The Ward

By Jonathan Wani

It all started when Kenny Brigsby wouldn’t stop bugging me. That big ugly fucker just would not stop. It’s not my fault Dad wanted me to take Muay Thai classes; he said it would make me stronger. Three swift roundhouse kicks to Kenny’s jaw would verify my father’s prediction. The principal at school, this awful old man named Mr. Spooning, told my parents that because of my aggressive behavior I would have to see a psychiatrist specializing in children such as myself. Such as myself? What did that mean exactly? Someone who is highly intelligent yet lacks the physical characteristics common to other children, thus leading to him getting harassed and badgered? I acted in self defense, I say.

No one listens to a fourteen year old. My suspension from school would last through the end of the academic calendar, and I had three weeks to either comply with my principal or find a new school. I didn’t like the fact that kids who were bullied were the ones with the supposed “problems.” What a load of shit; a kid gets picked on and instead of just taking it he sticks it to the bully. They make movies out of such displays of courage. But I was getting punished.

My mother was extremely upset with me. You see, she was brought up in a very religious household, where hitting and aggressive behavior were not tolerated. She was appalled when my Dad would let me take classes in an ancient Thai fighting art designed to impair and debilitate your opponents by the breaking of limbs and joints. Dad was ecstatic. It was the first time I can really remember him being proud of me. “You really showed that guy, huh Wes?”

“Yea Pop,” I remember saying, “I kicked his ass.” I could see the smile on my father’s face. Not one of those fake fatherly smiles, where a father is supposed to smile. It was a real smile, a sign that he was happy his son could defend himself. Watching him like that was the happiest moment in my life.

So how did I get here, in Northwest Connecticut? Well, Mom was pissed. Really pissed. More distraught than either my father or I recognized. Apparently, she called a friend of hers who had a daughter who got into trouble at school. This friend suggested that my mother look into boarding schools; I can hear those two birds talking now, “Oh, if it weren’t for that school, God knows where Sally would be!”

Yea, well bitch, Sally went to the best goddamn boarding school in the country, where a C+ average and a 1030 on your boards gets you into Princeton or any other Ivy. My lovely mother shoved me into the Ward School; a strict, Lutheran, yet thank god co-ed school, in the sticks of Connecticut. Ward wasn’t exactly considered a prestigious school (only ranked 42nd out of 64 boarding schools). This is my first year here, and as a sophomore, I’m just glad I’m not a freshman. You should see what these crazy fucking prep school seniors do to these poor schmucks. Back home, the worse a freshman would get is a beat down, maybe just a couple of punches in the legs. But these malicious bastards wanted blood. Take for instance Vikram. He’s a frosh, a tiny Indian kid who didn’t speak that much. He’s polite, respectful to his elders. So what do the seniors do? They charge into this kid’s room at three in the morning, grab his bed and flip it over while he is still in it, which sandwiched him between a mattress and the harsh steel bed frame. The flip leaves Vikram confused, bloodied, and just plain demoralized. Why do such a thing? Were these kids beaten when they were young? Maybe they were molested? All in all they were extremely fucked in the head.

There aren’t too many Jim’s or Pete’s here, so a name like Wesley Clifton Sinclair fit in just right. My family was wealthy, as my new blazers and shoes showed. I thought it was bullshit that someone would just be your friend just cause you had loot, but it was the absolute truth here. Superficial ness and outlandish displays of wealth are not only tolerated, they are common nature.

A couple of nights ago my roommate Samuel Thorboard Rockford III, known as Rock, and I were walking through the halls of our dorm at night searching for butts in the trash cans only to see several seniors in the hallway. It was late; ergo seeing so many guys out in the hallway signifies that something is up. Sure enough, the outside door opened and four extremely hot and inebriated senior girls ran in. You must understand Ward’s disciplinary policy;

“Any student, who is either caught with, in the presence of, or under the influence of any drug, non-prescribed or illegal, or any form of alcohol will be expelled immediately.”

Kind of a bummer. Graduation is only a few weeks away, and a senior girl was just expelled for smoking a joint in the woods. I might add that the family of said girl was not very wealthy, nor had they donated any money to the school. Yet there are girls running around campus drunk, after “lights out.” It just didn’t make sense to me at the time.

My teachers here all sucked; I hate these pricks. I used to love all my teachers back home, maybe because they actually taught. These teachers here, their idea of teaching is for you to read, then write down what you read, and then take a test on what you wrote down. Fucking groundbreaking. What if you didn’t understand the fucking literature or mechanics of a problem, as I didn’t? Well, tough shit new guy, get used to it.

My English teacher was this British asshole named Stuart Baggington. All the kids just called him Bags, and to call him a teacher would be an injustice to teachers everywhere. His class consisted of a daily writing exercise, then a quiz, followed by a reading period. Absolutely no talking at all, no interaction with classmates. I wanted to kill myself halfway through the first day. I wondered if Bags had a trauma to his soul, since he displayed absolutely no emotion at all. My other core professors were Rupert Pink for Chemistry, Gim Plaza for Math, and finally, Tiny Tom Miller, who taught everything yet, knew nothing. Tiny Tom and Gim also had the pleasure of being my dorm parents, which meant they actually lived in our dorms. Tiny Tom had an inferiority complex about his height. Rock was short, about 5'6", and he made Tommy look like a baby. Gim was your typical college jock who thought he was better than everyone else just because he played sports and got laid. What made Plaza’s job all the more difficult was that he looked like a student. His face was extremely immature; as if he never shaved before. And the worst part was the way he talked, which can only be described as part stoner, part surfer, and part preppy. Both of these individuals had a hard time dealing with the boys in our dorm, Spalding.

With the way the rules were set up, students had to go to extremes if they wanted to do any drugs, drink, or simply smoke a butt. The first week I got here, these two juniors, Joe and John taught me and my friend Mike Hurley how to smoke out of the bathroom. It was very risky to smoke in your room, since you have no way of really getting the smoke out. The bathroom has these huge industrial strength exhaust fans. As soon as you turn on one shower, the fans go on. These fans are so strong that if you put on all of the showers on their hottest settings, you would not see any steam at all. So Joe and John give me and Mike the whole spcheal, no smoking during the day, only two people and one butt at a time, and try to look like you are actually going to take a shower.

So what happens the first time Mike and I go to smoke in the bathroom? Fucking Plaza comes in! We heard the door open, put out the butt, each run into a shower stall, and waited. Plaza had clogged his own toilet in his apartment so he had to come in here to take a shit. We are dead quiet, pretending to shower. The monotonous beat of the water falling steadies the place. Sounds like Plaza shouldn’t have eaten so many tacos. He leaves without saying anything. Maybe this isn’t worth the trouble.

I have been saving these four hits of acid since I bought them a few weeks ago on an art trip to the Guggenheim. Some Rastafarian in Central Park told me and my friends “wud be flyan maan, ina no time.” I figured that since Rock was small, he would only eat ½ of a tab, and Pat, Hurley, and myself would split the remaining three and ½ tabs. We walk outside to the soccer field no one plays soccer on. Mike and me sit down on the grass about 15 feet apart and stare into the sky. Clouds begin to form shapes in my mind. A bunny rapidly changes into a large pair of breasts. One of the breasts has a nipple ring. The sun was just starting to set behind the mountains, and it cast a shadowy blanket on campus. As soon as the sun disappeared a virtual boom went off. It’s as if the sun exploded. I sit up to find that Rock and Pat were gone. They had either headed off into the woods or gone back to the dorm. Hurley and I look at each other and decide to head back. Each step provides me with a new challenge. I find that my simple motor skills have deteriorated, that I have regressed to the mental level of an infant. Hurls is no better. He hasn’t even been able to stand up yet. After what seems like hours, we stumble up the concrete stairs, and find at the top of the hill the entire school leaving the chapel. Oh my god- WE FORGOT THERE WAS CHAPEL.

Anyone who has a brain knows what’s up. The scene is rather morbid: 500 neatly dressed students and teachers, all dressed in blue blazers, Italian ties, clean slacks, fancy dresses and skirts, walking out of an uplifting chapel service, only to find two shirtless kids wearing Birkenstocks and cargo shorts, in a catatonic state. The two of us know that everything depends on us being able to walk the 150 yards needed to reach the safe house, our dorm. Just don’t look anyone in the eye. One step at a time. Right leg, then the left. Repeat. If only it were that easy. Two deans, Ms. Mastra and Mr. Wellmore swiftly picked us off only 20 feet away from safety. We felt like mice being taken away by eagles. Without saying a word, they rushed us down to the dean’s office. “Whoa whoa, where’s the fire, huh?” said a hapless Hurley.

Upon arriving in the office, we see that Rock was already there. “Where’s Callahan?” asked Ms. Mastra.

“Don’t know, haven’t seen him all day.” What had happened was Rock and Pat decided to walk back to the dorm when Hurley and I were lying down. While walking across the main quad, Rock thought he had seen a dog run by, the same kind of dog he had while growing up. Well, the dog he chased and tackled was Mr. Cromforts. And Mr. Cromforts quickly took Rock down to the Dean’s Office where he explained that Sam had tackled Princess Smunches, and proceeded to kiss, pet, and partially molest the animal. They couldn’t figure out what was wrong with Rock, and when the Deans saw Hurley and me, they snatched us up on sight. Mastra assumed that Pat was in on this tomfoolery as well.

“I am going to ask you this one more time, where is Patrick Callahan?” Ms. Mastra was a short, stocky woman. She was very muscular, and to us, seemed like not a lady to mess with. She had scars on her knuckles, and walked with a slight limp on cold days, probably gained from a bar fight a while back. “If you aren’t going to tell me, well, we will just move on.” She walked over to the cabinet where they held the breathalyzer. Oh, she is so fucking stupid if she thinks we are drunk. I just hope Rock didn’t tell her anything. “Okay, open up funny guy,” assuming she was talking to me. I knew the drill, opened my mouth, gave a good puff of air, and watched as her mind and face searched for answers. She quickly gives Hurley the same drill, and he comes up the same, clean. He can’t even keep his eyes open. Mastra grabs me and takes me into her office. She throws me into this old hard wooden chair, a chair that has seen the ass of more than one scared shitless kid. I could feel the armrest has what felt like claw marks from the scratching of frightened children. Her glaring amber eyes cut through me, “What the fuck did you guys take? C’mon, out with it. The more truthful you are, the better it will be for everyone.”

“Ms. Mastra,” I take a breath, swallow, take another deep breath, “I can honestly tell you, in all honesty (oh my god I’m done), that we are clean. Might I add that your eyes look extra terrifying today.” I cannot tell if she is going to hit me or not. I’m punching out mentally as she walks into the other room, slams the door shut, and begins to grill my comrades. As soon as she reopened the door, my trip ended. Just like that. It’s almost as if a sober fairy came along and kicked me in the balls. I felt completely normal. I now knew that Rock was okay since he only took ½ a hit, I only hoped that Hurls would be straight too. Mastra walks in, looks at me, turns around, and then suddenly stops. She looks back at me, with a look that can only be described as frustration mixed with anger. I smile at her. They had nothing on us. Unless, of course, they gave us spinal taps. This is prep school you know.

The three of us leave the office, and walk back to Spalding, not uttering a single word. Rock looks like he has just faced off with the ghost of Napoleon in a game of Risk, battered and beaten. Hurley looks like he is going to hurl. My face beams with happiness, glory. I love confrontation with authority figures, especially when I come out victorious. Victorious in the sense that I was dead to my rights, and I survived. On arrival, we find Cally in the dorm, still tripping his face off. He had no idea the ordeal that we just endured, and was watching The Wall while wearing nothing but a wetsuit stolen from the boathouse. “Haha, what’s wrong you tossers? Too much to handle?” Oh, this fucker has no idea. I don’t think psychedelics and boarding school mix, at least not at the Ward.

One of the first days here, this senior and I were sharing a smoke and he was telling me about this story about a girl getting caught in her room, with two guys, after lights out. This is a big no no. Nothing to get you booted out of school, but still, considerable trouble. Later on, after a quick inspection of the room, a bottle of vodka and four grams of cocaine are found. This, on the other hand, will lead to expulsion, possibly even the police called and you getting arrested. Well, none of these things happened to this girl. In fact, nothing happened to her. The two boys were expelled with little protest, but nothing happened to the girl. Want to know why, he asked me? Well yea, why? So he goes on, and tell me it just might happen that her last name is the same last name as a very powerful politician. Some might say that this girl is said politician’s daughter. The involvement of this young lady was swept under the carpet. “No fucking way bro, there’s no way...,” I remember saying. Wait and see, he kept saying, just wait and see, as he continued to make the cigarette glow. I never understood what he was trying to say to me, mainly because I though he was full of shit. Turns out he knew what he was talking about.

Like I said, graduation is only a couple of weeks away, and something huge went down last night. Hurley and I are in my room eating Pop Tarts when Rock comes barreling through the door. “You guys, will never believe what happened.”

Tired from running, he needed him a moment to catch his composure. “What the fuck happened Rock?” Hurls said.

“Yea dude, who did you talk to?”

“Never mind that shit- Justin Pelermo and Macy Winbrook,” Rock snapped, referring to two senior Prefects, the chosen few of the student body who run the school, “got caught off campus, in a car, with drugs and booze. Apparently, Mr. Mildred saw them leave...”

“Wait, how did they get a car? Aren’t they both boarders?”

“Well, Charlie lent Justin his car, since Charlie is a day student and all. Ahh shit, what was the last thing I said?”

“Mildred, remember, c’mon Rock.” chimed Hurley.

“Right right, shit, FUCK, he can’t interrupt me like that. Ahh...oh yea, Mildred, well, apparently, that old bastard saw them leave, so he got into his car and followed them. They drove down to the old saw mill, and after they stopped the car, Mildred came back to school to gather up a posse of teachers.” Mr. Mildred was the oldest living member of the teaching staff. He was 83 years old, and held the position of “assistant teaching chair”, which meant that he basically consulted with the headmaster on certain things. No actual teaching; he hated children ever since 1964 when two boys stole his cats and let them run loose during Commencement. He looked well over a hundred, and stank of old pipe tobacco.

“That cold fuck. Why didn’t he just bust em’ himself?”

“Who knows Wes, but Mildred comes back with Bags, Pink, Milloy, and two others. They rush the car, open the door, and Justin’s got his cock in Macy’s mouth! He is so sloshed he thinks he is back home and his friends are fucking with him, so he starts to fight Bags and Pink!! He screaming ‘You mouthafruckas, Ilm gonna killl you all’, slurring his word and shit.” We are all laughing now, as Rock goes on to tell us that after they subdued Justin, they had to take Macy to the hospital because they were afraid she was dead. They were doing heroin, and they feared of an overdose.

“That’s awful, where were they planning on going to school next year?”

“What do you mean?” said Rock, in a mocking tone.

“Well, no top notch school is going to take them now.”

“Wes,” Rock slowly said, “they didn’t get kicked out.” What the fuck, I thought.... How can that be?

“How can that be, bro?” Hurley and Rock went on to explain to me that Justin and Macy weren’t expelled for a number of reasons. One was that they were both prefects of the school. Another was that they had extremely long legacies here at Ward. But the real reason remains. Money, it all comes back to money. Justin’s father was the CEO of a multi-national contracting corporation that rebuilds towns and cities after conflicts. Call him a benefactor of Republican contributions. Macy’s parents were both high ranking attorneys at their respective firms in Los Angeles and New York. Point blank, their families combined donated over $4.3 million in the time that their children have attended Ward. Money is thicker than blood; it wipes away all indiscretions.

Who are these people? A lot of my classmates were the supposed “future” of this country. Doctors, lawyers, politicians, ambassadors. Yet all that these rich brats were taught was money will get you everything; it can also get you out of anything. Like I said, my family is wealthy. But my parents never spoiled me, and they would never attempt to buy me out of trouble. Their logic is if I did something wrong, I’d better be punished so I wouldn’t do it again. It just fucking tickles my nuts that someday Justin will be a senator making laws that favor the rich and Macy will have her own TV show about how you should change your blinds to a color she prefers. This place has taught me some fucked up things.

Someone’s knocking on my door, who the fuck is it? “It’s Mr. Miller, let’s go, Dorm Meeting.” Oh fuck me, dorm meeting? In the common room the entire congregation is assembled. Not only is my dorm here, but the adjacent Smith Hall boys are here as well. All of the senior guys take their accustomed spots up front on coaches, the juniors behind them stading with a few sophs mixed in, and the rest of the sophomores and freshman in the back. A chronological rainbow. Mr. Miller starts off by saying “Okay, I know we don’t usually have dorm meetings on Mondays, but something happened this weekend, something I’m not too proud about.” Oh, this must be good. “I will let Mr. Plaza elaborate.”

“Thank you Mr. Miller. Well, as you all know, I went to Princeton.” What an asshole, he always has to throw that in. “Over the weekend, Princeton played Syracuse in the National Lacrosse Championships.” The room was completely quiet. You could hear the slightest cough and the softest sneeze. “So I come home yesterday, and someone, I don’t know who, someone had rubbed shit all over my door.” Laughter explodes out of everyone like a bomb. There are seniors rolling on the floor with laughter. “Guys, this isn’t, GUYS, THIS ISN’T FUNNY.” His screams are met with more laughter and jubilation. It’s not only that someone had rubbed shit on this guy’s door, but it’s the way he said it that got everyone. Imagine someone who looks stoned all the time, sounds like it too, with his blond hair in a bowl cut, telling you he had shit smeared on his door. Someone has a question, “Mr. Plaza, what kind of shit was it!” After that it was all over. The laughter was so loud that it woke up the school Pastor’s baby three levels beneath us. After the euphoria broke down, Plaza went on to lecture us about how this isn’t the way young men act, yada yada. You would hear the occasional laughter break out every time he said a key word, like “shit” or “crap”.

Little did everyone know that IT WAS PATRICK WHO PUT THE SHIT ON HIS DOOR. Rewind to Saturday night. Hurley, Pat and I were behind the boathouse smoking a joint. We usually stay long enough to smoke just one. There was a fresh pile of dogshit on the ground, so we felt that if someone had recently come by to walk their dog, they wouldn’t come back for a bit. As we sparked up the second j bomb, an idea sparked simultaneously off in my head. “Yo, how sick would it be if we smeared that dogshit all over Plaza’s door?” My friends, at first, looked at me like I had six heads. “C’mon guys, that piece of shit has made our lives miserable. Pat, remember when he gave us early lights for two weeks, and for what? Playing the music of a band he didn’t like? Are you fucking kidding me?” My speech was working. I was beginning to gain support. After a little more campaigning, they were both in. Hurley and I were to look out, while Pat was the official “smearer.” We checked each hallway, not a sound to be heard. We signaled for Pat, and thinking he was just going to rub a little bit on the door, he comes running around the corner and fucking chucks the shit at full force straight for the door. The dogshit acted like a fragmentation grenade, with particles of feces and paper flying everywhere. We immediately sprinted down the hallway, and the laughing made running all the harder. I started to get a cramp in my side, and just as I looked down at my oblique, I crashed into two kids who came out of the bathroom. Their toiletries flew everywhere, and as I got up to start yelling, I saw it was Vikram and his roommate that I had collided with. His face is in obvious pain; he only weighs around 110 pounds. My heart dropped, but I didn’t say anything, didn’t even make eye contact. I went back to my room to find Rock and Hurley and watch a bunch of Steven Seagal movies, and since we were so stoned, forgot about the whole thing until the dorm meeting.

As Plaza was finishing up what he was saying, Tiny Tom comes over and whispers a few words in his ear. “Oh yea,” sounding like he just took three consecutive bong hits, “Mr. Miller reminded me. Until further notice, early lights for both dorms until someone comes forward.” Yells of disapproval mixed in with profanities and boos follow, yet Tiny stands strong.

“Hey, SHUT THE FUCK UP.” For the first time, Tiny Tom seems big. “This is the ONLY way; maybe from now on you guys won’t do SHIT like this.” Right on cue, another small roar of laughter starts.

“I know who did it,” says a voice in back. My heart sinks; did anyone see Pat? We were so high I have no idea, he could have high fived someone after he did the damn thing. “I know who it was.” It’s Vikram. He was sitting in the back, on a window railing. He talks so quietly that only half the room heard him.

“What did he say? Get him up here,” Plaza stated. Vikram, looking terrified, starts the gauntlet to the front of the common room. My eyes are affixed on his every movement. We lock eyes for a moment, and in that small moment, I can finally see him now. This child, that’s what he was, held our futures here in his hands.

“It was..” he hesitates, and again, looks straight at me. “It was,” he glances around the room as every face dangles, waiting for him to say something, anything. My heart begins to palpitate. “It was me.” The whole room erupts into applause. I have no idea what to think. Plaza looks like he wants to kill this kid, and if it weren’t for Tiny, he might have. Vikram is to be escorted down to the dean’s office. I try to lock eyes with him one more time, at least to show him my gratitude, something, anything. But his head is down, and as the senior boys who made his life a living hell are cheering, they have no idea that it is them; they are the reason why Vikram sacrificed his prep career. He just couldn’t take the hazing. He saw this as his opportunity to leave. Tears are streaming down his face as Tiny Tom is on the phone with one of the deans. The cheering has not stopped. Plaza’s face is now ripe red, marked with embarrassment and anger. This frail kid’s whole future was being washed down the drain, right in front of my eyes. I couldn’t stand there and do nothing. “Wait, wait, hold on Tiny.” The laughter dies down.

“Wha, what did you call me, Wes?” asked Tiny.

“You heard me. Now let that kid go, he didn’t do anything.”

“What are you talking about? He just fucking admitted to doing it,” Plaza exclaimed.

“Well, he didn’t do it. I did. I rubbed the shit on your door.” I looked him straight in the eyes. At least I look tough. Now everyone has their eyes affixed onto me.

“And why, WHY would you do that, huh Sinclair?” he asked.

“Because, you’re a piece of shit Plaza, that’s why.” Gasps can be heard. In all the years of Ward’s existence, no student had ever cursed a teacher. Plaza’s face now turns to a purplish hue, and he cocks his arm, priming to hit me. I brace for the impact of his fist, close my eyes, scrunch my face. I hear the sound of five of my friends tackling him and myself to the ground. A large scuffle breaks out, and Tiny Tom is flown across the room. Plaza is on the ground, with Rock around his neck, and a bunch of kids on top of him. He is choking me, and I can only rake his eyes with my finger nails. Vikram is cowering in the corner, new to all this hostility and aggression. Furniture is being tossed all over the place as teachers and dorm parent’s alike try to restore order. Ms. Mastra, who just so happened to be the active dean on duty that night, was walking by the dorm when the fracas broke out. She immediately rushed in and as soon as everyone heard her yelling to stop, all complied. “What the fuck is wrong with you Wes?” Rock says, as blood trickled down his nose. He has no explanations for what I did.

“I couldn’t let that poor asshole go down like that bro, he reminds me of myself.”

“HOW?!? He is dark, you are light. He is ugly, you are the man. How the fuck does he remind you of yourself?” pleaded Hurley.

“Wes, you are fucking crazy if you are doing this right now. We got off man, that’s what it’s all about, think about it. We got Plaza, and someone else is taking the rap. Think about your future. Now you are going to waste it all, all for this?” Patrick might have been right, but he wasn’t going to admit to anything. He had a full ride to Brown when he graduated, and he wasn’t going to be a martyr for anyone.

“You guys just don’t understand...” I kept saying, and they never did. After Mastra is finished talking to Plaza and Tiny, she looks me out in the crowd. She finds my eyes, and I know what she wants. I say goodbye to my friends, and start my second, and final walk down to the dean’s office. I can only imagine what my mother is going to say about this.