Naughtiness in the Time of Meteors by Bill Fellenberg

When Mom left, it happened gradually, and then suddenly. Now, it was just us in our

new “Situation.” Dad mapped out Plan A. He’d continue working at Celanese, and I’d

finish the second grade in Summit and not cause problems. In a pinch, Grandma and

Grandpa were just thirty minutes away. According to Dad’s Plan A, nothing much had

changed. For me, this new “Situation” was like when the meteor crashed into Earth,

killing all the dinosaurs and all the cave men.

Mornings weren’t so bad. I traipsed to school foolishly—took giant steps, zig-zagged,

went backwards—my choices. Back in the apartment, I wanted to go home, but I was

already there. I heard creepy sounds—ghosts? But they were my footsteps, my

breathing, my noises eating animal crackers. I was the ghost in the house. Later, I’d

listen for Dad’s approach.

When he arrived, I’d say, “What’s for supper?”

“Pasta e fagioli!” he’d say, to make me laugh. I did, every time, until I stopped. I began

to see he was as lost as me. To punish him, I filched coins left on his dresser.

One morning, after Dad left for work, I decided to stay home. Bored with TV, I went

fishing for bluegills in a pond nearby. Some classmates saw me, asked me why I

missed school. I lied, said that Dad let me because it was my birthday.

The next day, I stayed home again. Someone knocked on our door. It was the school

truant officer. He filled the doorway, poking his head inside, looking right and left, his jaw

jutting out.

“Are you William?” he asked.

“No, I’m Billy.”

“Are your parents in?”

“Not really.”

“Don’t be a wise guy. In or not?”

It was complicated. Dad was out, but still here. Mom was far away, maybe forever. The

truant officer plowed by me, tramping around, like he owned the place. “There’s no adult

supervision here,” he said. “You’re coming with me—it’s the law!”

Arriving at school, the truant officer told the principal that I was a piece of work. The

principal scowled, told me take the seat facing his desk. “What kept you from school?

Where have you been?”

“I’m very sick. Can I go to the bathroom?”

“Go ahead. And you mean, may I go, not can I,” he said, pointing to his personal

lavatory.

In the bathroom, I imagined the principal’s scowling face in the mirror. I shook my fist at him, and muttered, “May I punch you in the nose?” I made noises like I was puking,

flushing the toilet several times.

Back at his desk, the principal told me, “I hear you went fishing yesterday.”

“No, I didn’t. I was sick at home.”

“Your friends said otherwise.”

Some friends, I thought. Turning me in, like the communists do. I explained I was sick,

but then felt better, so I went fishing. But then today, I got sick again. Instead of feeling

sorry for me, the principal told his secretary to phone my grandmother. Could things get

any worse? I prayed and begged, Please God, please, let this be a bad dream. The

secretary took me to a waiting room. What seemed hours later, I was beckoned again to

the principal’s office when Grandma arrived. “Tell your grandmother what you did,” he

said.

“I’m very sick, so I stayed home.”

“The boy is lying,” the principal hissed.

“Are you really sick, Billy?” Grandma asked.

“My head hurts, too.” I said. “I think I’m going to throw up again. May I use the

bathroom?”

“Go ahead, if you must,” the principal said, waving me away, like I was a bug.

Inside the lavatory, I made retching sounds again.

The principal barked, “Enough nonsense! Out now!” He told my grandmother, “Billy’s

quite the actor.”

The secretary took me back to her desk. While she typed, I heard the principal and

Grandma murmuring. I knew they were agreeing about something.

Driving away from school, Grandma said I was making an unpleasant Situation even

worse. “Please get a hold of yourself. Actions have consequences,” she said.

A storm turned the afternoon into night. Grandma said something about boarding

schools. I missed the details because of the lightning, thunder, the windshield wipers

churning in the rain, tires sloshing through puddles. I started to get a better idea of who I

was, and it wasn’t good.

This must be what it feels like, just before the meteor hits.