Carl Hiaasen - Squirm

This one kid, he got kicked out of school.

Thats not easy to doyou need to break some actual laws. We heard lots of rumors, but nobody gave us the straight story.

The kids name was Jammer, and I got his locker.

Who knows what he kept in there, but he mustve given out the combination to half the school. Kids were always messing with my stuff when I wasnt around.

So I put a snake inside the locker. Problem solved.

It was an Eastern diamondback, a serious reptile. Eight buttons on the rattle, so it made some big noise when people opened the locker door. The freak-out factor was high.

Dont worrythe rattlesnake couldnt bite. I taped its mouth shut. Thats a tricky move, not for rookies. You need steady hands and zero common sense. I wouldnt try it again.

The point is I didnt want that rattler to hurt anyone. I just wanted kids to stay out of my locker.

Which they now do.

I set the diamondback free a few miles down Grapefruit Road, on the same log where I found him. Its important to exit the scene fast, because an adult rattlesnake can strike up to one-half of its body length. Most people dont know that, and why would they? Its not a necessary piece of information, if you live a halfway normal life.

Which I dont.

What does your dad do?

I hear this question whenever we move somewhere new.

My standard answer: He runs his own business.

But the truth is I dont know what my father does. He sends a check, Mom cashes it. I havent seen the guy since I was like three years old. Maybe four.

Does it bother me? Possibly. Sure.

Ive done some reading about this, how it can mess up a person when his parents split, especially when one of them basically vanishes from the family scene. I dont want to be one of those screwed-up kids, but I cant rule out the possibility.

Mom doesnt say much about Dad. The checks always show up on timethe tenth of the monthand they never bounce. We might not be rich, but were definitely not poor. You wouldnt believe how many pairs of shoes my sister owns. God, I give her so much grief.

The way I look at it, Mom doesnt get a free pass just because she doesnt want to talk about my father. Thats not what youd call a healthy, open approach to an issue. So I stay on her case, though not in a mean way.

What does he do for a living? Ill say, like Ive never asked before.

Well, Billy, Im not exactly sure what he does, shell begin in the same tight voice, but I can tell you what he doesnt do.

Over time, based on my mothers commentary, Ive scratched the following professions off my Phantom Father list:

Astronaut, quantum physicist, lawyer, doctor, heavy-metal guitarist, veterinarian, architect, hockey player, NASCAR driver, jockey, plumber, roofer, electrician, pilot, policeman, car salesman, and yoga instructor.

Mom says Dads too claustrophobic to be an astronaut, too lousy at math to be a quantum physicist, too shy to be a lawyer, too squeamish to be a doctor, too uncoordinated to play the guitar, too tall to be a jockey, too hyper for yoga, and so on.

I dont like this game, but Im making progress, information-wise. Moms still touchy about the subject, so I try to take it easy. Meanwhile, my sister, Belinda, acts like she doesnt care, like shes not the least bit curious about the old man. This fake attitude is known as a coping mechanism, according to what Ive read.

Maybe my father is a psychiatrist, and one day Ill lie down on his couch and well sort out all this stuff together. Or not.

At school I try to keep a low profile. When you move around as much as my family does, making friends isnt practical. Leaving is easier if theres no one to say goodbye to. That much Ive learned.

But sometimes youre forced to interact. Theres no choice. Sometimes staying low-profile is impossible.

The last week of school, some guy on the lacrosse team starts pounding on a kid in the D-5 hallway. Now, this kid happens to be a dork, no question, but hes harmless. And the lacrosse player outweighs him by like forty pounds. Still, a crowd is just standing around watching this so-called fight, which is really just a mugging. There are dudes way bigger than me, major knuckle-draggers, cheering and yelling. Not one of them makes a move to stop the beating.

So I throw down my book bag, jump on Larry Lacrosse, and hook my right arm around his neck. Pretty soon his face goes purple and his eyes bulge out like a constipated bullfrogs. Thats when a couple of his teammates pull me off, and one of the P.E. teachers rushes in to break up the tangle. Nobody gets suspended, not even a detention, which is typical.

The dorky kid, the one who was getting pounded, I didnt know his name. The lacrosse guy turns out to be a Kyle something. Weve got like seven Kyles at our school, and I cant keep track of them all. This one comes up to me later, between sixth and seventh period, and says hes going to kick my butt. Then one of his friends grabs his arm and whispers, Easy, dude. Thats the psycho with the rattler in his locker.

I smile my best psycho smile, and Kyle disappears. Big tough jock who likes to beat up kids half his size. Pathetic.

But lots of people are terrified of snakes. Its called ophidiophobia. The experts say its a deep primal fear. I wouldnt know.

During seventh period I get pulled out of class by the school resource officer, which is what they call the sheriffs deputy who hangs out in the main office. His name is Thickley, and technically hes in charge of campus security. Hes big and friendly, cruising toward retirement.

Billy, Im going to ask you straight up, he says in the hallway. Theres a rumor youve got a snake in your locker. A rattlesnake.

A live rattler? I laugh. Thats crazy.

Can we have a look?

No problem. Whos we?

Me. Just myself.

Sure, Officer Thickley. You dont need to ask first.

Oh, I always ask, he says. See, if I show respect for the students, theyll show respect for me. Its a two-way street.