(My round 10 entry into NPR's "Three Minute Fiction" contest, which mandated the story be no more than 600 words, and to be in the form of a voice mail)
As you’ll recall, you enrolled your son, Mala, here in September. I’ve heard reports that your Volvo left a lengthy patch of warm rubber in front of his dormitory on drop-off day, and unfortunately the opportunity to introduce myself escaped more quickly than you did. On a side note, I appreciate the consistent and very gracious checks you’ve been sending in the envelopes with a large smiley face in place of a proper return address.
I have repeatedly attempted to reach you at the emergency contact numbers you provided the admissions office. When I call the number for Patty, I am asked to leave a message regarding my thoughts on “the driving habits of any of Highway Master’s over the road professionals.” I was forced to weigh the odds of you being in the trucking business, Mrs. Palabra, with the notion that you made a typographical error on that particular line...
I also tried the number listed as the best way to reach your husband, Tristan. I was promptly and loudly given the hours of operation for Pete’s Ping Pong, Pool and Pizza Pub. Out of morbid curiosity, I paid a personal visit to Pete’s, and yes, all of those wonderful things are indeed present under one roof, along with a surprisingly valid permit to serve food. Not present was Tristan Palabra.
As luck would have it, one of our students here has a parent working for the FBI, and he helped me track you down. Let me say for the record that I wouldn’t normally leave a message like this, but your evasive actions have left me no choice.
On the day Mala arrived at our prestigious school, we had our first recorded fire. In nearly 150 years of caring for and instructing the leaders of tomorrow, we’ve never had such an incident. Your son took full responsibility for the blaze during a group interrogation when he wrote “I started the fire” in magic marker on my pant leg. Our school psychiatrist assisted me with an impromptu counseling session for him that evening, during which, and to my complete amazement, he managed to start the second fire in school history.
The list of atrocities has been lengthy in his first two months here. We’ve had several organized spray painting contests, a statue relocation into my office, and, in the most memorable incident at the Homecoming Football game, a solo streaking of the field that lasted seven...full...minutes.
The final straw occurred today, though. Over the course of the semester, despite all his tribulations, Mala has actually attended class. In between food fights and the sit-ins he leads in solitary protest of mandatory showering, your son has also begun to fancy himself a writer. He handed in an English paper this morning that shocked his teacher so deeply that she immediately left the classroom to bring it to me. She’d instructed the boys to write a poem about the human heart, and for his part, Mala could only muster thirteen words. Let me read it to you:
Mine sped off in a fast Swedish coupe, and I never said goodbye.
Perhaps a visit is in order? Some of us here could probably use a hug.
Oh, and bring your checkbook...”
