Chapter Eleven

All the way home I tried on different excuses for why Mr. Sfinkter did what he did. I needed a reason. I needed to believe that this man wouldn’t be so cruel.

If he was really as nasty as he appeared, then what were all those people that he mentioned really like? Even the other teachers thought he was great. There had to be something more to him.

He did it to prepare us for the “real world,” for things to come.

Once he did what he said he was going to do with my book, it would prove that he did want to help his students and not just put them down to build himself up.

By the time I got in the door, I’d made that excuse fit quite nicely. It had to fit. If it didn’t, what would that say about everyone he’d told me about who looked up to him and were his close friends? What would it say about me, that I would defend such a person?

No, I thought. Whatever Mr. Sfinkter is doing, he’s doing it for the best. Preparing us all for the disappointment that’s bound to come in life.

At home that disappointment was everywhere.

Dad worked for a construction company and the only time he talked about his job was to bitch about the boss. Mom was a nurse and I always had to listen to her saying how useless most doctors were.

I hadn’t told either of them about the book. There wasn’t any point.

I went upstairs when I got home and read until 6:00, until the news came on. Now that I wasn’t hanging out with Chill, it was the only time that I got to see Orchid, so I watched it even more religiously than before.

I was still thinking about what had happened in class that day when the Crime Stoppers segment came on. It was about a man suspected of flashing women in the west end of the city. The description was of a large heavyset man in his forties with a beard and bushy orange hair. A composite sketch of the suspect appeared on the screen.

Staring back at me was Mr. Sfinkter. My world came crashing down.

“It can’t be!” I said out loud. “It can’t be! How could he have fooled so many people? How could I have been so stupid?”

And then, just before the sketch left the screen, I saw, in the corner, Chill’s unreadable symbol of original design.

“He’s gone too far this time,” I said. “He’s gone too far!”

I paced the room, trying to decide what to do. Should I call the police? Should I call the television station? Should I call Chill? Should I call Mr. Sfinkter?

I went downstairs to where my parents were setting the table for dinner.

“I need to ask you guys something,” I said.

“What’s up?” Dad asked.

“Well...” I started, and I stopped.

“You see, Chill...” I tried again.

Mom stopped what she was doing and looked at me.

“Chill what?” she encouraged.

“Chill, he...”

I couldn’t do it.

“Nothing.”

“Well it must be something,” Mom said.

“No, really, it’s just a school thing. To do with a project. But I think I just figured it out. Thanks,” I said and ran up the stairs.

“Hey,” Dad called after me. “It’s dinnertime.”

“I’m not hungry,” I yelled back.

For the rest of the night I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling, wondering what to do.