It was mid-December, and the morning announcements spoke of a lunch hour pep rally for the upcoming basketball game. They also mentioned the judging of the annual Christmas Door Decorating Contest at the end of the week in which each homeroom decorated their door to reflect a Christmas theme. My homeroom was choir, and my classmates had chosen “A Smurf Christmas.” I joined choir because it was the largest class/club at school and there was no homework. As a joke, my friend Jeff nominated me as choir president which I somehow won. The president was responsible leading over a hundred teens in vocal warmups each morning, for making sure everyone had a choir gown before the concerts, and apparently for decorating a door with little blue Smurfs.
Later that day in the cafeteria over some pigs in a blanket and tater tots, my friends and I chatted about the upcoming rally. We complained about a particular cheer we heard every time:
Seventh graders,
Seventh graders,
We are the seventh graders,
Where are the eighth graders?
Eighth graders,
Eighth graders,
We are the eighth graders,
Where are the ninth graders?
The ninth graders repeated the cheer but replaced the last line with:
Where are the Mustangs?
All three grades would then proclaim their unity as Mustangs, the school mascot:
Mustangs,
Mustangs,
We are the Mustangs!
A counter to the “unity” cheer existed which reflected our general teen disgruntlement. And it rhymed. We often talked about doing the cheer, but the best we ever did was three or four people yelling in rebellion.
But on that day, I realized I could use my power as choir president to lead my fellow students in a subversive cheer. I mentally tallied up at least forty people who would gladly join in. But that was too small a group and I couldn’t risk the choir kids getting singled out, and the blame coming back to me. I needed more bodies. I needed a coalition with the drill team and the jocks to spread any potential blame.
I visited the drill team table and approached their president for a brief summit. Although she was heading up a highly conformist activity club, she was no spirit sissy and quickly warmed to the idea of causing havoc at the rally. She promised to deliver the drill team.
Athletic support was critical to the mix because the coaches enforced discipline at my junior high. These PE and health teachers acted as the police force for the Vice Principal. If the jocks could be brought on board as co-conspirators, they would be more likely to keep quiet about who had organized it. Also, since the coaches liked the jocks, even if we were caught the punishment would be less severe because the jocks also committed the crime. At least, that was my hope.
Recruiting the jocks was a trickier task. Because of my thick glasses and choir tendencies, many of them only considered me as something to punch. Many of the jocks were the God-fearing variety and would snitch before I finished my lunch. I approached the party-boy jocks, those tired of the “rah-rah go team” vibe surrounding their activities. They liked sports but were mainly in it for the promise of girls and beer. Fortunately, they sat at their own table and immediately agreed to do the cheer. They promised to recruit their teammates and say nothing about my involvement.
My friends and I excitedly scraped our lunch trays and headed to the gymnasium for the rally. On the way, we passed a gang of junior high ne’er-do-wells. These kids spent much of their time in detention and kept cigarettes and throwing stars in their lockers. In the seventh grade I gained the respect of their leader, Hank, when he threatened to “pound me into the dirt” as his minions circled around me. With no other option available I put up my fists like an old-timey boxer and said, “Don’t make me kick your ass!” At thirteen, I was less of a threat than Urkel and Hank found it hilarious. He apologized, feigned fright, and asked me not to hurt him. For the next six years whenever I saw Hank, I’d point my finger at him and he would pretend to be afraid.
I approached Hank about the rally. He had never attended one during his five years in junior high, loved my counter-cheer idea, and promised he and his thugs would cheer loudly.
Students filed into the gym, taking their places in the bleachers with their fellow grade members. The coaches positioned themselves at the doors and on the far side of the gymnasium to keep an eye out for troublemakers. The rally began and I looked around, making eye contact with the leaders of the drill team and the jocks. They nodded knowingly. Hank and his friends sat in the front row and loudly cheered along with everything. As the cheerleaders jumped and tumbled over the wood floor, the beginnings of the greatest moment of my junior high career rang out at the far end of the bleachers.
Seventh graders, seventh graders,
We are the seventh graders …
Almost too quickly, the eighth graders finished their cheer. I was prickly all over afraid too few voices would cheer out and the plan would flop yet draw enough attention from the coaches to get me in trouble. But to my surprise, every ninth grader cheered loud and strong with a force that shook the basketball hoops.
Ninth graders, ninth graders,
We’ve got class,
Seventh graders, eighth graders,
Kiss our ass!
Silence fell over the gymnasium. Then an explosion of laughter and yelling over what just happened. Cheerleaders stood mute, pom poms hanging limply. Coaches ran back and forth across the gym desperate to restore order. The cheerleaders slowly recovered and searchingly started on a new cheer. The rally proceeded, but tension filled the air as if trying to create team spirit during an air raid. Once the rally was back on track, I nodded to my friend Jeff and we stealthily slipped under the bleachers, working our way to a side door leading to the choir room.
We quickly set to working on the Christmas door. The door was my alibi, and I needed it to look like we spent the lunch hour taping Smurfs to fake snow. We said little, as excitement gave way to rising fear. I wondered if anybody squealed. I wondered if anyone saw Jeff and I leave. I wondered what the punishment might be for such a pep rally infraction.
Suddenly, the side door burst open. The frame filled by a menacing coach. Of all the enforcers who could have found me, it was the assistant football coach who did so. Despite his size and football experience, he remained the assistant coach due to his occasional fits of rage, both on the field and in the classroom. He approached, red-faced and sweaty. He particularly disliked me not only because I was a queer little choir boy, but because he knew from seventh grade PE I was a fast runner. He tried to conscript me to play football, but I declined. He considered my actions questionable ever since.
“McColly!” he bellowed. “I’ve been looking for you! What do you know about that cheer?”
Shit, somebody fingered me, I thought. Okay, don’t panic.
“What cheer?” I asked.
“You know what cheer!” he growled. “It will go easier if you admit it. The cheerleaders said it was you.”
Gradually, he noticed the Christmas door. The fake snow. The little blue Smurfs taped to the paper ski slope.
I responded thinly, “We’ve been working on the Smurf door. We didn’t go to the rally.” I swallowed hard, certain he could see my heart beating through my chest.
He squinted at me, his face an angry grimace. The wheels turned in his mind. No way these choir wimps pulled off that cheer, he no doubt thought. He kept staring at me in silence for a long time, then turned and slammed the door behind him.
The rest of that day known troublemakers were pulled from class to the Vice Principal’s office for interrogation. The word finally came down between periods that Hank had been blamed as the organizer of the cheer and would receive a month of lunch and after-school detention, as well as a dozen swats with a wooden paddle.
The next day I found Hank in the hall and asked him what happened.
“They blame me for everything,” Hank said. “Don’t worry about it. We’re good.”
###
A week later, elbow-deep in my locker as I retrieved a notebook, the Vice Principal appeared at my side, put his hand on my shoulder, and turned me to face him. He dug his fingernails into my skin.
“Too bad about the rally last week,” he said.
“Yes. Too bad,” I gurgled.
“It’s a shame somebody had to ruin the fun.”
“It is a shame.” Never having been in trouble before, my legs started to weaken. My back started to sweat and I felt on the verge of wetting myself. A bell rang. He released my shoulder but kept staring at me.
“Well, I have to go now.” I slowly closed my locker and walked down the hall but kept looking back. He kept watching me as I made my way to class.
I didn’t know why he let me get away with it but I was sure I never would again. My moment had come and gone, and I never again misused my power as president of the choir.