The Red Flag

There is nothing of greater importance in a young boy’s life than determining the shortest distance between two points. I could shave three minutes off my walk to Lancaster Elementary each morning by skirting the sidewalk and cutting through an orchard. A gauntlet of exhausted apple trees that had stopped bearing fruit by late fall instead bore witness to an eight-year-old who was making good time for no particular reason.

The orchard adjoined a chain-link fence behind my school, a partition between dirt and concrete, imagination and reality. I would haphazardly toss my backpack and then myself over the fence rather than backtrack a short distance to the gate.

My older sister refused to accompany me on my excursions. Once, I took the shortcut, walked back to the gate, and waited for her. “What took you so long?” I asked. She rolled her eyes as she walked past, and I had to jog in order to close the distance between us.

The bell would ring and hundreds of students would file into their respective classrooms, like ants scurrying to their flood-proof nests before a storm. Teachers would greet students with warm smiles; students would greet each other with fist bumps, hugs, and high-fives. Class would begin and we would all do our best to settle into hard metal chairs, legs scraping against linoleum flooring.

Spelling words. Venn diagrams. Multiplication tables. By mid-morning, Mrs. Refreno, my third-grade teacher, would already have wet-erase marker all over her hands as she grappled with overhead projector transparencies. When she needed a break, she assigned seat work. Every worksheet was a race: The first few to finish could play Number Munchers on one of the three Apple computers in the back of the room.

By late morning, glances toward the faded wall clock that had held students hostage for decades increased tenfold amongst anxious eyes. Mrs. Refreno would try to teach us cursive letters, but our minds were elsewhere, the loops and swoops mere wiggles and squiggles. Kids were not meant to sit still. We had been playing by the teacher’s rules for far too long; it was time to play by our own.

Recess was coming.

Mrs. Refreno would have us line up at the door alphabetically to prevent pushing and shoving. Still, the line leader could feel the pressure on her heels from those behind her trying to get closer to the hallway, looking for shortcuts that did not exist.

First, we would have to endure lunch. Our energy suddenly renewed with the promise of play on the horizon, it took all our willpower to walk in an orderly, straight line to the cafeteria. We would carefully carry our flimsy foam trays to folding lunch tables, joining our friends from other classes.

We inhaled our food. Despite the lack of precedent, we believed that the faster we finished lunch, the faster we would be on the playground. Actually, individual tables were released in a rotating order, a system that was only fair when we went first. Upon dismissal, we would sprint toward the heavy steel double doors that allowed passage to the playground.

While the playground had physical boundaries, our imaginations were boundless. We used the playground equipment for everything except its intended purpose. Seesaws and slides became pea gravel catapults and conveyor belts. Swings were corkscrewed by friends as we sat awaiting the release that would send us into a spiraling frenzy. The playground provided a creative outlet the classroom failed to offer, which is why the red flag was so devastating.

I can still picture the red flag hanging lifelessly at the end of our hallway, an indicator that recess would be indoors because of inclement weather. I can still hear the collective groan of my classmates as the line leader relayed the bad news. She would poke her head into the hallway as we lined up for lunch, nervously awaiting her signal. When she sighed heavily, slumped her shoulders, and shook her head, she confirmed our worst fears.

For a time, I felt sorry for her. Other announcements came over the PA system. This should not have been her burden to bear. This process existed for one reason—pure cowardice. The adults hid behind the red flag, shirking responsibility, while the line leaders earned their peers’ resentment.

After all, there was perhaps nothing more awful to a third-grader than indoor recess. At that age, third-graders were still unaware of most of the world’s wickedness; however, the ruthless act of asking kids to return to the classroom after lunch was something palpable, an atrocity we had all experienced. The freedom that recess afforded was unattainable without fresh air, without room to move. Within the confines of four cinder block walls that were repainted so many times that they were closing in, we could not feel it.

On days in which they displayed the red flag, we dawdled through lunch. The lunchroom supervisor came around to dismiss tables, but there was no longer a sense of urgency. We trudged back to the classroom, feeling sorry for ourselves.

At the start of each indoor recess, Mrs. Refreno made it a point to remind us that this was supposed to be her prep time. As a result, the only rule was that we could not bother her unless it was an absolute emergency. When she was not leaving us unsupervised to chat with the other teachers in the hallway, she sat at her desk reading a paperback novel, ignoring all but the most egregious behavior.

We had various ways of keeping busy. We would scrutinize nearly identical pictures in old issues of Highlights Magazine, trying to spot the differences. Turn the crank in Mouse Trap, hoping the chain reaction of events would work properly and the plastic cage would drop on our opponents. Occasionally, Mrs. Refreno would check out the rolling TV cart. We would watch Reading Rainbow VHS tapes and learn about Egyptian mummies, how they would live in their tombs as they lived on earth, believing a new life began after they died.

Fall had come and gone in about a week that year, neglected clumps of rain-soaked leaves littering streets and sidewalks. The weather had been miserable—the line leader had been the unwitting target of misplaced anger frequently—and we were once again stuck inside for recess. I was sulking near the window, listening to raindrops violently smash against the glass, when she approached.

“You’re the smallest kid in class,” she said, hesitantly. Her statement caught me by surprise, as she had not spoken more than a few words to me all year.

“Yeah, I guess?” I said.

“I could use your help,” she said, biting her lip. Her eyes seemed apologetic.

She led me to a sliding cabinet which housed a variety of indoor recess activities. I saw a couple of her friends watching us intently, one whispering something to the other behind a cupped hand.

It is unimaginable I was unsuspecting when the warning signs seem so clear upon reflection. Perhaps I was too eager to please, too weak to say no. Maybe when she asked me to follow her, I assumed her authority as line leader went beyond its actual parameters. It is possible that I was so tired of being at the mercy of the singular red flag in the hallway that I simply refused to acknowledge the countless red flags in the classroom that afternoon.

“It’s locked,” she said, demonstrating by tugging on the right door.

“Maybe get Mrs. Refreno to unlock it?” I offered.

“You think she would consider this an emergency?”

“So, what do you want me to do?” I was clueless why she targeted me until the line leader grabbed the left door and pulled it partially open.

“Do you think you could squeeze through?”

She had no control over the weather. She was born with a surname that came first alphabetically, determining her role as line leader, sealing her fate as a harbinger of disappointment. Was she also powerless to prevent what was about to happen?

“Do you see the Etch a Sketch?” she asked as I reluctantly got down on all fours and poked my head into the sliding cabinet. Sure enough, it was sitting on top of a box well out of reach. I withdrew my head and met her gaze.

“I don’t think I can fit.”

“Sure you can,” she insisted.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I meant it. I pulled myself up but became immobilized when she spoke again.

“Please. I really need this.”

Out of pity, I pulled myself into the cabinet, wedging through the narrow opening, twisting around the corner. As soon as my legs were inside, I heard the sliding door close.

“Wait, what are you—” I turned my head back toward the opening and watched the last sliver of light disappear as the door slammed shut. “No! Let me out!” My screams were indistinguishable amongst the shrieks and squeals of third-graders playing.

I wrenched my body, contorted my limbs, in order to turn around inside the cabinet. Frantically, I tried to wedge my fingers between the sliding door and frame, but the line leader must have been using all her leverage to keep it secure. There was nothing to grab on to.

“Please!” The sound of my fists pounding on the inside of the door merged with the low rumble of thunder from the storm. No one was coming to help.

The air was thick; the darkness enveloping. Tears streamed down my face.

I am not sure how long she kept me trapped. Eventually, the door slid open, spilling fluorescent light inside the cabinet. Shielding my eyes, I crawled out from my tomb. She was smirking until she saw my tear-stained cheeks.

“I didn’t…” she began weakly. I looked down and noticed, incredulously, that I was gripping the Etch A Sketch. I handed it to her and spun away, wiping my cheeks, suddenly self-conscious. Mrs. Refreno broke off her conversation and returned from the hallway, surveyed the room, and could not discern any difference from when she left.

The storm had abated by the end of the school day. I opted to take the sidewalk home with my sister; the apple orchard had become completely washed out. I would never take the shortcut again.

It was my responsibility to take out Rusty, our family’s Irish setter, when I got home from school each day. He was no longer the exuberant puppy I grew up with: arthritis brought on a stiffness in his gait, a cataract had developed in his right eye, and he slept most of the day.

My dad had stopped our after-school routine of fetch weeks earlier when he saw how fatigued it made Rusty. However, he still carried his drool-soaked tennis ball outside with him and dropped it at my feet, looking up with expectant eyes.

“You know we can’t do this anymore,” I told him as I reached down and stroked his matted fur. He nudged the tennis ball closer, then barked.

I grabbed the ball with my index finger and thumb and gently tossed it a short distance. He hobbled toward the ball, off-balance, favoring his right-front leg. After retrieval, he gingerly walked back to where I was standing and, once again, dropped the ball at my feet. 

I tossed the ball further. Rusty fetched. He was panting heavily now, the tennis ball still housed between his jaws.

“Drop it,” I said. Too weak to say no, too eager to please, he loosened his grip. I scooped it up and tossed it even further. He just stood there, whimpering.

“Go get it!” I said, pointing aggressively toward the tennis ball. He staggered away, stopping after a few steps to look back with pleading eyes. “Fetch!” I yelled, and he dutifully reeled toward the ball, scooping it up and walking back toward the house, signaling that we were done.

I cut him off, ripped the ball out of his mouth, and threw it as far as I could.

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