by Gayla Chaney

Mr. Geary, our school janitor, removes his eyeball. He leans in close, holding it up to my face for inspection. "Hey, missy, what do you think about that? Amazing how real it looks, don't you think?"

I nod. I have seen it up close before numerous times, and it doesn't get any better with each additional viewing.

Since I entered middle school, I have tried to avoid seeing Mr. Geary, but it's hard. I think he watches for me, hoping to catch me alone so he can show me his eye. I hate him for having a glass eye; I hate him for forcing me to look at it in his hand instead of it staring blankly out from his face; and I hate him most for what he is about to say because he has said it so many times before, and yet, I am powerless to stop his oncoming diatribe.

"Your daddy got a BB gun for Christmas, and I got a glass eye. What a deal. Kids and guns. That's a bad combination. You don't play with guns, do you, kiddo? I wish your daddy hadn't either."

Mr. Geary always brings up my father. The fact that my dad lived for years with the guilt of blinding his friend when they were just fourteen years old is not enough for Mr. Geary. Mr. Geary seems to need his pound of flesh fresh, and I am all that is left from my father's bloodline from whom Mr. Geary can demand payment. My dad died two years ago when his rig jackknifed on ice up in Minnesota. Mr. Geary claims my father went to his reward, but he says it smugly, as though he personally had something to do with it. When he speaks of my dead father, I want desperately to get hold of another BB gun and blind the other eye.

"You want to touch it?" he smirks. He knows there is nothing in the world I would rather not do. Still, Mr. Geary persists. "It won't bite. It won't even blink." He laughs loudly as though we have just shared a joke.

"I have to go now, Mr. Geary," I say, edging away from where he stands with his mop and pail.

"Busy bee, aren't ya, little lady? No time to reminisce with your daddy's old friend? Well, I guess I understand. He didn't like to reminisce much with me himself after the accident. He hardly had a thing to do with me, his own best buddy, and nobody else much wanted to either. I couldn't even get a date for the prom. One-eyed fellas weren't in high demand," he laments as he leans against his mop handle.

I wonder if he would have been able to get a date with both eyes. I doubt it. There is something inherently creepy about Mr. Geary, and it doesn't have to do with the glass orb he has slipped into his shirt pocket. It has more to do with his snarly lips and the humorless remarks he makes before he laughs at his own words as though he were a comedian. Sometimes, I see him telling his stupid jokes to some of the eighth grade boys, and they laugh, too, but their laughter is phony. Like Mr. Geary's eye. They don't want to act appalled. They don't want to admit that a phony glass eye could scare them, so they pretend it's cool.

Whenever I see them huddled around Mr. Geary as he explains what happened to his eye when he was about their age, I hate them, too, but I don't say that. Instead, I ignore their glances as he points me out as the daughter of the man who was responsible for his blindness. He pretends that he provides a service by warning kids about the dangers of playing with guns, but I don't believe he cares one whit about the safety of our eyes. He only wants all our eyes on him, the one-eyed janitor of Milton Webber Middle School.

I turn my back to Mr. Geary who is still leaning on his mop, appearing to be in deep thought. "Hey, missy. You be careful, now, and tell your mama hello from me, okay?"

"Yessir," I say, but I refuse to face him as I speak. I don't want to see him grinning with his eyeball out. He will have to corral some other student if being noticed is what he wants.

"You ever shot a BB gun, missy?" he calls out as I am halfway down the hall. I turn at this point because he has attempted to embarrass me with his loudness, hoping to draw the attention of any other students straggling around their lockers.

My hatred is getting the better of me. I so want to call him a name, but despite school being over for the day, there are still some teachers lingering in classrooms, and I could be overheard.

"I'm an archer, Mr. Geary." I say, which is true, but I hope it sounds like a potential threat.

"An archer, are ya? Well, that's an interesting hobby for a young girl. I think I'd like to see that. Do you think you could show me how you shoot an arrow sometime?"

"Yessir," I respond, feeling a sudden warmth in my cheeks. I have turned away from Mr. Geary, determined to escape his smirk. Still, I hear his feigned chuckle.

"Your daddy had a BB gun, and you have a bow and arrow. Must be a family trait to want to shoot something. Hopefully, you are a better aim than your daddy. You wouldn't want to hit something you weren't aiming for. Would you, missy?"

"I'm a good shot," I reply as I let my backpack slip to the floor. "I can show you right now, Mr. Geary, just how good I am. I don't have my bow or quill, but you can watch my form and judge for yourself."

I do not hesitate to mime my archery skills for him. I lift my imaginary bow as though I am aiming for the ceiling, pulling back an imaginary string. I hold this pose for a brief instant before lowering my focus and my arms until my imaginary bow and arrow are aimed right toward the one-eyed janitor. I grin as I let my imaginary arrow fly. "Bull's eye!" I shout gleefully.

Mr. Geary stares back at me with his one good eye, his mouth agape. I pick up my backpack and say, "See you, Mr. Geary."
The length of the hallway seems to loom before me, but I feel my father's presence, like a pat on the back, just as surely as I feel the stunned gaze of Mr. Geary following me down the hall and out the large glass doors that swing wide open when I push.

*** THE END ***