THE CHEETAH

Right after the near riot in the artroom - there are some serious consequences to face!

I’m just standing there for a minute, all this insight bouncing around my brain, when the mysterious light-skin guy slips in. Without a sound, he yanks me out of the classroom by the shoulder, hustling me silently down the hall to the principal’s office.

When we get there, he firmly shuts the door behind us without actually slamming it, and then locks it. Mr. Rice is sitting behind his desk, not saying a word. Next, the mystery man quickly glances out the window, and then draws the shade. Uh-oh. This does not look good.

He agilely kicks out a chair from across the desk, and silently gestures for me to sit down. Pacing back and forth behind my chair, he is stroking his thin beard and mustache in a tightly controlled sort of way. Walking real lightly on the balls of his feet, he continues pacing. Wearing these rubber-soled brown canvas shoes, kind of like boat shoes. You couldn’t even hear his footsteps. This goes on for what feels like, a good five minutes.  

What the hell is going on here?  I peek over at Mr. Rice, searching his face for answers, but he just wears a real solemn look. At this point, I’m getting really spooked. Now, Silverstein comes crashing through the door, still steamed up and fire engine red. Finally, they all turn their attention on me. Silverstein starts screaming.

“How did you get that key to my art supply closet?  Nobody but me has that key!”

I stare at him innocently.

“You’re a sneak, Montaperto! Those paints were there for a special purpose!”

Light-skin still paces slowly, coiled up and ready to strike.  He turns to me, then Silverstein.

“Joshua, calm down. (He directs slowly and softly) We’re going to get to the bottom of this right now.”
But Silverstein continues ranting.  

“I don’t even know who this Na-Na Johnson character is!  Do you know you could have gotten us all killed today?!

“Joshua, let me take care of this,” Light-skin cuts in.

“Joshua, please.” affirms Mr. Rice.

Light-skin stares right into my eyes.  He definitely has some sort of charisma, a mesmerizing effect. I want to turn away, but just can’t seem to force myself.

“My name is Mr. Contreau. I’m the new head of security here, and you’re going to tell me what I want to know, son.”

He’s not a big guy, this Contreau, but not a small guy, either. Lean and rangy. Muscular, but not weight-lifting muscular. He’s sinewier and chiselled, with veins popping out all over his arms and biceps. With this jutting jaw that leans forward when he saunters about, he reminds me of a specific animal. Something I had just seen the past Sunday night on that Wild Kingdom TV show. You know, with Marlon Perkins. It wasn’t a lion or a tiger… a jaguar, maybe?  No…ah!  A cheetah! This guy looks and moves exactly like a fucking cheetah. Yeah. He’s stalking me now, his yellow cheetah face flashing his cheetah teeth. Glaring at me with those ravenous cheetah eyes.

Deftly, he kicks another chair over from by the desk, and in one fluid motion spins it backwards, sits down and positions his face directly in front of mine. His stare is intense and unblinking.

“How did you and Johnson get into the school?”

You’re not gonna break me, you lousy flatfoot, I’m no squealer, see? That´s the first thought that comes to my mind, for some reason.

As he’s questioning me, I can’t get that cheetah image out of my memory.  The way it mutilated this antelope, sinking its fangs into its throat and shaking it, blood flowing everywhere.

“Don’t be eyeballing me son - just answer my question.”

He keeps repeating persistently, the pressure almost unbearable.

 “I – I didn’t know this was going to happen…I mean...if Mr. Silverstein hadn’t said he was going to paint over it, that whole thing would never have happened, it”-

“Montaperto, that should never have been up there in the first place! If you -”

Contreau puts up his hand, and Silverstein reluctantly clams up.  

“I’m going to ask you one more time son. You can answer me and save your future - or - you can face the consequences of a ruined life. Your choice. Now, how did you get into the school?”

On some level, I feel I’m going to be made an example of here. They have to have a sacrificial lamb to quiet down the black kids, right?  I mean, isn’t that why they hired Contreau in the first place?  Yeah, I am screwed.

There was no way out.

 “The door was open…we- uh-just walked –“

“The door was not open, son, don’t try to play me.” 

 “Well…that’s how we got in! I swear!”

I didn’t want to give up Na-Na. Either way, it’s a death sentence.

“It was my idea…Na-Na didn’t really have nothing to do with it…we didn’t mean for anything – we… just wanted to create something, like, important! And we thought Mr. Silverstein…maybe, maybe he wouldn’t let us, so – “

“How did you get the keys, son?”  His voice is growing more forceful and irritated now.

I feel like I’m in a POW camp in Vietnam, like I’m in the movie, The Deer Hunter, which I had just seen. The same kind of torture tactics. I envision him (Contreau) giving me a pistol, to play Russian roulette with.

“There were no keys…we - uh – “

“So you’re telling me you didn’t have the keys?

Contreau glares at me with his cheetah eyes for a minute, unblinkingly right in my face. I don’t know what more he wants from me.

“Is that what you’re telling me, then? That you didn’t have the keys?

“Yeah, that’s right, I didn’t have any keys…”

He smirks.

“Thank you, son…that’s all I needed to know.”

He goes over to Mr. Rice, and they huddle together in this whispering conference. Mr. Rice is repeatedly nodding yes. I feel extreme wetness under my arms, and look down to two huge sweat stains soaking my silk-screen shirt. I can start to smell the odor emanating from it now. Shit.

Contreau finally turns back to me.

“You stepped in shit, Montaperto. You’re not going to jail. No, you’re not even going to be expelled. Not even suspended. We’re going to let Mr. Silverstein here deal with you, in the way he thinks best.”

My heartbeat becomes almost regular immediately.

“But know this, son - I’m going to be watching you.”

He makes a gesture with his hand like a gun.  

“Mess up once.”

He pantomimes a shot to my head and smiles.

It isn’t a very friendly smile either, in my opinion.

Even though I’m heavily relieved, I’m also exceedingly suspicious. Why are they letting me off so easy? What kind of secret plot is going on here?

“Wh-what about Na-Na?”

“Don’t worry about Johnson, son, we’re gonna take care of him.

He chuckles, as he cracks his knuckles, one by one.

Oh yeah, don’t worry about that.”

I step slowly towards the door, half-expecting some kind of booby trap to befall me, but none does. I exit the interrogation room and breathe deeply - it’s a troubled breath, though. This whole thing was way too easy. I stumble uncomfortably through the hallways, awaiting the bell for my fifth period class. I begin to experience a cyclone of emotions, from distrust to queasiness, to a sense of being castrated by Contreau - without anaesthesia. Followed by the skeavy sensation of hundreds of lice crawling all over my body. I want to scrub myself in a steaming shower. Fuck! I fucking ratted out Na-Na Johnson! Fear and sadness finally overtake the skeaviness.