"I think something weird is going on," Mr. Clarkson commented, filling his coffee mug. The Teachers' Lounge coffee was mediocre on a good day, and today wasn't a good day. Its only redeeming feature was that it was strong, and Clarkson needed the energy to keep up with teenagers who generally resented learning about how the government of their country worked. He tore open a few packets of artificial sweetener and emptied them into the dubious, dark liquid.
"That so?" replied Coach Harms, not looking up from the sports page. By his tone he probably didn't even know what had just been said.
Clarkson shook his head in disgust. Harms was the only guy he knew who took a full day to read the sports section of the paper, and today's was just one page-- it was the local paper. Clarkson studied the ex-high school wrestling hero, body stuffed into gray sweats, bald patch and bad comb over, dull eyes in a face which no longer looked as if it had once been lean. Clarkson remembered Harms as a teenager-- and school bully. Harms only hung onto this job because he produced winning wrestling teams. Who knew if Harms even realized that? Clarkson decided to change tactics.
"So, going to make any changes on next year's team?" Clarkson asked. Harms immediately folded the paper and looked up, furrowing his brow.
"Huh, maybe. Not too many graduating this year, so not much," he answered, chewing his lower lip thoughtfully. Then he looked confused. "Why? You're only interested in running, swimming, and biking aren't you? Those are what you coach."
Clarkson sighed. How Harms didn't know what a "triathlon" was, and why he didn't consider it or any of its components "real" sports, the other teacher didn't know.
"Yeah, I coach running and swimming," he explained, silently adding a comment about how the school didn't even have a bicycling team. "But I am a part of this school, and I like to see our kids win. I was just curious if you were going to keep the Jacobson kid as your heavyweight."
"Of course!" snorted Coach Harms. He sipped some of his long since cold coffee. Coffee drinking was a long, drawn out art for Coach Harms. "He's only a junior, and he got to State this year! All he needs is for his grades to stay up."
The last was said a bit menacingly. Years back Clarkson had refused to change an "F" for one of Harms boys.
"I don't have him this semester," Clarkson explained. "It just that I don't think he'll be able to make that category next year."
"What?! Of course he will! He's huge!" Harms shot back in disbelief, looking at the other man as if he were nuts.
"I think you should talk to him, then, he seems to have lost quite a bit of weight," Clarkson informed Harms. "I think a lot of your boys have, actually. You might have to make more than a few changes in your line up."
Harms fumbled setting down his coffee, spilling some onto his newspaper. Clarkson now had his full attention.
"What are you talking about?!" he demanded. Maybe Harms did realize that wrestling was the only reason he was still employed, since sweat was now forming on his brow.
"Its something going on with the students, ever since Valentines Day," Clarkson answered, leaning on the lounge's refrigerator. "I don't understand it at all, but we seem to have an unusual number of skinny, blond, young looking boys these days. I've been having trouble keeping track of who's who and in what grade, to be honest. Its not that they are identical, its just that they are different than last semester. Each boy that's changed, that is. Not all of them, but an increasing number."
Harms blinked slowly, giving the impression of long unused, rusty equipment in his head trying to come back to life. Clarkson could practically hear the squeals of neglected cogs turning, smell smoke billowing...
"I don't get it. Whatdaya mean?" Coach Harms finally asked, confusion apparent on his face. Clarkson sighed.
"Just look up from your clipboard next time you take role," Clarkson explained with strained patience. "Actually LOOK at your boys, SEE if you recognize their faces, or at least the faces of your wrestlers. Okay? Do that then come back and tell me what you think."
Harms sat in his chair, blinking as he processed the words. Maybe at some level he had felt something was off, because for once he did not try to deny what he didn't understand. Instead he actually seemed to think.
"Yeah, all right," he finally agreed. Then he glanced at the clock. "SHIT! I'm late! Catch you later."
Harms huffed his way out through the door.
Clarkson sighed as he thoughtfully sipped his coffee. Harms wasn't a good bet for getting to the bottom of anything, but Clarkson cared about the students and was determined to figure this thing out, even if it meant trying to penetrate the fog of some people's mind.
_______________
"Yeah, all right, who all's here?" Coach Harms puffed, flipping to the role call sheet for... 4th?, yeah, 4th period. He glanced at one of the gym's windows and noted that, unfortunately, it was raining. Crap. He'd have to improvise something to keep them occupied. Maybe some basketball drills again...
"Anderson!?" he called out. Not getting an immediate reply he glanced up, and belated remember his conversation of minutes ago. Anderson was doing a poor job of covertly talking into his cell phone. He was also blond, short, skinny, and looked maybe 14, tops. He was also being groomed as next year's starting quarterback..., or had been. Anderson now couldn't weigh over 100 pounds. "ANDERSON?!? What the hell's happened to you?!"
The boy finally realized he was on the spot and hurriedly hung up his phone.
"What? Sorry, sir. I'm here," he hurriedly answered, looking only mildly sheepish at having been caught on his phone.
"What's happened to you?" Harms persisted, forgotten clipboard dangling from his hand.
"I'm in love!" the Anderson kid replied-- no, gushed, a dreamy look on his face, cute dimples as he smiled.
Harms simply stared. He then slowly looked down the line of high school boys. Most of them looked normal, but there were two more blond, blue eyed, long haired, skinny, short, young looking boys in the line. One appeared to be covertly texting, and the other was nervously fiddling with his phone. Apparently that one could only JUST restrain himself. Harms turned toward the gym's doors-- just in time to see another long haired, blond boy flash past the doors..., probably running for class. Turning back, he saw the Anderson kid working his phone.
"Give me those phones!" Harms demanded, grabbing them from the boys. He gave the three phones a brief glance. Did this have something to door with that cell phone radiation stuff he'd heard about? Each phone was a different brand and model. He shook his head, then looked at the kids again. "Could someone tell me what in the hell is going on? Why is Anderson blond? Why are you two blond and short?"
The boys in the line shuffled nervously, the other boys looking at the blond boys. Some of them seemed to be noticing the shorter, younger looking boys for the first time, only one or two did not looked surprised. As if they had already noticed something was going on.
Harms dug in his memory, and managed to remember the names of the unchanged kids, and, by elimination, figured out who the other two had to be. Neither was on the wrestling or football team, which had made the determination difficult. One was on the cross country team, maybe.
"Stewart! Talbot! Can you tell me?" Harms persisted. His hands were shaking, and suddenly the sweat suit was too warm. Lastly, a strong sense of unreality seemed to hang in the air. These. Things. Don't. Happen. People don't change that fast, and they definitely don't get younger. Shorter. What the hell?!
"I met the most wonderful girl!," gushed Stewart, apparently trying to hide a non-visible erection with his hands. "Cindy..."
He sighed and his mind went away, probably to Cindy. Whoever she was.
"Kathy loves me!" Talbot sighed. Hadn't he been half-black or Indian or something? One of those naturally darker types? "She has the greatest teeth, breasts, body, hair! I got to watch her sleep last night--"
"That's enough!" ordered Harms. God! Did they all sound like that? "Can one of you OTHER guys fill me in on this!?"
"Uhm, we don't know what's going on either, sir," a polite voice replied. It belonged to Danny Hail-- one of the guys on the Student Council, a straight arrow-type. He'd been beat up a year or so ago for narking on some of the stoners or metal heads or something. "Guys are just suddenly becoming obsessed with girls-- I mean, with a particular girl. The girls also seemed to be obsessed somewhat, too. Not as much."
"But what's with the hair and height?"
Danny shrugged
"I don't know. Neither has anyone I've asked. It started with Valentine's Day, when everyone was giving cards to everyone else," Danny explained, shuffling his feet. He looked up. "That's all I've got, sir."
Coach Harms slowly looked over the boys. His mind just could not get around... THIS. Whatever THIS was.
"Okay, look," he finally said, licking his lips. "I want you to divide up into two lines, and practice dribbling and passing. Like we did the other day. Everyone remember that? Good. Now get to it! I'll come back out and let you know when you're done."
Turning, not even bothering to see if his orders were being obeyed, Coach Harms hurried back into the Boys' locker room.
Leaning against the cool concrete wall, Coach Harms tried to relax and slow his breathing.
THINGS LIKE THIS DON'T HAPPEN! WHAT'S GOING ON?!
He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. He was going to have to rethink the entire wrestling team! He couldn't count on the same boys being the same!
"Relax," he muttered to himself. "Just pretend you lost them to a car accident or something... something normal."
That thought calmed him only slightly, and he felt too nervous to stand still. He glanced in the direction of his office-- it was somewhere safe. Maybe he should go back to the Teachers' Lounge and see if Clarkson was still there... but Clarkson had said he didn't know what was going on, either. He looked again at his office, then thought of something. The excitement had apparently hurried the coffee through his system, and the toilets were the other way.
Turning, he walked between the rows of lockers. On one of them a pink envelope was taped. Pausing, he looked at it. A girl's handwriting said "To Bill!" Valentine's Day. Cards. Absently, he plucked the card from the locker. He could always tape it back up later and know one would know.
He carried the card to the urinals, and pulled it out of the envelope while relieving himself. The card didn't appear to be anything special-- just something bought at some store. Flipping it open he read the inscription: "We will be perfect together!" The dot on the exclamation mark was a heart. Beneath that was written "Connie P."
A weird sensation flowed through Coach Harms, and he didn't know it, but his slowly turned bright, clear blue. Who was Connie P.? She sounded like a wonderful girl...
Finishing, he turned and wandered back to his office, where he kept a collection of yearbooks. He could probably-- no, he HAD TO-- figure out who she was from the pictures in last year's book. Absently, he pulled up his now loose sweat pants...