by Rob Rampulla
It was dark and I had been shot. I could feel the fluid streaming down my face, puddling in my lap. I sat helplessly unarmed and unable to speak, waiting, hoping it would soon be over. What was I thinking, coming here without protection? How did they know I couldn't retaliate? I wanted to stand and fight my assailants, but before my attempt, someone held me down in my seat while the other shot me again. It was over. I heard them scurry away; then came the lights. "O.K. class, tomorrow you should have read through chapter six. You're dismissed."
Eighth grade science class was always boring until the Friday film, which was the weekly highlight for the boys in the class. It meant war. Each lab station was equipped with a 100 ml syringe which, when plunged hard and fast, could strike as accurately and as quickly as any high-powered weapon should. A carton of ready-to-assemble paper towel bombs, just add water, sat next to each sink and above the cupboard of chemicals. Towards the end of each film, a few of us would mix Winklers #2 solution and sulfuric acid to make smoke screens that kept the room hazy when the lights came on. The other more harmful ones were not used; chemical warfare is inhumane. In our battles, all the guys were fair game when the lights went off. Occasionally, a girlfriend would be an innocent casualty, but that was the price of war. This dampening of damsels was one of the many results of our battles that our teacher disliked, but what could he do? By this time of the year, second semester, it was too late to try any arms limitations; we all had our own private stock of munitions. Although I had started this war, no one of us was more or less guilty than the next. To punish one, he would have to punish all.
One Friday the war escalated beyond control. Precipitated by a hallway ambush prior to class, we, the right side of the room, entered our class vengefully determined to conquer the other side of the lab. We felt no fear. We bombed mercilessly, even hitting D.J., the class bully, and his girlfriend with the wet shrapnel from a paper towel bomb. Victory was to be ours, even if it meant breaking the Chemical Warfare Act and opening a cabinet marked "Danger! Use only with permission!" As if we needed permission. These new chemicals changed the spectrum of our battle. To be more precise, it colored our battlefield orange, increasingly darker as one approached our lab station and darkest in the rings of dust if left under our nostrils. Agent orange it was not, yet it still managed to make us nauseated and set off the air contaminant alarm. It was the kind of alarm that one would anticipate hearing prior to nuclear holocaust: an intermittently deep shrill with pauses just long enough to let you panic, recoil, and ready for the next pulse. It threw the entire west wing into a frenzy and most of us into detention hall. It wasn't so bad being a prisoner of war.
After four days of writing "Eighth grade science is for learning not playing" or something of the like, it was film day again. Just as we had expected, all our weapons were gone. They had been mobilized to the front of the room, behind our teacher's desk. However, most of us had been boy scouts; we knew to come prepared. After all, we still had our personal armaments. The tension created by the hours of detention hall was at its acme. We sat silently, dying for the film to start, and not because of our monumental interest in larvae growth, although it was interesting. To our surprise our teacher asked the girls to step outside and asked us to stand. After the girls exited, he began frisking us. With each boy he checked, the more creative those of us at the end of the line would get. By the time he reached me, I had already hidden my syringe in my shirt, up my sleeve, down my pants, in my socks, and eventually in the aquarium behind me. All of this for nothing. D.J. handed over three syringes in hopes that he would not be searched further, but he was. Three more were on his person and one hid under a plant: what a stockpile. Our teacher stated he would continue doing these search and seizures until the end of the year or until he thought we would no longer use these tools of science for the sake of our war.
Well, what was war was now science, and for us science was hell. After a month of dry labs, smokelessness, and straight science, the boredom had set in like rigormortis. Friday films became a mundane lesson in humility; even the searches had become routine. By now, there was nothing to search for. Our teacher, however, seemed content with the way things were going. And why shouldn't he be? He was our master, and we were slaves to science. Then it happened.
During the next Friday film, I heard the bombs bursting in air and the gentle whisper of water spraying across the room. Oh, the euphoria! Someone had gotten past the search. I was so excited. I didn't bother ducking. I would be proud, nay, honored to be hit by the genius who got through the search. As the film neared completion, my thoughts turned from, `How could I get this contraband?' to `Why am I not getting hit?' After all, part of the fun was talking about your battle wounds and planning your revenge. When the lights came on, I was the only dry guy in the room. Was I just lucky, or was it because I involuntarily sat the closest to the teacher's desk? After class, no one divulged any intelligence about having an underground arsenal, and D.J. pointed the finger at me followed by waving fists. I was the only one who could walk without squeaking, and although I sat closest to the teacher, it was the only spot from which you could easily hit everyone. Of course I denied all accusations, but that just seemed to make me look even more guilty. I didn't mind. Notoriety was nice, even when it was not warranted.
After two more Fridays of staying arid-like as the rest of the guys sloshed out of class, I became a hero to some and a bastard to the others; such is the price the great ones must face. But I wasn't "great," and I was barely going to be "one" if D.J. got ahold of me before I could find out who was deliberately setting me up. I knew I had to do something; everyone wanted to know how to smuggle in his weaponry. Since I had already indirectly claimed this fame, if I didn't come up with something, those that still envied my alleged wits would soon loathe them. I knew what I had to do.
The next Friday, I went to class early and asked the teacher for help. He suggested that I shoot myself with water to help conceal my identity. Some help. I took his advice and tried to smuggle in a syringe so I could do just that. I thought after self-inflicting a water shot to the head, I could pass my syringe to D.J. Surely this would alleviate some of the peer pressure to share my fictitious arsenal, so I thought. During the search, my syringe was found, and now I had to bear the consequences. Those that believed I wasn't the culprit thought I was a liar, and those that assumed I was, had their suspicions of my selfishness confirmed. I was a pinless grenade to my former comrades.
Three weeks later, during the last two weeks of school, most of what happened was forgotten or forgiven; even D.J. had cooled down his daily threats of vengeance. I still held firmly, that it wasn't I but, nonetheless, looked as guilty as Oliver North, especially since there were no more water works after my syringe was confiscated. I wanted revenge, but I had no one at whom to aim it. I was angry and frustrated by the silence that surrounded me. No one would talk to me nor confess to being the film-time sniper. Even if I did know whom the perpetrator was, what could I do? No weapons, no allies, and little time to work with.
It was the last Friday film of the year, and no search was held, but there were no weapons either. The film started and there wasn't a hint of danger. No faucets running or the mumblings of strategic maneuvers--just the garbled voice of the film narrator. When the lights came on, the girls were gone. What stood before us was the Rambo of all lab time warriors. With a loaded syringe in each pocket and enough wet paper towels setting on his desk to wipe down every chalkboard, hallway, and window in the school, our teacher smiled wildly just before saying "Some covert operation, huh guys?" and attacked with both syringes. As we ran for cover, we noticed fully loaded syringes placed on the lab tables. We fired back with the same vengeance, at first in waves then losing rhythm to the ecstasy of the moment and began firing at will. This melee continued until his surrender which came after we cornered him under the emergency shower and released its contents on him. As he toweled himself dry, he explained to us that it was he who had saturated all but me, leaving me dry to throw off suspicion, mostly because it was I who had started most conflicts and masterminded the attacks. "Go for the head, boys, and the body will soon follow." To test his hypothesis, I shot D.J. in the head with my syringe. He was right. The water ran off his face, onto his shirt, and down onto his lap. We all laughed, including D.J.
Fortunately for many of us, this would be our only war experience. Not risking death but dampness, we had gained war stories to tell and lessons from which to learn. I am sure our teacher did not initially plan on teaching us some of the lessons that we learned in that class, but improvising is what makes a good soldier. To us, it was what made him a great teacher.