The plot against Simba (Ezzy's Education: Part 14), By Garrett Murch
At false dawn Tuesday morning, Verica Navratil pulled her parents’ red Chevy Malibu alongside Lucinda Barron’s blue Toyota Prius in the student parking lot. She stooped into the idling Prius as Lucinda sucked creamy iced coffee from a plastic straw and took a big bite out of her sausage, egg, and cheese croissant from Dunkin. The thinnest of fog veiled the orange moon, three days from full. Lucinda chewed as Verica stared at the fog and smelled microwaved sausage.
“I’ve figured out how you can redeem yourself,” Lucinda said. She wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“Really? I am unbelievably sorry about the email to Luci Lipps.”
“Stop it, Verica. You said that enough last night. I have a plan. If you execute my plan with precision—and I win—it will be very helpful, shall we say, to your chances of being accepted by a good college.”
“I can’t end up owning a gas station like my parents.”
“Good,” Lucinda said. “Then let’s get down to business.” She picked a piece of egg off her lap and put it in her mouth. “The election, as you know, is one week from today. Thank the proverbial god we didn’t get the early voting we demanded. I’d lose in a landslide if students could already vote right now.”
“Yeah, that would have been a disaster.”
“I suppose my mother is right about one thing—the need for stealth. We can’t just go around saying what we really want to do. We’ll lose if we do that. But the good news is we can outsmart everyone. And of course you understand, Verica, that Justice justifies our stealth. The oppressors must be crushed by any means necessary.” She sucked more creamy iced coffee down her skinny throat. “Are you ready?”
“I was born ready.”
“So,” Lucinda said, staring at the steering wheel, “After the homecoming football game Friday night, there’s going to be a large party at a cabin in the woods.”
“You’re going to a party?” Verica asked. “That’s not like you.”
“Of course I’m not going to the party,” Lucinda said. “You are. Alone. On a mission.”
“I can do missions.”
“I know you can. And like all acts of greatness, Verica, your mission is simple but difficult. At the party on Friday night, Trunk will be there with that stupid water bottle of his.”
“Of course he will.”
”So your mission is to slip a small amount of Mexican valium into Trunk’s bottle when he’s not looking. This should be easy because he always leaves that thing laying around.”
“Mexican valium?” Verica asked, her lips quivering. “Do you mean roofies?”
“Well, yes, they get called that when males date rape females. We’ll just call it a forget-me pill.”
“Okay.”
“Now it is important, Verica, for you to understand—and accept—turnabout is fair play when it comes to defeating the Patriots. My mother taught me that as well.”
“Has Trunk ever tried to date rape a girl?”
“Verica, don’t get distracted. Trunk is a privileged, able, White male football player. Just like my father who deserted me. Never lose sight of that, Verica.”
“I won’t. Toxic men use forget-me pills to date rape us. So Trunk, a toxic male, will get a dose of his own toxic masculinity medicine!” Verica’s hands shook.
“Relax, Verica. The dose will be just strong enough to make Trunk a little dizzy and confused. He weighs 210 pounds according to the football team website.”
“You always prepare.”
“Let me finish!” Lucinda scowled at Verica. “You talk so much, Verica. Now look, I’ve got a team of my Ebbing sisters who, once Trunk is dizzy, will get him ranting like the most toxic male who ever lived, and we’ll use creative videography to do the rest. The girls, led by Dizzy Beagainin Jabs, will also snatch the water bottle and place a vodka bottle near Trunk to show he even lies about never drinking alcohol.”
“You think of everything!”
“Now Verica, my Ebbing sisters must never find out Trunk has been medicated.”
“So clever.”
“I know. The real Trunk Langston will spread everywhere on InstaTok and at school. This delusional, violent, and hypocritical toxic male will give me another chance to win!” She took a deep breath. “You must never tell anyone about the forget-me medicine.”
“Oh, I won’t tell anyone, obviously.”
“No, not obviously, given your recent behavior.” Lucinda squeezed her plastic iced coffee cup and its top popped off. “There is, Gunstling, one critical detail. Are you ready?”
“I am always ready,” Verica said. Her hands formed fists as if she was ready to fight, yet most of her body shook.
“Sure you are. Well anyway, here’s the detail. You must make sure Trunk’s stupid water bottle is in a dark location when you medicate it. The water will turn a little blue, but that must not be noticeable.”
“You think of everything.”
“Look, if this doesn’t work and I don’t win student body president, my mother and I will tweak my college applications to show how I was a victim of toxic masculinity and bullying at school and I had the courage to stand up to oppression. I could show I am deserving of an environment where a person like me can be safe and thrive, you know?”
”Smart,” Verica said. “I have to go to college.” Her eyes focused on the sun rising behind the dissipating fog.
“Sadly, you don’t have the same luxury, Verica. But if you pull this off, you will go to a top college. I guarantee.”
Verica smiled. “I’ll do my best.”
Lucinda scowled. “Losers do their best,” she said. “Winners go home and fuck the prom queen.”
Verica looked confused. “Huh? I don’t follow. Isn’t that like a toxically masculine thing to say?”
Lucinda took another deep breath and took inventory of the students parking and walking toward the school entrance. “Verica, it’s just a line from the movie, The Rock. Sean Connery says it. I suppose I have a soft spot for his British accent.”
“Ha! I love British accents.”
“Isn’t that wonderful. Well look, Verica, you’ve got this. Don’t let your conscience make you go wobbly; you’re serving a higher purpose.”
“I’ve got this.”
“We’ll head inside now, Gunstling. School’s about to start. Today, and all week long, show confidence. Do not answer questions and speak only of how your privacy was violated by Luci Lipps. Do not talk about toxic masculinity. Instead, we will talk about defending freedom and democracy against fascists.” Lucinda turned off her car.
Walking in the parking lot, Lucinda and Verica looked at all the potential voters arriving for school. In the distance, up the small hill near the school, there was a cluster of vehicles— mostly pickup trucks—flying big red, white, and blue Trunk flags with American flags. Some boys, less than ten, were making noise and holding little Trunk flags.
Looking at the boys, Verica asked, “What are they saying?” They stopped walking and listened. Verica answered her own question, saying, “It sounds like… It almost sounds like they are saying ‘Trunk is Simba.’”
Lucinda listened as they started walking closer. “I think you’re right.” “What does that even mean, ‘Trunk is Simba?’” Verica asked.
“It means they are saying Trunk is the Lion King.”
They cackled in unison. “Hold on,” Lucinda said. “I’ve got to tell Ms. Scales about this. It’s too hilarious.” She began typing on her phone.
“So what does Ms. Scales really do at school?”
Still typing away, Lucinda said, “I forget what her job title is, but it doesn’t matter. Basically, she’s there to steer students toward the side of Justice, gently when possible. She’s an important ally.”
“I love it!” Verica said as she stepped into a small puddle topped with gasoline residue. “Text sent,” Lucinda said. “Let them have their fun. My day of rising approaches and their lion king will soon be just another lyin’ pauper. Now, smile as we walk in, like you know something they don’t—because you do.”
“Brilliant,” Verica replied. “I love The Lion King and Trunk is no Simba.”
“There’s Yellow Bello!” screamed an unseen student.
“Oh, there’s Ezzy over there,” Verica said, pointing. “She doesn’t look happy.”
“Good,” Lucinda said, “She shouldn’t.”
“Is she crying? That looks like tears coming out of her eyes.”
Kayla Jennings had her arm around Ezzy as the two walked together. Kayla took Ezzy’s full backpack and carried it for her.
“That’s what she gets,” Lucinda said, continuing to smile. “Maybe the coward is learning her lesson.”
“Maybe.”
Keeping her arm around Ezzy, Kayla glared at Lucinda: an intense, penetrating, almost ferocious glare. Lucinda’s smile broke.
“Maybe calling her Yellow Bello was a bit too much,” Lucinda said. “But at this point, what difference does it make?”
“None.”
Lucinda approached the chanting boys with an expert swagger and grin. The smell of exhaust mixing with fog permeated the air.
Verica, following, coughed before saying, “Um, I’m not sure they are actually saying ‘Trunk is Simba.’ They stopped and angled their heads to listen.
Fuck Loo-sin-dah!
Lucinda and Verica looked at each other, then back at the chanters. Lucinda shrugged and smiled.
“It is so strange,” Verica said, “that there are never any football players in these Trunk crowds.”
“That’s not true!” Lucinda snapped. “There are usually at least one or two.”
“Oh.” Verica looked down at the dirty gasoline water on her rose-gold, lizard-embossed high top sneakers her parents had just bought for her.
Lucinda waved at the boys as she strolled past them. Her skirt, long by Ebbing High standards, clung tight to her toned thighs with each step, and as she smiled, her cheek bones nearly poked her eyes. She covered her mouth and softly said to Verica,
“Oh, if those poor toxic males only knew what they have coming.”
Fuck Loo-sin-dah!
Lucinda stopped and waved again. She looked up, having noticed an object in the air. As she peered into the sky, an egg shattered on the center of her forehead, its yolk streaming down her face. Raucous cheers boomed from the Trunk boys’ well-practiced vocal cords.
Many nearby students looked on as if in shock. A girl rushed to Lucinda and offered to wipe the raw egg away with her fleece. Others scowled, frowned, or shook their heads at the Trunk boys.
Lucinda snatched the fleece and wiped the egg away. She took a deep breath, re-formed her smile, and yelled up to the boys, “Thanks guys, but I already had breakfast!”
Between Lucinda and the trucks, Ezzy now stood next to Kayla, carrying her own backpack again. She looked at Lucinda, at the boys, and back at Lucinda. They walked toward the school entrance and Ezzy said, “Esta gente esta loca.”
“Crazy indeed,” Kayla said. “They’re insane.”
As these new friends, Kayla and Ezzy, reached the entrance, the door opened for them. It was held by Ms. Scales, whose face, expressing grave concern, seemed to grow out of her gray Mao jacket. “Ms. Bello,” Ms. Scales said, ignoring Kayla.
“Good morning, Ms. Scales,” Ezzy said.
“Ezzy,” Ms. Scales said. “I hope you will find a way to express your courage and make a stand for Justice. Being silent in the face of injustice is a crime against the oppressed.”
Inside the school now and still walking, Ezzy replied to Ms. Scales. “Oh, I am finding my own way, for sure. Don’t you worry. I’m no one’s slave.” She continued in a low voice only Kayla could hear, “Certainly not hers.”
“Well, that is good to hear,” Ms. Scales said, her voice chasing Ezzy down the hallway. “It would be so unfortunate not to acknowledge who you are and stand up for people like you.”
“I would not be but who I am,” Ezzy said, wearing a mischievous grin. Ms. Scales shook her small head as she watched Ezzy walk away.