[What follows is an excerpt from EDUCATING LONGFELLOW, my new novel. It’s set at Adams Academy, a fictional New England boarding school. The important players are Marshall Troublefield, 30, a Desert Storm vet, a newly minted M.A. in English, and a brand-new teacher at the school; Natty Sewall, a new ninth-grader from Wiscasset, Maine; and Longfellow Burke, another new ninth-grader, good-looking, charismatic, and something of a mystery. The two ninth-graders have pissed off an upperclassman in the dorm. The book is on Kindle, at Amazon, available for readers to purchase here.]
NATTY HAD MADE the third soccer team, the Sarge’s team, without much difficulty. He was fit from his running, and his skills were more than sufficient; furthermore, at least a third of the team was nearly as small as he was. But the season had not started yet, so on this Saturday afternoon he found himself in a pick-up game of fourth formers in front of the east dorms, about six-a-side. Two girls from their class showed up, clearly at least junior varsity material. They were skilled and tough, and he liked playing with them. Then one of them cleared the ball right into his face, filling his brain with bright lights and ringing bells. When his eyes cleared, he wiped sudden red from his mouth and chin.
“Jesus. Sorry,” said the girl.
“I’m okay. It’s my nose. I’ll go up and get a washcloth. It’ll stop soon. Always does.”
He wiped again with his hand and flung a spangled spray of blood across the grass. Then he ran into the dormitory.
The fire door from the stairs had been propped open, and he entered his floor quietly, blocking the leaky nose with his fingers. He was about to go into the bathroom when he heard a sobbing noise from the cubbies. He turned and crept closer. Peering down the center aisle he saw a dark-haired boy staring with apparent fascination into the last cubby on the left, the one next to his own. He heard the sobbing noise again, and a soft gasp, and finally Longfellow’s terrified stutter: “P-p-p-please. D-d-don’t.”
And then, another voice: “Va-va-voom, motherfucker.”
He rushed quietly to the Sarge’s door, tapped at it, then opened it and pushed through. Mr. Troublefield was stretched out in a beanbag chair, a football game on his tiny television set.
“Natty? What the hell –“
He remembered the blood on his face and hands, and held a gory finger to his lips. “Shh. Quick. Come. Help.”
The Sarge shot past him like water from a fire hose. Out in the foyer they could both hear the quiet sobbing, and then a sudden swooshing-farting noise and “Va-va-voom, asshole.”
Later Natty would try to tell the others how fast the Sarge moved, but the description always seemed inadequate to him. The dark-haired boy was still staring transfixed into the cubby when the Sarge took him by the belt and jerked him completely over his head onto the floor behind him (“The fucker never had a clue,” Natty would say); then the Sarge darted into the cubby and the big redhead came sailing out of it, crashing into the opposite dividing post, still on his feet until the Sarge took his arm and somehow slammed him face down onto the floor. When he tried to rise, the Sarge put his foot into the small of his back and said very gently, “Stay there. Flat. Do not move.”
These actions took less than six seconds. Natty moved down the center aisle, hearing the Sarge speaking softly, almost cooing, “Don’t worry, buddy, it’s over. They are all through, believe me. Now leave that Reddi-whip can right there – I want it – and go clean yourself up. Take a shower. Did they hurt you?”
Longfellow said nothing. As Natty approached, he could see that his pants were pulled down.
“O.K. You want Natty to help you? He needs to clean up, too.” He turned to Natty. “They do that to you?”
“No. Soccer. Bloody nose.”
“O.K.,” said Longfellow. “I’m O.K.” He stood, pulling up his pants, and took a towel. Natty saw on the bed a red-and-white aerosol can of ReddiWip.
“Afterwards I’d like to go with you to the infirmary. Just to see that you’re O.K. But first, I’ll deal with these two.” He looked down at the boys on the floor. Natty had never seen such an expression of frigid disgust. “Get up, pond scum. Your bad day is just beginning.”
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