I sit on the toilet and play Temple Run on my phone. This may be the furthest I’ve gotten on the game, but who really cares? It’s an endless running game, the tiny 3rd-person character condemned to run along the tip top of the temple for eternity. There is no winning. There is only progress that will be squandered.

Footsteps approach the bathroom, coupled with the loud chortling of meatheads ditching class. I turn the volume down and pinch my ass, curbing the bombastic, toilet water-rattling fart that was about to exit.

I recognize one of the obnoxious laughs. It’s Jim Evans and it sounds like he’s having a good day, which means it’s a crap day for everyone else. He was rather meek on the days he showed up with bruises on his arms. On the days his wino father was not around, he had a huge chip on his shoulder, a shoulder that came an inch above everyone else’s head in the 7th grade.

“Ugh,” says Jim. His voice echoes off the concrete walls. “Someone’s takin’ a shit.”

My heart stops. Though my shirt is still on and my pants are around my ankles, I feel naked. There is a silence in the restroom. After a moment, I think I hear whispers.

What are they saying?

BAM! Someone slams the stall door. Giggles follow.

I won’t say anything. They might recognize my voice. Though, if I’m honest, they likely won’t. Not many know me, at this school, just a few friends from my neighborhood whom I goof off with on the bus ride home. That’s my favorite part of the school day, the bus ride home. Everything else is mind-numbing bullshit.

There is silence and it rings in my ears until it hurts. My thoughts are broken when a wet wad of toilet paper sails over the stall and smacks the floor beside my feet. More giggles follow. I want to yell at them, but it won’t matter. I have to wait it out.

Of course, there is Ms. Hornsby to worry about. She will be expecting me back, and I’ve been gone for a while already.

Oh no, I think. They’ll know. They will all know I was taking a shit!

I have to get out of here.

WAP!

Another wad of wet tissue smacks me in the face before it slops to the floor. I remove my left leg from the coils of my pants and slam my foot into the stall door. The whole stall shakes and their giggles are even louder, now. I may have just emboldened them.

Jim’s dumb laugh echoes.

“Tuh-huh-ha-huh,” he chuckles. “This man is literally taking the shit of his life.”

Dammit. I’m gonna get detention. I have to get out of here. I’ve got to get back to class so I can learn the parts of a cell, for some reason.

Wait, I know! There is something that nobody in all of middle school wants to be called. Something that, when he is charged with it, will cause any 7th-grade dude to go red and silent with shame. Something that deflects all bullies and causes them to question just how often they’re really checking out girls’ asses.

“Fuck off,” I say. “You guys gay, or something?”

There is silence… followed by a few surprised laughs.

“The fuck you just say to me?” says Jim. “Who’s in there?”

Dammit, I fucked up.

There is a shuffle as Jim drops to the floor to look under the stall. He must see my shoes, but it isn’t enough, because he goes full peeping tom as he peers through that inexplicable gap between the stall door and the divider.

“Fuckin’ Barry,” he says. “You callin’ me gay?”

“N-No,” I say. “Just… please stop throwing stuff.”

“I’m kicking your ass after lunch. When the bell rings and we all go outside, come find me.”

“No, it’s fine. I don’t wanna fight.”

“Come find me, or I’ll come find you.”

The three leave. Their chatters and giggles fade.

Dazed, I stand and pull up my pants. I hadn’t even crapped, and though there is still some room to be made in my gut before lunch, I can’t be away from class any longer.

I wash my hands and wipe them on my black collared shirt. That’s dress code, here; black or white collared shirt with khaki pants. Thus, the hallways are a sea of black and white and dull brownish-yellow. Like cattle, we are syphoned through the prison-like halls to our classroom destinations, where we learn everything there is to know about unimportant things, leaving out all of the important things we’ll one day realize we need to know. It is rumored that our school’s architect designed prisons, but that rumor may just be the silly brainchild of sophomoric grade school minds.

***

I take a deep breath as I grip the door handle of my science classroom. Through the small window on the door, the plastic skeleton ogles me with its toothy grin.

Ha ha, it seems to say.

Ha ha. That’s what the class is about to say.

Ha ha. That’s what all the girls in class are going to think every time they see me.

I sigh and open the door. I walk in and Ms. Hornsby stands by the promethean board, pointing to a diagram that outlines the process of mitosis. She concludes a point and then she looks at me with her hawklike eyes that gaze past her beak of a nose.

“Well,” she says, “look who it is.”

Fuck, I think. Shut the hell up.

I expect laughter from the class. But I look and everyone just seems bored. Lamar Johnston has his face tucked between his folded arms, his snores growing louder by the second. Michelle Michaels reads a book about dragons. Matthew Richards looks more concerned with what’s under his nails than with how long I’ve been in the bathroom.

And Blake, she seems to be texting under her desk. She should be careful. It’s more obvious than she thinks.

A slight relief runs through me as I realize that no one noticed or cared how long I was gone. Well, no one besides Ms. Hornsby, but I don’t wanna be friends with Ms. Hornsby, and I don’t wanna kiss Ms. Hornsby, so I really don’t care what she thinks.

The relief washes away, however, when I remember Jim and how he’s gonna kick my ass after lunch. It is 3rd period, now, and lunch is in 20 minutes.

We go to lunch and I’m not hungry. I leave the brown paper lunch bag in my backpack, where it will stay and grow hot and stale on the bus later. I sit and listen to my peers talk about dicks and vaginas and who kissed who at Fun Gym last Friday night. I don’t listen, though. I stare off at the lunch tables beyond—endless columns of students who sit and eat like pigs munching from a trough—and I catch Jim’s stare. He sits between his two goofy buddies and he eyeballs me. At first, I think he doesn’t see me, but then he brings to fingers to his face and points to his eyeballs and then at me. Then, he jabs his fist against his own jaw. It is pedestrian symbolism, I assume, for what he’s gonna do to me in 15 minutes.

Nope!

Not today. I don’t wanna get my ass beat. I’ve heard that Jim does mixed martial arts after school and sometimes on weekends. I think of all the ways he could hurt me, all the ways he could bend or break my various limbs.

I need a safe haven.

I wanna stay in the cafeteria, but the teachers don’t allow it unless it’s raining outside. Plus, Jim might still have the balls to kick my ass in the lunchroom. It’s as good a place as any.

I can’t go to my 4th period classroom.

God, the stupid rules at this stupid school.

Then, I have an idea.

It’s an idea that will get me in some trouble and get me a tongue-lashing from my parents, but that’s better than a broken arm or a broken leg… or broken arms and legs. I mean, the guy does martial arts, he can twist me into a pretzel if he wants.

So, I stand up and quickly think of the dumbest but most effective thing I can do to get myself sent to the principal’s office. I remember watching something on NatGeo about protective custody for criminals. I guess this will be the same sort of thing.

I look around for the teacher that suffers fools the very least. I don’t have to search for long. I have found my victim.

Mr. Norton. Six foot five, bald, and a deep commanding voice like a drill sergeant. He once overheard a kid call him a dick. Mr. Norton made said kid call his father in front of the entire class to tell him what he’d done.

I think Mr. Norton is a prime target.

I approach him. He eats pasta salad with okra from a plastic container. The container is just close enough to the edge of the table…

With no hesitation, I reach forth and slide the container across the table. The open container flips at the edge and spills its contents on the floor. A sudden Ooo! emanates from the nearby students, the promise of an event so enticing to their weary eyes and ears that have seen and heard nothing all day but a slew of useless information.

Mr. Norton shoots out of his seat like a missile.

“What the hell are you doing?!” he shouts.

I don’t know if I’ve ever heard a teacher swear before. I stand there like an idiot and I kinda zone out as he curses up a hurricane. But now, all the laughing and cheering students around me know I have balls, and they won’t suspect I did it just to get out of a fight with Jim.

Because who’s crazy enough to do a thing like that?

***

I’m in the administrator’s office and I watch the clock. My buddies, Gavin and his twin brother Carl, came by to visit me an hour prior while the administrator was gone, congratulating me for my show of rebellion. Since then, I’ve been real bored.

I landed a 3-day suspension. Fine. Least I don’t have to come to school. Yet, I doubt my parents are gonna let me sit around and play Black Ops the whole time. No, I’ll be confined to my room with a periodic snack and a copy of The Hunger Games to thumb through.

Good god, my mother will be beside herself when she hears what I did.

There is something weird about the clock on the wall. School lets out at 3:45. It is now 3:46 and the big hand hasn’t moved a smidge, even though it feels like 5 minutes have passed.

“Is that clock broken?” I ask.

Ms. Gray sits at her desk and does god knows what on her computer, her chin wedged between her index and middle finger.

“No,” says Ms. Gray.

“Are you sure? It seems like it’s been –

“Sweetie, I’m sure. Just sit there and do some homework.”

I sink into my seat and watch the clock. The red second hand still moves around the clock’s face.

Tick…

Tick…

Tick…

The loud bleeping of the intercom fills the room, followed by a voice. It’s Mr. Striker, and he calls the numbers of the busses that have arrived.

“Teachers, please release all students that ride Bus 231, Bus 232, Bus 236…”

I hold my breath. Mine is 243.

“…and Bus 241.”

I sigh and roll my eyes as the intercom cuts out. I look at the clock and the long hand still hasn’t moved.

“Ms. Gray,” I say. “I really think that clock’s broken.”

“What does it matter?” says Ms. Gray. “Your bus needs to be called, anyway.”

I get quiet for a moment.

“Can I use the restroom?” I ask.

“I don’t know, can you?”

I cringe on the inside.

“May I?” I ask.

“I guess,” says Ms. Gray, as if relieving one’s bladder is some kind of frivolous diversion.

I leave the office. I step into the silent and spooky hallway. The walls are lined with lockers and they all look the same, the school’s policy forbidding their decoration, leaving them nameless, faceless squares that house deceptively colorful textbooks.

I enter the bathroom and take a leak. As I wash my hands, there is noise in the halls. At first, I think it must be a group of students, on their way to their school bus. But the voices multiply by the second, until it sounds as though the hallway is filled to the brim with kids. That is odd at this time of day.

Maybe there’s a basketball game, I think. Or maybe a school play. Not that anyone goes to those.

A few dudes with backpacks enter the restroom, talking to one another. Their hair is wet and combed, like they showered an hour before. I leave the restroom and the hall is filled with kids who are packed so tight they can barely move.

My backpack is on my back, and that’s weird because I don’t recall putting it on before I left Ms. Gray’s office.

I think that I must find Mr. Striker. I see him pace the hall. I approach and tap on his shoulder.

“Mister Striker?” I say.

He turns and looks at me like I’m the biggest nuisance in the world.

“Um, did my bus get called, yet?”

“Bus?”

He looks at me like I’m a martian.

“Yeah,” I say. “Bus 243?”

“Son, there ain’t no bus. It’s eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Huh?”

I am about to protest but Mr. Striker is distracted by two tussling preteens near the boys bathroom.

I notice that my hair is wet. I grip the strands and smell my fingers. Shampoo and conditioner. Like I just showered.

I feel like I’m in a dream. Shit, I could be. I pinch myself but nothing happens. The first bell rings, the one that tells the kids to get the fuck to class, but that doesn’t stop Mr. Norton from patrolling the halls like a dictator and shouting at us to stop piddling and get to our classrooms. I wait to see if he’ll give me a snide gaze, but he doesn’t see me.

I think that the previous events must have been a dream, a dream I dreamt while on the bus, perhaps. Yes, it must have been a dream.

***

I go to first period. It’s Mr. Stevenson’s class. Boy, he’s a weirdo. He looks like WWE wrestler Jeff Hardy, right down to the long hair and the spike-shaven beard. School policy requires that he hides his tattoos and so he slaps a pair of Jeff Hardy armbands onto his forearms every day. It’s October, so he plays a CD of horror movie soundtracks while we work. His classroom always smells like a mix of cheap cologne and air freshener. On the days when footballers have practice before school, the room has a tinge of B.O.

I’m about to copy down today’s essential question from the board, when I hear someone whisper my name.

“Psst! Barry!”

I turn around and it’s Polly. She sits a few rows back. She always takes an interest in me, which is a shame because I only wish she was cuter.

“What’s up?” I whisper.

“You ready for this afternoon?”

“What do you mean?”

She does a punching motion. I raise my eyebrow.

“Your fight,” she says. “With Jim. Are you guys still having it after lunch?”

My heart sinks. I turn around and stare at my desk.

What the hell is going on?

Mr. Stevenson comes over and scrutinizes me.

“You good, there, Barry?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“You good? You look pale.”

“Can I use the restroom?”

“You may. Should I call the nurse?”

“N-No. I-I’ll be okay.”

I run to the restroom and look in the mirror. This is bizarre. It’s like I skipped over my suspension and here I am, back at school. Skipped over the bus ride home, the scolding from my parents, the three days of being grounded, this morning, and the bus ride here. And, perhaps worst of all, Jim still wants to fight me.

Maybe I am sick. Maybe I should go see the nurse. I return to Mr. Stevenson’s class and approach his desk.

“I-I think I need to go home,” I say. “Can you call the nurse?”

“Sure,” says Mr. Stevenson. He dials and sends me there.

The nurse checks on me and I tell her I need my mom to come get me. She calls my mom and then tells me that my mother is on her way. I sit and watch the clock. It is nine. My mom’s work is about 20 minutes out. Take into account her walking to and from her car, I’d say she’ll be here at 9:25.

The clock ticks away and I watch it until I almost go mad. It reaches 9:24, and then it stops.

Another broken clock? No fucking way!

“Nurse?” I call out. “Is my mom here?”

“Not yet, sweetie.”

“Can you call and see if she left?”

“She did, I promise.”

“How do you know?”

“She told me she was on her way out.”

“But –

“Hun, just relax. Play some games on your phone.”

Yes, maybe she’s right.

I pull out my phone and play Temple Run. I tell myself I won’t look at the clock until I’ve gotten to level 5. I get to level 5 and I look up.

The damn clock is still at 9:24. I go to text my mom, but my cellphone service, it’s not working. That does it. I hop off the patient bench and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” the nurse asks.

“Bathroom,” I say.

“You need a hall pass.”

I swear under my breath as I reach back to grab the stupid leg bone hall pass that hangs from a hook. I enter the empty hall. I run down the hall and my footsteps echo. I slow my pace, as teachers often stick their heads out when they hear a student running down the hall.

Just gonna wait for mom in the carpool line. I have to get out of here. I can’t be in this damn building.

I power walk to the double doors. Morning light pours in through the windows. Freedom! It’s like heaven’s light and I already can’t wait to get outside and feel that crisp October air and –

I push on the door… and it’s locked.

How can it be locked from the inside? This isn’t right. What if there was a school shooter?

If there were a school shooter, though, at least I’d be able to get out of here, by way of gun death! Right?

Jeez, what am I saying?

“‘Scuse me?”

I turn around and there’s Noah, the rodent-like 1st-period hall monitor.

Ah, Christ, gimme a break…

“Do you have a pass?” Noah asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s right here.”

“And where are you coming from?”

“Nurse’s.”

“You’re trying to leave school with a hall pass. You do realize that, right?”

“You know what?” I say. “Get outta my face. I don’t have to tell you anything.”

I shove on the door but it won’t open.

“What the hell is wrong with this goddamn door?” I shout.

Noah now has his walkie talkie out and murmurs into it.

“What are you doing with that?” I ask.

“Calling Mister Striker,” he says. “You aren’t supposed to be leaving school, right now.”

“My mom’s picking me up, you idiot! Tell him to unlock these damn doors!”

“Calm down, bro.”

“I’m not your bro!”

I lose it. I run at Noah and snatch the walkie and smash it to the floor. He looks at me in shock as I hear Mr. Striker shout from down the hall while he sprints toward us.

“Hey, hey!” Mr. Striker yells. “What are you doing?”

“I need to leave!” I shout.

Striker approaches me and places a hand on my back. I yank away.

“No!” I shout. “I’m not going anywhere!”

“You’re going to Ms. Gray’s office,” says Striker.

“No! I’m not going!”

“You’ll go, or Officer Deaver will drag you there.”

“Help!” I shout. “Let me out of here!”

Officer Deaver arrives at the top of the hall and starts toward us, quickening his pace as he gets further.

I know what I have to do.

I run.

You must understand that the school is shaped like an ‘E.’ The vertical line is the main hallway, and the three horizontal lines are the halls for the three grade levels; 6th, 7th, and 8th. So, there is only one place I can go.

I run to the nearest classroom and open the door. I run into Ms. Anderson’s history class. She sits at her desk, eating as usual, while her students goof around. Everyone sort of stops as I rush to the window.

The classroom windows are emergency exits. It has to be open.

I get to the window and pull on the lock. The lock pops off. Yes! I push hard on the window.

But it doesn’t open.

I push as hard as I can. It still doesn’t budge.

“What on earth are you doing?” Ms. Anderson shouts with her southern twang.

I don’t care at this point. I barely hear her over the circus animal jeering of the other students. This is surely the greatest thing they’ve seen all week, hell, all month.

I see one way out. I pick up an empty desk and hoist it up, but then I drop it. It’s heavy.

I hear Officer Deaver’s footsteps get closer. He’s running, now.

I heave and use all my strength to pick up the desk. This time, I hoist it to my chest and swing it…

Once…

Twice…

Thrice…

And release.

The desk crashes into the window…

…and bounces right off.

Impossible! That glass should have broken!

The students utter a collective holler as Officer Deaver enters and tackles me to the floor. I scream and yell and struggle in protest, but Officer Deaver is built like a bull. He slaps the cuffs on me and hauls my screaming ass down to the police office.

***

My wrists hurt as the tight cuffs sink into the bone. Officer Deaver is on the phone with my mother.

“Let me talk to her,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am,” says the officer. “Yes ma’am… Mhmm… Okay… Buh-bye.”

He hangs up.

“I said I wanted to talk to her,” I say.

“She was about to get in her car,” says the officer. “Talking while driving is a crime. So, I can’t let you call her, right now.”

“How can she be getting in her car? She was already on her way to get me. What time is it? What is going on?”

“Son, calm down.”

“No! I’m not gonna calm down!”

“Son –

“Don’t call me that!”

Officer Deaver rubs his face in a tired manner and takes a deep breath.

“Hold up,” he says. “I’m gonna get you some water. I’ll be right back.”

The officer exits. He leaves the door open a smidge. I hear his footsteps grow further away. I stare at the cracked door.

I stare…

And I stare…

And I stand up. I rush to the door and turn around and, with my cuffed hands, I open it. I run into the hall, no doubt looking absurd with my hands behind my back. I hear a few teachers or staffers shout “Hey! Hey!” but I ignore them.

I sprint down the main hall and I arrive at the door to the front office. It’s a long shot, but I try it.

The door opens.

I run inside the front office. The receptionist, Mrs. Ackerman, sits behind the front desk with her triangular spectacles and DMV attitude. God, I hate her the most. The way she leers at students and seems to enjoy telling them no, the way she turns away old folks that come to pick their grandchild up from school, the sass in her voice whenever she speaks.

She sees my predicament and looks surprised.

“Whoa, whoa,” she says. “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting the hell out of here!” I say.

I run for the exit. The exit I’ve walked out of a thousand times, the exit that is always unlocked from both sides, the exit that parents and grandparents exit through every few minutes.

And now, it’s the exit that won’t open, even though I just slammed into it like a middle linebacker. I bounce off the door and fall to the floor.

Mrs. Ackerman approaches me.

“What in the world?” she says.

She helps me up off the floor and sits me down in one of the waiting chairs. I catch my breath and feel tears well up in my eyes.

Come on, dumbass. Don’t cry. You’re 12 years old. Don’t cry.

“I don’t understand,” I sob. “I can’t leave.”

“Oh, shh-shh-shh,” Mrs. Ackerman coos. “I know. I know.”

“You… know?”

“Yes. Of course you can’t leave.”

“But it’s school! I have to leave!”

“No, Barry. It isn’t school.”

What is she talking about?

I use my shoulder to wipe the tears from my eyes. I can now see that every window of the front office, including the one that looks out at the main hallway, has only pitch darkness on the other side. The office is now lit dimly by a few lamps.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Barry,” says Mrs. Ackerman. “Don’t you see? You’re not in school. You’re not twelve years old. You are… you were forty-four years old.”

“Forty-four?”

“That’s right.”

Mrs. Ackerman moseys to her desk and grabs a binder. She opens it and touches her thumb to her tongue and flips through it. She looks at me, for a moment.

“Here,” she says.

She points at me and the handcuffs disappear.

“How’d you do that?” I ask.

“That? Oh, that’s nothing. Now, let’s see here…”

Mrs. Ackerman flips through a few more pages.

“Here we are,” she says. “Barry Brown. In for adultery, failing to report the overdose of your mistress, emotional abuse, physical abuse, soliciting prostitutes, indulging sexual appetites, substance abuse…”

It all comes flooding back to me.

My wife screaming my face off.

Me screaming at her.

The coke, the booze, the strip clubs… the hookers.

But the hookers kept me coming back, didn’t they? They kept me coming back to my wife, and if a paid fuck keeps me coming back to her then who’s to say that’s wrong?

More comes flooding back. Daphne, the skinny stripper with hips that won’t quit and jet black hair like Elvira.

Her house.

Her bedroom.

The needles.

The bent spoon with a torch lighter beneath it that fried the smack.

Getting up in the middle of the night to take a piss, only to then find Daphne on her back with vomit trickling down both cheeks.

Remembering that no one else knows I’m there, followed by the wiping of every doorknob and countertop that I touched before I flee into the night.

No one knew a thing.

No one ever learned a thing.

“Am I in a dream?” I ask.

Mrs. Ackerman removes her glasses and glares at me with eyes that are now orange and reptilian.

“No,” she says. “You’re in Hell.”

“No.”

“Oh yes, Barry. Old Nick always knew how much you hated school. And now… you get to be there for eternity.”

I stand up and run to the door, the one which leads back to the main hall.

“No,” I say. “No, no, no, no, no!”

I burst into the main hall and there is sunlight again. I sprint and, as I do, the hall just gets longer…

And longer…

And longer…

And longer…

My lungs are about to burst. I stop and bend over and place my hands on my knees and I cry like a baby. I protest.

“NOOOOOO!!!”

I hear footsteps. I look up and there’s Jim. He approaches with intent, his hands already balled up, his lower jaw hanging up and over his upper jaw in a vindictive, animalistic underbite.

“There you are,” he says. “Looks like you stepped outta class at the wrong time, bud.”

No use in running. I’m too tired, anyway.

I haven’t been in my personal Hell for very long, but I’ve been here just long enough to know how this works.

I know Jim will beat my ass.

I know the timeline will skip over my time recovering. It’ll skip right to the very next time I come to school.

And it may even just repeat these events. It’ll repeat ‘em over and over again so that I get my ass beat by Jim for eternity.

As I wait helplessly for Jim to arrive and beat me up, I gaze out the window for some semblance of comfort.

Something catches my eye.

There’s the carpool line. My mom’s light blue minivan sits parked there. She, herself, sits in the driver seat, periodically checking her phone, looking in the mirror, checking her makeup, grabbing a sip of water… waiting patiently for me.

And she will be waiting forever.