A Clear Call for Justice

Christopher's fellow students knew where he was headed before the recess bell rang, and they knew the stakes. Some of them even cheered and applauded. Observing Christopher's swift stride and scowl on his face, a sea of elementary-schoolers parted to form a clear path in the hallway.

It was a Monday afternoon in September of 1989, and at 8 and a half years old, Christopher was revved up to fight for justice in the Arkansas public school system.

As he flung open the library doors and marched towards the main desk, the kids in detention peered out from behind their pencils and periodicals. They rejoiced in the brawl that was about to ensue.

Ms. Kendrick's eyes widened as a tiny enraged 4ft tall seventy-five-pound adorable Christopher approached her at the book return box.

"I need to talk to Mrs. Palen, RIGHT NOW!" he demanded as he banged his closed fist down on the big dictionary.

"Surely, Christopher," Ms. Kendrick, the assistant librarian, said in the sweetest southern drawl. She turned away and walked towards the office while giggling under her breath.

Mrs. Palen, the head librarian and the school's fundraising chairwoman, rolled her eyes, bookmarked her paperback romance novel, gritted her teeth, and emerged from her darkened office to see what all the ruckus was about.

"Afternoon, Mr. Jennings! How may I help you today, sir?" she forced through her fake smile.

(Mrs. Palen had had previous encounters with the Jennings Family before. On his first day of school in second grade, Christopher told his teacher there were multiple Dewey Decimal filing errors in the non-fiction section. Word got around in the teacher's lounge, and on the principal's orders, Mrs. Palen spent her vacation refiling. Also, unbeknownst to Christopher, his father had actually dated Mrs. Palen in high school and dumped her for the valedictorian — Christopher's mother.)

"My teacher told me you said Nikki Sue and I are disqualified. This is an outrage!" Christopher replied.

In a strategy meeting held behind the gym during lunch the Wednesday before, Christopher pitched a sound business proposal. He and classmate Nikki Sue would pool their "Kool Club Fundraiser" candy sales from the summer together under one delegate number so they could get to the "Bonus Super Kool Club Gold Level," split the winnings, and beat out the rest of their competition.

It was a solid plan, and the partnership was sealed with a handshake. With a sweet tooth, Nikki Sue would get the "Year's Supply of Chocolate Pollywogs," candy and Christopher would get the super rad acrylic clear push-button corded phone, the kind where you can see all the pink and yellow chips and wires inside. Plus, by pooling, they would qualify to win the bonus award, which was a free pizza party at Chuck E. Cheese for their entire class.

All their sales receipts were notarized with Christopher's rainbow sparkle embosser and submitted down the school's library chute by the deadline on Friday at recess. It was a done deal — or so they thought.

"You told us at the assembly on the last day of school that only FINAL SALES NUMBERS would decide the winner in the fall!" he argued. "We worked the entire summer! We worked our flippin' butts off for Stockholm Elementary!" he barked at her. The delinquent ruffians in the background snickered at his attempt at profanity.

"My father says you've made thousands off of our child labor, and some of his co-workers won't even talk to him anymore because he kept hitting them up for orders! He says the whole neighborhood will get cavities because of your stupid fundraiser, and on top of that, you have the gall to deny us our prizes and our pizza party! WHY?!?" he demanded.

Ms. Kendrick was pretty sure he didn't know what the word "gall" meant but was rather impressed by his dramatic soliloquy nonetheless.

"Those are the rules. You can't pool sales on summer candy fundraisers, just on fall candles and winter batteries! Those are the rules!" Mrs. Palen explained.

"That's not what you told us. Call the company! Prove it. I'll wait right here!" Christopher started to tear up. He wrapped his fingers around a card catalog handle to steady himself.

Annoyed and feeling pressure from the spotlight and an audience within earshot, Mrs. Palen marched into her office to make the call and locked it from the inside.

Hearing about Christopher's protest, Nikki Sue ran to the library in solidarity to wait with him.

As Christopher and the onlookers waited in silence for Mrs. Palen to finish the call, Ms. Kendrick scanned the returned books and put them on the book cart. He noticed Nikki Sue eyeing a tin of Chocolate Pollywogs on Ms. Kendrick's desk, which only further incensed him.

That totally tubular clear phone was his, and Christopher was going to get it, damn it! He and Nikki Sue earned their winnings.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Palen opened her office door with just enough room to poke her head out. "They say those are the rules!" she shouted, slamming her door shut.

Christopher felt duped. According to his mother, Mrs. Palen was "like a beautiful orange marigold that lures you in to take a whiff only to give off a putrid scent or like an exotic peacock that hypnotizes with a feathery display; only to poop all over your lawn and peck your eyes out."

From then on, Christopher swore he would be a rules enforcer, and he would never let anyone cheat him of his due again. Nikki Sue's father took them both to Chuck E. Cheese for pizza the following weekend as a consolation prize.

Twenty years later, Christopher's niece attended Stockholm Elementary. On graduation day, which coincidentally was Mrs. Palen's retirement day, Christopher went to get his car in the parking lot behind the library to take the family to Chuck E. Cheese to celebrate. By that point, it had sort of become a family in-joke and ritual.

As he walked to the car, he saw a Chocolate Pollywog wrapper on the ground and chuckled to himself. And as he threw it into the dumpster, he noticed several cardboard boxes at the bottom. One was filled with broken picture frames, old damaged books without bindings, and twisted bookends. Sticking out of another box was a 1980's clear acrylic push-button corded phone surrounded by a mountain of Chocolate Pollywog tins. Apparently, Mrs. Palen had a clear call for justice of her own.

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