If you want to coach a team of fighters, you better be one yourself.
He had just parked and was making his way to the back double doors of the school when a gleaming, dark Mercedes-Benz came around, tinted windows, and stopped ten feet from him.
A man maybe a decade older hopped out of the back seat. He wore a stylish dark-brown bespoke suit with a tie that probably cost more than Tommy’s entire paycheck for the month. He sported dark shades and had a thin face, clean-shaven.
“Tommy?” he said, approaching.
Tommy watched him with a puzzled grin. “Yeah, that’s me.”
“Excellent,” said the man, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out what looked like a yellow DVD case, thin and semi-translucent. He handed it to him.
“What’s this?” asked Tommy, looking at it.
“Mr. Greene tells me to tell you it’s a ‘get out of jail free’ card. Use it well.”
“Sorry?” said Tommy, blinking and chortling.
“The best of luck with the team,” said the man with a parting wave, turning and walking back to the car and climbing in. Tommy glanced at the driver—also wearing shades, also in a suit, also maybe a decade older than him. That man threw him a two-finger salute and, as the back door closed, pulled around Tommy’s body, where he accelerated. In less than thirty seconds the vehicle was out of sight.
Tommy chuckled, “What the hell?”
He gazed at the case again—sure enough, there was what appeared to be a gold-colored DVD inside—and continued on his way into the school.
At the door to his tutoring office, he stopped. A yellow sticky note was on it. On it was written in black Sharpie, barely legible:
My office immediately.
-J. Christensen
Tommy squinted as he pulled it off. The DVD case was suddenly much heavier in his grip. He had a vague idea what was on it.
He briefly considered blowing Christensen off—or at least making him wait—when a small hand landed on his shoulder.
He turned around, surprised. He hadn't seen or heard anyone approach.
Lorna gazed up at him. "I'm supposed to walk you to the principal's office, you bad boy."
She shook her head.
Tommy chuckled. "Lead the way."
As they walked, the first smatterings of students entering the building, she told him in hushed tones about the angry call from the father of one of the girls who had walked out. "...Corbett. Erica Corbett."
Tommy sighed. “Yeah.”
"Her father is here. He wants a piece of your hide. She told him that you touched her."
"I did what now?" Tommy asked, blinking.
"This isn't the first time she's pulled something like this," grunted Lorna. "So don't take it personally. She's a seriously messed-up little girl. After you meet Daddy, you'll know why."
She gazed at what he was holding.
"Good," she said. "You've got it. Use it. Our lovely principal has a big-screen TV in his office with an old DVD player. He uses it to watch golf when he should be working. I wouldn't doubt he uses it to watch other things," she said cryptically, scowling with disgust.
"What's on this?" Tommy asked.
"The pool has security cameras," she said as they arrived at the office. "Good ones. Both in the pool and out. Our common friend has access to the feeds."
She tapped his wrist and winked sympathetically. "Good luck."
She turned and walked back to the front office desk where she worked most of the day. Tommy watched her go.
He stared down at the case, sighed one more time, grasped the handle to Christensen's office, and walked in.
He had yet to meet the principal, Mr. Two-Time National Principal of the Year. This was the first time.
Christensen sat behind a large mahogany desk, a big window behind him, one behind heavy drapes mostly pulled closed. A man sat in one of two chairs across from him. He was broad-shouldered though no more than medium height, with a big rollover belly under a too-small flannel shirt, a red goatee peppered with gray, and a Make America Great Again red cap. He glared over his shoulder at him.
“Get in here and shut the door,” Christensen ordered. “Sit down.”
Tommy ignored him and kept walking, stopping in front of the man. "You're Corbett?"
"Get your fucking punk-ass away from me," Corbett snarled, standing. He had a gun in a holster on his belt.
Tommy stared at him, expressionless.
“Chuck,” said Christensen, “let me have my pound of flesh, and then you can have him.” He brought his glare to Tommy. “You. Sit.”
Without taking his gaze off of Corbett, Tommy said in a quiet voice, “No.”
Christensen leaned forward in his seat. “Who the fuck do you think you are, boy?”
“I suggest you sit your fat ass down before it isn’t your choice to do so,” said Tommy to Corbett.
“Now hold the fuck—” Christensen began, standing.
“I’m talking to Chuck here, John,” said Tommy, not taking his stare away from Corbett. "But I’ll make the same suggestion to you."
He leaned forward slightly. “Last chance, Chucky. Sit down before I make you eat that piece. Not playing."
Corbett, face red as a plum, looked Tommy up and down twice. Tommy, who was fit and young and muscular.
With his lip curling up, he sat. He kept his glare fixed on him, his hand on the butt of his weapon.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" roared Christensen, who had also sat.
Tommy turned to face him. "I'm your worst nightmare, John. You were thinking about retiring last year. You're going to regret not doing it."
"Now how the hell do you know that?" Christensen bellowed.
Tommy walked over to the small table against the wall. Above it was the flat-screen television Christensen liked to watch golf and porn on. On the table sat the DVD player.
"How dare you threaten me!" Christensen yelled.
Tommy didn't answer. He turned on the TV and the player, then took the DVD out and inserted it. He stepped back as the disc loaded, then turned and walked to Christensen’s phone, pushing a button on its speaker and bending over slightly to speak up while Christensen glared at his chutzpah. "Lorna, will you come in here right away? Thanks."
“On my way,” came Lorna’s tinny voice.
"I work for the district, number one, and Frank Greene, number two," said Tommy to Christensen. "You’re not in that equation, John. If you want to take this to the super, by all means. I'll drive you there myself. But I don't think you want that."
Lorna walked in. She closed the door as Tommy fingered the remote while walking to the side of Christensen’s desk and leaning against it.
The security footage started to play, showing Erica Corbett in the lane closest to Tommy, the view fairly close to directly overhead. (Whoever had edited the footage knew exactly what parts were pertinent.) The conversation was fairly clear given the constant low-level noise of the gutters and the bad acoustics of the pool in general.
“Who would I be coaching?”
“Why are you such a dick?”
“What’s your name?”
“I don’t need to give you my name!”
“That’s right. You don’t. Because you’re not on my swimming team. Get out, grab your towel, and go home.”
“FUCK YOU!”
Corbett's daughter chopped viciously at the water, sending a fanning spray of it at him.
She hauled herself out of the water and flipped him off, yelling, “FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING LOSER! I’M TELLING MY DAD! HE’S GOING TO COME BACK HERE AND KICK YOUR FUCKING ASS! I’M GOING TO GET YOU FIRED, YOU FUCKING DICKHEAD! FUCK YOU!”
Corbett and Christensen watched, expressionless.
"Where the fuck did you get this recording?" demanded Christensen.
"Where do you think, John?" replied Tommy. "Keep watching; I’m sure we’ll be getting a view outside the pool, which I bet is also under twenty-four-seven surveillance. There it is. Here we go."
The video showed four girls stomping out into the crisp early-evening twilight, hair damp, backpacks slung over their shoulders. They were all talking to one another—inaudibly.
Tommy fingered the VOLUME UP arrow. The voices, while still a bit thin, were clear.
"—fucked with the wrong girls," a girl with brown hair and blonde highlights—Amy Stanton—fumed as they marched along the sidewalk towards the student parking lot partially visible to the left near a dark stand of pine. "He's a dead-ass motherfucker after your Dad gets done with him."
The girls disappeared from view. The recording ended several seconds later.
Tommy went to the player, removed the DVD, turned off the unit, and put the disc back into its case.
The room was silent.
When he turned back, Corbett's glare was no longer on Tommy, but downward toward the floor. The daddy-save-me power play, so successful so many times in the past, was over.
Christensen's thin face was mottled red. His fists, clenched and white-knuckled on the big mahogany desk, trembled with suppressed rage.
"Want to take this to the super, John?” said Tommy. “Let's go."
"Get out of my office," Christensen spat, his voice low.
Tommy nodded thoughtfully. As Lorna and Christensen watched, he walked to Corbett and, bending low next to his ear, said quietly:
"This is a school full of children who regularly have to do active-shooter drills. If I see you within five hundred feet of this building after today, and you're armed, I'm gonna stick whatever you’re carrying so far up your ass you'll be able tongue the muzzle."
He stared straight into the side of his head for five lethal, silent seconds, then straightened, turned, and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him quietly.
"Think she'll show?" asked Tommy.
Colin nodded. "She said she was going to."
Both were in their swimming suits—black knee-length trainers. Tommy sat on block 6; Colin block 5.
"Ready to get in serious shape?" Tommy asked.
"Hell yeah," said Colin. "We've got the whole pool to ourselves! This is awesome!"
Holly walked circumspectly out of the girls' locker room that moment, suit on, goggles in hand, cap on her head. She stopped when she saw Tommy in his suit.
"Uh ..."
"You're not training alone," said Tommy. "We're your team."
"We're the Ferndale High School Fightin' Puffins!" declared Colin with a huge grin.
"Show her, dude," said Tommy with a smile.
Colin stood and he-manned his arms wide open, flexing his biceps.
Holly stared at Colin's chest, where he had written in large blue-black block letters across it:
HOLLY HOLLISTER #1
She couldn’t help herself: she giggled, bringing a hand to her mouth. "Oh my god," she said, turning bright red. "You're totally crazy."
"Damn right!" Colin said, still flexing, but now in different poses.
Tommy stood. "New tradition,” he said, "Actually, it's a really old one, from Southern Cal, my old team. The captain of the team breaks the blue first at the beginning of the season. That's you, Holly."
" 'Break the blue'?" she asked.
Tommy motioned to the water. "You get in first. It's a show of commitment, of leadership. Hop on in."
Holly walked shyly toward the starting block heading lane 3, moving with slight trepidation in her flip-flops. She put her goggles on, stepped out of the flip-flops to the side of the pool, water flowing into the gutter with a contented gurgle at her feet.
She jumped in straight, arms at her sides.
Tommy and Colin grinned at each other, then went to their own blocks, Tommy in lane 4, Colin in lane 2, surrounding her. Together, they jumped.
Tommy arrived to school half an hour early the following morning. He wanted to take notes about Holly, about her fear of the water, which had him working on her backstroke for most of the practice. That was her preferred stroke, she said, which made sense: she could keep her face above water and breathe.
He looked up to see John Christensen march in and slam the door. The sound was deafening, meant to alarm and cow him.
Tommy leaned back in his chair, watching. “Morning, John.”
"Who the fuck do you think you are!" Christensen bellowed, advancing on him.
Tommy sat up straight. "You don't want me to stand, John, so I suggest you stop right where you are."
"Fuck you!" Christensen roared. "I run this school! I do! You're a worthless fucking tutor! You have no power here! I call the shots." He slapped his chest possessively. "I DO!"
Tommy sat back in his chair, watching him.
"Retire," he said.
The principal blinked, momentarily stunned. "FUCK YOU!"
"Today," Tommy continued. "Write your resignation letter, put your belongings in a cardboard box, hand Lorna your keys, and leave this school and education and never return to either. Ever."
Christensen took a threatening step forward.
"This is not a negotiation," said Tommy.
"DON'T YOU TELL ME WHAT TO DO! I RUN THIS FUCKING SCHOOL!"
"Not after today if you know what's good for you."
Christensen’s fists clenched. "Now you're threatening ME? You're a goddamn teacher's aid! You're a coach—a worthless coach at that—of a team that almost doesn't exist! You're no better than a shit-ass janitor! You’re a nobody! You work for me! I have spent a lifetime building the reputation of this school—my school! My career! And you're going to threaten ME?"
"You have spent twenty-two years creating a culture of fear, misogyny, sexism, racism, bullying, even sexual predation—in a building full of children and the professionals just trying to give them their best foot forward. You chase around young female student teachers like some mangy junkyard dog with his little dick hanging down" said Tommy, standing.
Christensen's massive ego was too much for him to control. He rushed Tommy, swinging for his face while also trying to push him.
Tommy had him by his throat the next instant, slamming him down onto the nearest chair, which almost spilled backward. He brought his face close to Christensen’s while he struggled and it began to turn purple.
"Let's be clear, John. Let's be perfectly, utterly, absolutely clear," said Tommy with lethal calm. "Every last teacher who's been too afraid to stand up to your bullshit has dreamed nightly of the day that someone does. I'm their answer."
He brought his face closer.
"Today is it for you, y'hear? Today. If you do not retire by 4 PM today …"
He shook his head, a soft exhalation in the pause.
"... you will face a darkness you can’t possibly imagine."
He watched Christensen turn blue. He loosened his grip but did not let go. "Take a breath.”
Christensen took in a huge, desperate lungful of air while struggling once again to free himself, which resulted in Tommy’s grip tightening even tighter. Christensen’s blue eyes bulged as his cheeks quickly started to match their color.
"The recorder in your pocket won't catch this," said Tommy. "It has permanently malfunctioned. Want to know what hasn't malfunctioned? Frank Greene's legal team. I believe the number of women willing to give a sworn deposition against you passed fourteen this morning."
He studied his bulging face.
"4:01 today, John. Now get the fuck out of my office.”
He released him.
Christensen wheezed in a huge lungful of air, pitching forward to his knees, gasping and coughing on all fours, the bottom of his red tie looping limply on the floor.
Tommy stood, watching him.
Christensen struggled to his feet, tears spilling down his plum-colored face, defeated fury in his eyes. His hand was at his neck, massaging it.
He backed out into the hallway after manically fumbling the door open, almost falling on his ass, then turned left for his office and scurried out of sight as Tommy watched.
Tommy went to the door and closed it. He then closed his eyes, standing in stillness.
~~*~~
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