Chapter 1: Old Chees
I remember the morning I got accused of painting graffiti on the wall behind the gym at Westwood Elementary like it happened yesterday. It was one of those gray mornings where the sky looked tired, like someone had rubbed half the blue out of it. The wind pushed the swings around on the playground and they creaked in this lonely sort of way that made the whole schoolyard sound older than it really was.
Westwood Elementary always looked strict in the mornings. The brick walls were dark and the tall windows stared down at you like they were keeping track of everything you did wrong. Even when nothing bad was happening, the place had a way of making you feel like trouble might start at any minute.
I was nine years old then, and I had a habit of drawing on just about anything that stayed still long enough. Paper mostly, but also the backs of homework assignments and the corners of notebooks. I liked drawing horses best. I don’t know why exactly. Something about the way their legs looked when they were running always seemed interesting to me.
That morning before school I was kicking a rubber ball around with Tommy Grayson and Eric Weller near the hopscotch squares. Eric had a runny nose most of the year and wiped it on his sleeve when he thought nobody was watching. Tommy kept telling us he was going to pitch for the Yankees someday, which he said about twice a day whether anyone asked or not.
Everything seemed perfectly normal until the bell rang and we all shuffled inside.
The hallways smelled like chalk dust and floor wax, which was the regular smell of school. Mrs. Kellerman started teaching fractions and everyone pretended to listen the way kids usually do.
Then the whispering started.
At first it was just a couple kids turning around in their seats and muttering something. But by the time recess came around, half the class was talking about it.
Somebody had written something on the brick wall behind the gym.
Graffiti.
I didn’t know the word very well back then, but I understood it meant someone had written something they definitely weren’t supposed to.
The principal, Mr. Darnell, was furious about it.
Mr. Darnell had a narrow face and a voice that sounded like he’d swallowed a handful of gravel sometime in the past. He always wore stiff jackets and tight ties that made him look like he was being strangled very politely.
After lunch the loudspeaker crackled over our classroom.
“Matthew Collins,” it said. “Report to the principal’s office immediately.”
The room went completely quiet.
You could practically feel everyone turning around to stare at me.
Tommy leaned forward from behind his desk.
“What’d you do?” he whispered.
“I didn’t do anything,” I said.
But I could already feel my ears getting hot. They did that whenever I got nervous.
I stood up and walked out of the classroom while everyone watched me like I was about to be sentenced to something serious.
The principal’s office had a smell I’ll never forget. Old papers, polished wood, and something faintly medicinal, like cough syrup.
Mr. Darnell sat behind his desk with his hands folded.
“Matthew,” he said slowly, “do you know why you’re here?”
“No, sir,” I said.
He leaned back in his chair and studied me for a while.
“This morning,” he said, “someone painted graffiti on the wall behind the gymnasium.”
I stared at the carpet.
“The teachers tell me you enjoy drawing,” he continued.
“Yes, sir.”
“And several students say they saw you near the gym this morning.”
I thought about that. I had walked past the gym. Everybody did.
“I didn’t paint anything,” I said.
Mr. Darnell sighed like I was making the whole thing unnecessarily complicated.
“If you admit it,” he said, “the consequences will be much lighter.”
“I didn’t do it,” I said again.
We sat there in silence for a few seconds.
Then he stood up.
“Come with me.”
We walked outside around the side of the building where the gym wall faced the empty field. The wind had picked up and the flagpole creaked again.
Then I saw the graffiti.
It was written in big black letters across the bricks.
MR. DARNELL SMELLS LIKE OLD CHEES
I stared at it for a long moment.
Mr. Darnell cleared his throat.
“Well?” he said.
“I didn’t do that,” I said.
He crossed his arms.
“You expect me to believe that?”
I looked at the wall again.
“If I did it,” I said, “I would’ve spelled cheese right.”
For a second he didn’t say anything.
He just looked at the wall.
Then we went back inside.
By the time I got back to class, the whole school seemed to know about it. Kids kept turning around and staring at me like I’d suddenly become famous for something terrible.
Tommy leaned over again.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Too bad,” he said. “It’s pretty funny.”
For the rest of the afternoon teachers kept glancing at me like they expected me to start writing on the walls at any moment.
Then something interesting happened right before the final bell.
Mrs. Kellerman stepped into the hallway and started whispering with another teacher. I couldn’t hear everything they said, but I did hear one name.
Eric Weller.
A few minutes later the loudspeaker crackled again.
“Eric Weller,” it said. “Report to the principal’s office immediately.”
Eric stood up slowly. His sleeve was already halfway to his nose.
He didn’t look at me when he walked past my desk.
The bell rang soon after, and everyone rushed outside.
Tommy nudged me as we walked down the front steps.
“Guess it wasn’t you,” he said.
“No,” I said.
Across the yard I saw Eric standing near the office window with Mr. Darnell. Eric looked like he might cry.
Tommy squinted at the building.
“You think he spelled it wrong on purpose?” he asked.
I looked back at the wall behind the gym.
The black letters were still there, crooked and uneven.
“I don’t think so,” I said.
And I remember thinking that if you were going to get in that much trouble for writing something on a wall, you ought to at least spell it right.
The next morning the graffiti was still there.
That surprised me a little, because I figured someone would have scrubbed it off during the night. But when I walked past the gym on my way to the playground, the black letters were still sitting there on the bricks like they owned the place.
A few kids had already gathered around it.
Tommy Grayson was standing there with his hands in his pockets, staring at the wall like he was inspecting a piece of art in a museum.
“Morning,” he said when he saw me.
“Morning,” I said.
We both looked at the graffiti again.
MR. DARNELL SMELLS LIKE OLD CHEES.
Tommy shook his head slowly.
“You were right,” he said.
“About what?”
“The spelling.”
A couple fourth graders walked by and started giggling when they saw it.
Then Eric Weller appeared behind us.
He looked like he hadn’t slept much.
Tommy turned around.
“Did you do it?” he asked.
Eric didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the wall like it might start talking to him.
Finally he said, “Maybe.”
Tommy blinked.
“Maybe?”
Eric rubbed his sleeve across his nose.
“I didn’t mean to write the last part,” he said.
Tommy and I looked at each other.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Eric shrugged.
“I only wrote ‘Mr. Darnell,’” he said. “Then I got scared and ran away.”
That confused me.
“Then who wrote the rest?” I said.
Eric shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Right then the bell rang.
All of us started walking toward the school doors, but I kept thinking about what Eric said.
If he only wrote the first part, then someone else must have finished it.
Which meant there were two people involved.
That idea stayed in my head all morning.
During arithmetic I kept looking around the classroom wondering who the second person might be.
Tommy caught me staring at people.
“What are you doing?” he whispered.
“Thinking,” I said.
“About what?”
“The wall.”
Tommy leaned closer.
“You think there’s another one?”
I nodded.
Right then Mrs. Kellerman tapped the chalkboard.
“Boys,” she said.
We both sat up straight immediately.
But the thought stayed with me the rest of the day.
Because somewhere in Westwood Elementary, there was still a kid walking around who had written the words SMELLS LIKE OLD CHEES.
And for some reason, that bothered me almost as much as being accused in the first place.
