No Hall Pass

There she was: a musician, an artist, maybe even a hero; alone in the world but for her guitar. She had transcended the realm of mere high school music teacher and was now, surely, a legend.

The image was only slightly diminished by her Peanuts sweater, stained liberally either by Ketchup or blood.

And the fact that she was standing outside of the cafeteria, staring coldly at the mass of teenagers.

Oh, and she was playing “Deck The Halls”, on that trusty guitar as if the song had been implicated in the brutal murder of her grandmother. She strummed not so much to play the song, but to exact certain revenge on each and every one of the notes.

But, other than those minor, trifling things, she was very much a muse.

It was only with a morsel of hesitation that I tried to amble past her in the hallway, hoping to go undetected. It wasn’t that I was left unmoved by her artistry, or that I hadn’t awe for her presence.

Instead, I was scared for my life.

Even from a few feet away, I could see small pools of saliva forming at the corners of her mouth. Her hair was in shambles. Her eyes, perhaps once blue like the sky of a calm and pacific day, were now red with the rage of one thousand Hells. Scratch marks crisscrossed her body, turning her skin an inhuman crimson. As I tried to tip-toe past her, I could smell the undeniable odors of human sweat and gasoline permeating in my direction.

Though I was quiet, as quiet as one can be when their young, promising life is on the line, she still heard me. Her fingers stopped strumming. To be honest, this was mostly a relief. For the past few seconds of playing, sparks were coming off of the fret, and the music itself began to sound uncannily like the sort of thing you’d hear when two mechanical reapers fornicate. Still, I had no desire to interrupt her: I was too young to die. After all, I still hadn’t seen the Mark Wahlberg remake of Planet of the Apes.

“Hello, Mrs. McFarland,” I stammered, the words hanging in my throat, as I felt lynched with dread.

She turned slowly. Everything negative I said about her from a distance was instantly multiplied tenfold. Gone was a mild-mannered middle-aged multi-talented music teacher. In her place was a succubus.

“Your sweater is looking awfully…,”, I hesitated, unsure if any lie could possibly save my suddenly damned soul.

“…war-torn, “I said, unable to stop my true feelings from being heard. I quickly chastised myself. Of all things to do, I insulted this she-demon. Of course, I was only being honest: Linus and Charlie looked like they had been set upon by advancing militia intent on robbing the former of his blanket and the latter of his vital organs.

Still, I could have lied. I could have complimented on how her shoes, even without shoelaces and even though they were scarred by vicious bite marks, looked absolutely fetching. With only a bit of facetiousness, I could have convinced her of how classically beautiful her toothy snarl was. I could have told her how she might be perfect for a remake of Mommie Dearest. Instead, I went and told the truth. I could see my handsome life flashing before my eyes.

She opened her mouth, and I was surprised to hear her speak. I doubted, at this point, she had the faculty to do much more than tear out people’s hearts for devouring.

“Do you know what it’s like?”, she asked. The words were gravelly, and seemed to lurch up her throat and out her mouth.

“No. Uh, what…what’s like?”, I managed to spit out.

“Every day, “ she said, now not even looking at me. Instead, her eyes were glazed, and her neck craned upward. “Hundreds of rotten kids walk through my door. Hundreds of kids signed up to learn how to play guitar.”

“What’s wrong with that,” I asked, though I was unsure if in her state she could hear me.

“But none of them want to learn Segovia, Clapton, or even Jimmy Page, that bastard, “ she went on, but then quickly stopped. Her eyes dropped down again, penetrating into mine. For a split second, I could have sworn she was boring into my soul,.

“Do you know what they want to learn?, “ she questioned.

“Carlos Santana?”, I offered, hoping she had a thing for Latin men.

“Lady Gaga! Lil Wayne! Miley Cyrus!”, she screamed.

At that very moment, one million infants started crying inconsolably. Corpses didn’t just roll over; they did the Electric Slide. Her voice was that piercing.

“Yeah, they are pretty awful, “ I said. “But…”, I started, before she interrupted.

“Pretty awful? Lady Gaga sounds like the lovechild of two deaf parakeets. Lil Wayne hasn’t been able to hit a high note since he lost them all in his nappy dreadlocks. And Miley Cyrus,” she fumed.

This time it was my turn to interrupt.

“You have to admit, though,” I said,”Pokerface is a really catchy song”.

Her head quickly spun around, giving me little doubt as to whether or not she still had a spine. I could faintly detect smoke pulsing from her nostrils.

“What did you say?”, she demanded of me.

“Well, it’s just that…you know, Lady Gaga made a really catchy pop song”, I finished, breathing what I was sure was my last breath.

“AHHH!”, she screamed. Windows blew out all across the tri-state area.

She quickly ripped the guitar strap off of her neck. Grabbing it with both hands like a battle axe she swung it, smashing it against the wall. Not content with having her instrument in a few pieces, she began jumping up and down on the splinters, only pausing to tear out strands of her mussed-up hair.

More than a few students in the cafeteria dropped their hamburgers mid-mouth, spoiling their lunch. Later, I heard that one defecated himself not once, but four dozen times, only stopping after the doctors induced his coma.

Seeing that I had little add to the situation, I slinked away. I hardly realized it, but I actually began humming, and even singing, as I made my way down the hallway.

“You can’t see, can’t see my poker face…”.