Respecting Mr. Ravi
Story Text and Illustrations - Christopher Francis © 2020
CHAPTER THREE Mr. Ravi
After an interesting conversation with his dad about respect, Alex settles back into school. However, he finds it difficult to concentrate when he is around Daisy. As he escapes from class one morning to avoid a spelling test, he bumps into Mr. Ravi.
Mr. Ravi, the custodian, stepped out of the caretaker’s room, clunking his heavy steel-toed boots along the floor. Dressed in his custodian uniform, with overalls and a blue button-up shirt, he dragged a mop and bucket along the floor, steering it around a pile of opened cardboard boxes.
“Ah, could be better, but nothing I can’t handle.” Alex stopped and waited for Mr. Ravi to catch up. “Have you finished unpacking yet?”
Mr. Ravi shook his head, twirling the mop in the soapy water. Bits of Styrofoam clung to his neatly combed jet black hair. “Ha, not even close. I haven’t had time. It’s been a crazy few months.”
The sound of basketballs bouncing along the floor filtered out of the gym just down the hall. “Well, I’m glad you moved into the old schoolhouse. Nobody really liked the old custodian. He was so mean.”
Mr. Ravi adjusted the rolls on his sleeves, picking the white packaging bits off his arms. “Mr. Winegar?”
“Yeah, ever since he left, we’re not all nervous when we walk down the halls no more. He always yelled at us, even if our shoes were clean.”
“Any-more, not, no more.” Mr. Ravi winked and then pointed to Alex’s shoe.
“Yeah, right, anymore,” Alex mumbled. He bent down and tightened his lace. “See? Mr. Vinegar—” “Winegar.”
“Right. Mr. Winegar. He would never talk to me. He didn’t even look at us kids in the eyes. Never. Plus, the school always wreaked of vinegar. And you—you do a good job at keeping this place clean, and it always smells like lemons.”
“Well, it’s important to keep the school looking nice. That’s what your Principal always tells me,” Mr. Ravi replied. “At least three or four times a day.”
Alex nodded and continued on down the hall. “Well, I better go, Mr. Ravi. I’ll see you later.”
“Goodbye, Alex.”
Turning the corner toward the boy’s washroom, Alex heard a door swing open up the hall. A couple of boys ran out, coming from the intermediate art room, covered in red and green paint.
“Head’s up, little man,” one of them shouted. Paint splashed along the polished floor and up onto the walls. Their deep teenaged voices echoed down to the junior wing like a heavy bass guitar.
“Hey, it’s my little pizza friend.” Damian Dermite skipping passed. His giant forehead and deformed nose always reminded Alex of Frankenstein’s monster, the man-made-experiment-gone-wrong.
“Are you still hanging out with Henry, that big loser?” Damian shouted.
Alex shrugged. He wished he had the courage to throw another slice of pizza in his face like he did the month before.
The two intermediate hooligans darted around the corner, leaving a trail of red and green latex footprints. Alex stepped back and peeked around the corner. Damian and his buddy stopped halfway down the junior hall in front of Mr. Ravi.
“I can’t find my chew toy.” Damian laughed, kicking Mr. Ravi’s bucket. He ripped a poster off the wall and disappeared into the supply room.
Damian Dermite and his gang of turds liked to wreak havoc in the school whenever possible. Because Mr. Ravi was not in a disciplinary role of authority, or at least didn’t really act as one, he quickly became an easy target for the grade eight thugs.
“They’re just a bunch of jerks,” Alex hurried back toward Mr. Ravi. He checked the time on his phone. Second period didn’t start for another thirty minutes.
“They’re just kids being kids,” Mr. Ravi replied.
“Yeah, but they think they own the school. Damian and his idiot friends think they can get away with anything. I wish the teachers would do something about it.”
“I know. Me too.” Mr. Ravi squeezed his mop and tossed it over the globs of paint.
“My mom says they are just a bunch of selfish brats.” Most parents in the school knew Damian and his gang. Tommy Arbuckle’s mom told Tommy, who told Alex that nearly every parent who had a child in grade eight this year requested to have Damian removed from the school.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Mr. Ravi said, dipping the mop into the bucket. Muddy water mixed with patches of oil paint.
Because of where Mr. Ravi lived, his yard backed onto the playground, and all that separated his property from the school was a raggedy old fence. His dog sat in the shade every day under a big old tree munching on his favourite chew toy. Damian and his idiot friends always found ways to pick on it. They usually dared each other, or anyone who had the guts, to take the chew toy and throw it up in the tree. Mr. Ravi’s dog whimpered and howled all day long until he got his toy back. On a couple of occasions, the neighbour, Mrs. Olderfuss, complained to the police because she couldn’t have her mid-afternoon nap.
“How’s your dog?” Alex tucked his hands into his pant pockets and tip-toed around the wet floor.
“Oh, he’s fine. Sonny is just fine. He’s getting old, though. Yesterday he peed on my slippers.”
“That’s too bad.” Alex giggled and smiled at Mr. Ravi.
“So, you’ve been walking awfully slow down these halls. What test are you avoiding this time?” “Spelling.”
“Ah, spelling.” Mr. Ravi nodded. “Not a fan?”
“Not even close. I swear Mrs. Oxford makes up half of the words.” “Really?”
“Seriously,” Alex replied. “Have you ever heard of the word ‘reverence’?” He stepped back as the mop circled around his feet.
“Yes, I have. Do you know what it means?”
“Um, sure, it’s the name of a water bug. But, when would I ever want to talk about a stupid ant that likes to float on water?”
Mr. Ravi shook his head. “Alex, that is not what it means.”
“Well, it’s a dumb word, and I plan on never using it. On the other hand, the word ‘dumb,’ I will likely need to know how to spell. Dumb. D-U-M. Dumb.”
Mr. Ravi put his mop back in the bucket and rubbed his chin. “I wish you luck on the spelling test, young man. Just remember, when I came here ten years ago, I didn’t know one word of English. Learning takes patience and time.”
Alex looked at Mr. Ravi. He forgot that he hadn’t been born here. He spoke English so well. He had heard from Mrs. Oxford that Mr. Ravi moved from India to be an agricultural worker but somehow became the school custodian.
“I understand. I better get back to the test,” Alex said.
“Yes, I better get back to cleaning these halls. With all this rain we’re having, there is a lot of mud in the school—and paint. Good luck on your test, Alex.” Mr. Ravi nodded and went back to mopping the floor.
“Thanks, Mr. Ravi.” Alex scuffed his feet over the tiles, soaking in the lemon-scented hallway. He paused at the classroom door, and looked back at Mr. Ravi, scrubbing the wall next to the gym doors. “Reverence. R-I-V-E-R-A-N-T-S. Reverence.”
When period two ended, the rain had eased into a gentle trickle. The spelling tests were marked and handed back to all the anxious students. Mrs. Oxford insisted that spelling was the key to reading and writing. Everybody else who sat in the carved-out, paint-stained, plastic schoolchairs thought otherwise. Alex knew he wasn’t alone in his quest to one day rid the school of the word-destroying, mindnumbing alphabet killer.
“How did you do?” Henry asked, following the herd of children piling into the school’s new cafeteria.
“Eh, don’t really wanna talk about it.” Alex shuffled his feet like a prisoner with chains around his legs.
“Okay.”
“I mean, why would I ever need to know how to spell typewriter? It’s not like people even use them anymore. Give me a word I care about, like Tornado or Hurricane, not some ancient invention. Besides, why would I ever have to worry when I have a dictionary on this beautiful creation?” Alex pulled out his phone and flashed it in front of Henry.
“The word was ‘stereotype,’ not ‘typewriter,’ you Nitwit.”
Alex’s shoulders dropped. “Oh.” The line moved forward. His head felt heavy, like someone had injected a bowling ball in his brain.
“Maybe you’ll do better next time.” Henry grabbed a plate and napkin from the counter. “What are you buying for lunch?”
Alex loved Fridays because he was allowed to buy his lunch in the school cafeteria. The school had a big make-over the year Alex moved to Timpleville. Some big-wig business owner named Anthony Stone donated a ridiculous amount of cash to the school. The parent council voted for a lunch program and went one step further by building a cafeteria with lunch ladies and a couple cooks. There were always so many exciting and tasty specials to choose from each day. Alex normally got pizza or a sub sandwich, but for some reason, he felt like having a big bowl of beef curry.
“What are you up to this weekend?” Alex carefully lifted his trey from the counter and inched closer to the cash lady.
Henry shrugged, licking some mustard dripping off the side of his sub sandwich. “I dunno, maybe watch a few documentaries on the Space Channel. Why?”
“Borrrrrrring.”
“What’s boring about that? What are you doing?”
“Well,” Alex began. “I was wondering if you wanted to come over and hang out on Saturday. We could watch a real movie or maybe go for a bike ride if this rain ever lets up. I can show you where the lady was killed over the summer. An old barn is all that is left, standing alone in the middle of a deserted field. I heard it has some high ropes and hay that we can jump around in. It should be fun.” Alex loved barns. He always thought that playing in them was like running free in a big house with no parents.
“Sure, sounds fun,” Henry replied. “I’ll have to ask my parents, though. Can Daisy come too?”
Alex Froze. He could not believe what Henry just asked him.
To Be Continued:
Thursday, January 28