too, all the way around the kitchen table. That didn’t sound like Mitch talking, it just didn’t.

  Mom said, “Glad to hear someone in this family making sense for a change. Clayton, help Anne and Janie clear away while I serve up the ice cream. I got you that double-fudge chunk, Mitchell.”

  “That’s great, Mom. Thanks.”

  Clay stood up and collected a stack of plates and the bowl of chicken bones, and then snuck a quick look over at Mitch. He still wasn’t used to seeing his brother with his hair so short. But he was still the same person, no matter what he looked like now. He was tall and strong and almost twenty years old. He was still the toughest guy around.

  Clay was pretty sure his brother was just saying all that nicey-nice stuff to make Mom feel better. He’d probably already figured out a way to get even with that judge—maybe trash his yard some night, or tag the guy’s car. Because nobody messed with Mitch Hensley and got away with it—nobody.

  He’d probably hear all about it at bedtime, alo
ng with everything else that happened at the jail. Maybe there’d been some big fights, some real knuckle-busters.

  Clay couldn’t wait to tell Mitch about his run-in with the principal. And when he showed him that drawing? That would be sweet.

  It was great to have him around the house again. Really great.

  CHAPTER SIX

  WAKE-UP CALL

  Clay was in the upper bunk fighting to stay awake. He could hear Mitch outside on the back porch, talking on the phone, his voice mostly soft. Probably talking to some girl.

  Clay yawned so hard it hurt his jaw muscles. He hadn’t had a moment alone with his brother all night. Janie had gone to the mall with her boyfriend, but everyone else had watched a Clint Eastwood movie in the living room. Their folks had slept through most of it, except his dad woke up when he smelled the popcorn. It was almost midnight now.

  The large bedroom he and Mitch shared had been used as the family room back before Anne was born. The TV was out in the living room now, but some of the old furniture had stayed behind. Clay had left the lamp on over by the couch to help keep himself awake. He stifled another yawn. How long was Mitchell going to talk? He’d already been out there twenty minutes.

  He must have dozed off, but his eyes popped open when the latch on the bedroom door clicked shut.

  Mitchell sat on the couch and bent over to pull off his shoes. Clay noticed again how short his hair was, the way he’d had to wear it back when he was on the high school football team. They probably did that to him at the jail.

  “Hey,” said Clay.

  “Hey there, little man. Didn’t mean to wake you up—sorry.”

  “No, I wasn’t asleep.” Clay propped himself up on one elbow. “I wanted to wait up and talk.”

  “Yeah? About what?”

  “Just stuff. And what it was like being in jail.”

  “Not much to tell about that,” said Mitchell. “It’s a big building with a lot of cages and a lot of angry people, and that includes most of the guards. And it’s dangerous. That’s the first thing Ronnie Clark told me. Me and him, we stuck pretty close together, looked out for each other. I’m glad he was there. And now, I’m glad I’m here.”