Mouthing Off In Chapel by Ike Sanderson – Community              Today is yet another interminable Sunday morning at an unbearable school; That’s all Ben could think about in his assigned pew seat.  The other middle schoolers, and probably the rest of the one hundred students, likened thought, was the idea that his mom actually believed this private school experience was good for him.  The only thing he was learning here was how to mess with the people in charge.            Ben sighed, sagged his shoulders, and dejectedly rested his forehead on his upturned palm.  His calculated maneuver was meant to be just enough to attract Mr. Beech’s sweeping gaze. Ben twisted his head enough to allow his own eyes to gauge the effect of his performance on his houseparent. Beech seemed not to have even noticed and kept on reading the stupid prayerbook, following the words old Reverend Hairy-ton spoke aloud from the alter.  The storm outside made Ben even more drowsy that usual, and he needed something to keep him awake.            Ben tried again, leaning a little harder into the head-on-the-hand part, and winced as the effort made his elbow tingle with its impact on the arm of the pew. This drew an eyebrow-raise from Mr. Beech, followed by the familiar nod to the book.  This was the signal to pay attention, of course, and would be followed by The Glare if not heeded. Tearing himself away from the pew arm, Ben leisurely thumbed through the pages of his prayerbook, pretending to search for the Prayers of the People, as if any normal person would be caught dead saying the dumb words anywhere except church.  It was all so phony.  Beech looked back down at his own book, and Ben took a small degree of satisfaction in his success in distracting his houseparent’s attention. Looking sideways to his left, Ben got a compadre smirk from Tim, who echoed his boredom in chapel services.            As a matter of fact, just about everybody hated chapel. Why did they have to sit through all this junk, anyway? Reverend Hairston was the most uninter- esting person ever, and only provided a source of entertainment when you could get close enough to see all the black hairs sticking out his nose.  Looking up to the Chaplain, Ben could just barely see the edge of the fuzziness, and rubbed his nose in the direction of Tim.  Tim mirrored the universal Hairy-ton signal. Glancing around, Ben saw that Mark and Brad behind Tim had also picked it up, and they all had to stifle giggles. Ben had invented the joke weeks ago, and knew it would get old soon, but he’d milk it a few more times before then.  He looked at the row in front of himself to see if anyone else had caught on.  Oops. Mr. Beech had noticed and was giving The Glare to Chris on the other side of Tim.  Ben instantly tried to flick an imaginary piece of dirt off of his trousers, making sure that anybody watching would see his innocence. Beech looked his way, and Ben looked up with one of his better Angel Eyes.  The houseparent bought it, but was about to say something when everyone else said, “Therefore let us keep the feast.”            God, Ben thought, relishing the sacrilege, what a stupid line.  He joined in for the last part, substituting as always, “…keep the feet.”  That got a knowing snicker from Tim, who didn’t say, “…the beast,” this time.  Ben looked expect- antly back to Reverend Hairston, whose stooped figure was unsteadily reaching for the wine chalice. One day last week the talk at the lunch table was a bet on how old Hairy-ton was. Ben had guessed 103,  just to make the others laugh, which they did.  Then Tim had said 120, and before long, the-guesses were four and even five digits long. Yeah, that had been a fun day.  That might have been the day Mike Applegate set the lunchroom toaster on fire. Now, that had been good.  Of course, the guy had gotten suspended when Mr. Rahpael found out the culprit, but it would have been worth it, right?            Tim roused Ben from his thoughts by punching his shoulder and telling him to get going, Communion!            This was the best, no, the only, good part about chapel.  Ben could smell the wine as he walked to the rail.  He looked at Tim with challenge in his eyes. Tim nodded and squinted like Clint Eastwood. Smirking, Ben took a deep breath. The contest was on.            Tim had kneeled to Ben’s right, and would get first crack at it. That was good; Ben would beat anything Tim tried. Ben could see Tim’s jaw working, and he looked as deep in concentration as he did when he’d tried Mark’s Algebra I homework on a bet.  Yep, Tim was trying for the Backwash tactic. Not great on the Public Points Scale, but good on the Grossness Scale.  Hairy-ton came around with the wafers.  Ben rubbed his nose while watching what Tim did with his wafer.  He swallowed it, leaving Ben open to try the new tactic he had developed during study hall last Thursday. He continued to chew his own wafer.            The chalice was two people down from Tim. Mr. Stafford was doing it today, which meant anything goes.  Stafford was clueless and didn’t even notice when you called him, “Mr. Staff-fart,” to his face, as long as you said it quickly. Tim’s turn.  Ben watched at Tim guided the cup to his mouth. Hmm, a quick Slurp (only worth a 4.5 or so), then the Cross-eyed move, followed by the predicted Backwash, and wound up with Tim’s patented Chalicelick.  Ooh, not bad, though Ben, but he knew he could beat it with his unswallowed wafer.            With Tim lingering at the rail and staying to watch, Ben began his routine with a brief Spill, to which Staffart predictably reacted by lowering the cup just enough for a really good Slurp.  This went over so well that the Backwash and Wafer maneuver went unnoticed by all but Tim, who glimpsed the pink morsels sinking slowly towards the cup bottom before Mr. Stafford whisked the chalice away with a scowl.            Ben knew he’d won, and a glow of triumph washed quickly over him until he stood up from the rail and met the icy stare of the Headmaster’s gray eyes. Dr. Rotore was kneeling just two people down from Ben, and in an instant of revelation and a flushed face, Ben knew Dr. Rotore had witnessed everything. What struck Ben the most, however, as he spun quickly and made his way back to his seat, was not the cold flash of anger that had crossed Rotore’s face, but rather the expression following it which could only be described as one of sadness.            After returning to and sitting upon his bench-like pew, Ben tried to focus on the congratulatory whispers and gestures from his friends.  Instead, he found the image of pain on Dr. Rotore’s usually impassive features stuck in his mind like a slide in a projector.  What had he done to make Rotore upset in this way?            As the service ended, Ben hurried towards the side door with his eyes studying anew the intricacies of the stone floor and the mud on the shoes of whomever walked in front of him in the crush of exiting students.  Ben made it out and walked back to the dining hall through the blustery morning.  The rain was no longer falling, but the usual release of leaving chapel was absent.            “Wow,” congratulated Tim, as he punctuated his appraisal with a slap on the back, “that was at least a 9.5!”            Ben assented with a grunt and a smile, but Dr. Rotore’s face kept him from really appreciating Tim’s compliment. Why was this bugging him so much?  He hadn’t cared when he’d done other things to people. Like that whole goldfish incident.  Erik hadn’t talked to him for a week, but it never phased Ben. And early in the year when he’d fought Nikko just because Mark said to; that had been no big deal.  Why did a harmless communion prank make his chest feel tight?            On the way to the lunchroom, however, Tim squirted a mouthful of water into Ben’s hair, and any further introspection was lost in a rush of wedgies and wet willies.  And Monday, when Ben found himself in a suspension doled out by Dr. Rotore, Ben used his solitary time to relish martyrdom and plot revenge.