After School

[Mr. Orin Tanimoto] September - Wednesday - 3:22 p.m.

 [Mr. Orin Tanimoto]

September – Wednesday – 3:22 p.m.

He carefully placed the icepack on his left cheek. It was slightly warmer than earlier, but still cold enough to make him wince at the chill. Orin was sitting at his desk looking over the week’s curriculum. He wasn’t fond of the cheap rusted metal desk that was given to him, nor the matching rusty chair. The drawers always stuck, and when he could open them the sound would feel like finger nails scratching at his brain. The chair he sat on looked like it was throwing up padding with all the holes in it. He figured he can patch them up when he had the free time; when ever that was. The worst, and somewhat ironic, part was that the desk had wheels while under each foot and his chair had solid four legs. Maybe if he had more time he could switch the two, or steal a nice wheelie chair from the computer lab.

Tomorrow would be another icebreaker day, he thought to himself. With his free hand he took one of the pencils scattered in between his books, and underlined the words small reading assignment. He thought it would be a good idea not to overwhelm such fragile teenage minds after three months of vacation. Orin knew it took a couple of days to settle back to, what he called ‘Educational Reality.’

“You are twenty-two minutes late Mr. Smith,” Orin said nonchalantly still looking over his weekly planner.

“Sorry Mr. T,” the young man replied trying to hide his heavy breathing.

“I pity the fool who doesn’t learn to be on time Mr. Smith.”

“Sorry Mr. T I was catching up with some friends after sixth period and I lost track of time,” Nick said pleadingly. Orin knew that was a lie; he saw Nick twenty minutes earlier walking past his window with an arm around a girl. “Can we make this quick I have to be at practice in like five minutes.”

Still not paying to look, Orin pointed to an empty metal desk in the front of the classroom with the eraser end of his pencil. He could hear the young man drop his heavy bags and shuffle himself in. Orin was looking at his planner; he just wanted the boy to sweat a little. He knew Nick was going to be late. He wanted Nick to be late. Orin could hear Nick’s heel thumping in nervousness as a few minutes passed. Two minutes till and a sturdy knock stopped the nervous boy’s heel. Orin closed his planner and turned his attention to his new guest.

“Coach!” The young man with the long blonde hair unskillfully sprang to his seat.

“Sit,” LaCoste said as sturdy as his knock.

Orin put down the ice pack and wiped his cheek dry with the back of his right wrist. “Coach LaCoste.” Orin stood up and walked towards the tall athletically built man who looked ready to go the gym. He stopped short and raised his left hand but quickly with drew it. “Sorry, I would shake your hand but one hand is ice cold and the other is warming up the cheek our student here punched me with.”

“So I heard Mr. Tanimoto,” Coach LaCoste shortly replied.

 “Thanks to technology now-a-days, I’m sure everyone in school has heard. Or read. Tweeted?” Orin still wasn’t sure what a tweeting was, or its purpose.

“Coach! I’m going to be late for practice. It was an accident. I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to,” Nick pleaded.  LaCoste ignored the boy’s fumbling confession.  Rather, he stood staring down at Orin.

“What do you want as punishment?” Coach LaCoste asked.

“I would say bench him for the next three games,” Orin replied informatively.

“You can’t let him do that. Our first game is on Friday,” Nick shouted. There was a tiny crack in the boy’s voice that almost made Orin chuckle. Orin swallowed the slightness to hide his unprofessionalism. 

Orin slightly turned his head toward the frustrated teenager. “I said ‘would’ didn’t I?” The boy’s light colored eyes were like ice staring coldly at Orin.

“What do you intend we do with him then?”  LaCoste’s grimace was straight and unchanging.

“Since Mr. Smith here likes to bully ‘Nerdy Little Freshman’ he aptly so labeled me as this morning. I intended to surround him with the very people he likes. I am thinking about starting a club, and I want Mr. Smith here to be its first member. He will…“ Orin emphasized another WILL while turning his head to bother LaCoste and Nick. “…attend all the meetings, as well as participate in all club activities for the rest of the year.”

“And if I disagree to these terms?” Coach LaCoste replied.

“I file assault charges, have him expelled, and transferred to Bishop High school.”

“Bishop?” Nick yelled. “That’s were all the juvie and druggy kids go.”

“Okay,” Coach LaCoste consented.

“Okay?” Nick slammed the desk with a fist. “I don’t wanna go there. You can’t do that. Come on Coach tell him he can’t do that. He’s fucking out of mind. I told you it was an accident.” Nick stood up and kicked the desk he sat in ruining the parallel order of the classroom. The sound of the metal-on-metal violence was loud. Orin flinched at the giant sound that was amplified by the empty room. Orin and LaCoste watched as the teenager paced around the aisles shouting “fuck” and “shit” in every meaning of a noun, verb, and adjective.

Orin glared at LaCoste with intention of murder. Profane language was not allowed in his classroom as well as a morale code within school grounds. Most of all, the over use of the zealous words wasn’t something Orin was very fond of. He liked his classroom to be a fun and calming environment, but Nick’s word-rampage was testing his patients. He leaned slightly to the Coach’s shoulder. “Do something,” he said in a harsh whisper

With expression still unchanged, Coach LaCoste straightened his stance and folded his arms. His chest puffed out and his biceps flexed making himself grow larger than normal. “Sit,” he ordered in the same sturdy voice from earlier. The young man stopped himself and stared with wide eyes as his teachers. LaCoste then nodded at the misplaced desks. Nick immediately fixed the desks, making sure not to make too much noise, and sat in his seat. “So, all he has to do is attend the meeting and participate right?” LaCoste asked turning his head to Orin.

“That’s it,” Orin replied still staring murderously.

LaCoste nodded content with the answer. He then turned back to Nick, “Get to practice. You’re late. I’ll deal with you after practice.”

The teenager then dashed out of the room almost forgetting his bags. A “Thanks Coach” echoed from outside the doorway. Orin, again, swallowed the laugh he wanted to hide earlier.