Code 6

By Jessica Lake

“Felix!”

The schoolboy who answered that wake-up call sat front and center—close enough to grab. He was the shortest boy in the second grade. Shorter than most of the girls. Pretty too. Though all boys can be said to be pretty at eight years of age. But that wasn’t Felix’s kind of pretty.

“I’m sorry, Miss Richards. I was thinking about what you said before. You contradicted yourself.”

Miss Richards wasn’t new to teaching. She hated Felix. He was the first.

Of all the second-grade classes in all the world, why did he have to walk into hers?

Miss Richards had always wanted to be a teacher. Now, she only wanted the day to be over. Second graders do not have opinions on American history. Nor did they point out contradictions. They trusted the adult in the room. That adults knew best.

Why couldn’t this pest just shut up?

“Before you told us that the United States was peaceful. Before you said the Monroe Doctrine threatened all of Europe. ‘Keep your greedy hands off our Western Hemisphere—or else.’ That, to me, smacks of imperialism.”

This had to be nipped in the bud. Felix had brought this on himself.

“Felix! Get your things together.”

She picked up the interoffice phone and dialed the principal, then spoke in a crisp voice.

“Mr. James, Code 6.”

At the other end, she heard a deep inhale and a slow release of breath.

“Very good. Send Felix. I’ll take it from here.”

The teacher hung up the phone and turned to face the class. The children saw that her storm had passed.

“Felix. Please report to the principal’s office. Pronto.”

The boy shuffled slowly to the classroom door, his books, papers and jacket clutched to his chest. He opened it, stepped through and closed the door with the tiniest little click.

The hallway was quiet except for the soft murmur of the other classes. Felix was headed toward the principal’s office, though his progress wavered. He studied the dull patterns of the floor tiles.

Since delay was Felix’s modus operandi, Mr. James decided to fetch him along the way.

Mr. James was odd. When he walked, his steps made a distinct click-clack, click-clack—like a metronome: fast, precise, methodical.

But it wasn’t enough for him.

So he added an upbeat. Midway between each step, he snapped two fingers of his right hand. The result became: click-snap, clack-snap, click-snap, clack-snap. Try saying that three times fast.

Felix would have appreciated the word problem presented.

A pair of trains face each other on the same track. They are five miles apart. The Felix train travels at five miles per hour. While the James train travels at eighty.

Where and when will they collide?

The rising rhythm of click-snap, clack-snap, click-snap, clack-snap doomed the Felix train.

Turns out, the answer was in front of the cafeteria.

A gargantuan hand at the end of an endless arm reached down from on high. It closed around the upper portion of Felix’s pipe-cleaner arm, lifted him onto his toes, and dragged him forward toward the office.

Felix was not be afraid. He’d sent his thoughts elsewhere.

Should I chew my arm off to escape? Or wait for the giant to rip it off? Why was I trouble? What about me makes everyone hate me?

Once they reached his inner sanctum, Mr. James pushed the offending boy into a chair, then lowered himself into his rolling chair behind his mammoth desk.

The child is the father of the man.

The principal smiled his crocodile smile. “Shall we call your parents?”

Twenty minutes later, the principal gave up.

“I can understand why your parents are ashamed to answer the phone.”

He grabbed pen and paper and began scribbling at a furious pace.

“This letter I’m writing,” said Mr. James, “tells your parents that nobody wants you here, and that it’s their job to straighten you out. I made it clear that you are rebellious, arrogant, and selfish.”

He folded the page, slipped it into an envelope and slid it across the desk.

“Have them both sign it. Drop it off at the front desk first thing Monday.”

“But sir, tomorrow is Friday.”

“Friday, you’re suspended. Trouble someone else.”

Suddenly, the giant leaned in close so only Felix could hear.

“Listen up, you commie faggot. You and Khrushchev cannot win. America will crush you.”