by Avi
“Do you see that?” the teacher demanded. She pointed right at her book. “Look!”
Gregory lifted his face. The spitball — surrounded by an expanding circle of moisture — lay upon the page. Not only did Gregory recognize the spitball for what it was, he knew that Ryan Jurgensen had shot it. Ryan, who occupied the desk right next to him, combined class bully, wiseass, and dummy in one skinny body topped with short-cropped blond hair. He was also school spitball artist, carrying a bundle of tissues and a bunch of large plastic straws in his pockets the way other kids carried pencils and erasers.
“Do you see that?” the teacher demanded of Gregory again.
“Yes, Mrs. Wessex.”
“What is it?”
Gregory’s dark face turned darker. “A — a spitball.”
“Disgusting!” Mrs. Wessex informed him.
“I didn’t do it,” Gregory repeated with an intense sense of his own innocence.
“Young man, I believe you did!”
“I didn’t!” Gregory protested.
“Then, who did?” she asked.
Gregory made a half turn toward the class. Though he could sense other kids suppressing laughter at his plight, he felt they were on his side.
As for Ryan, not only did Gregory observe his barely stifled grin, he noted the bully’s right fist balled up, a blatant threat that if Gregory dared to name him as culprit, the fist would be put to use.
“Gregory!” Mrs. Wessex said, “I asked you a question. If you didn’t do this disgusting thing, who did?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, struggling to contain his sense of indignation. She had no right to blame him. “Mrs. Wessex,” he suddenly blurted out, “how come you’re always blaming me?”
The class gasped.
For a moment — but only a moment — Mrs. Wessex’s face softened. Then she glared at him. “Gregory,” she ordered, “go stand with your face in the shame corner for fifteen minutes.”
“But I didn’t do anything!” Gregory protested anew.
On appeal, Mrs. Wessex said, “Twenty minutes.”
A giggle erupted from somewhere in the class.
“Quiet!” Mrs. Wessex cried.
Gregory, knowing that it would be useless to argue, shoved his hands back into his pockets and headed for the corner. Halfway there he stopped. “Mrs. Wessex, what about my money?”
“You may pick it up, then stand in the corner.” This, from Mrs. Wessex, was a measure of kindness.
Hearing the suppressed snickers of his classmates, Gregory picked up the coins.
When he finally got into the shame corner, he was hot, upset, and angry. Mrs. Wessex was so unfair, he kept thinking. Staring into the corner, he vowed that this time he would have revenge.
During recess a bunch of kids gathered around him. “How come she picks on you?” Susan asked.
“I don’t know,” Gregory said, pleased that someone had noticed. “But I’m going to get back at her.”
“Yeah, sure you will,” Ryan teased. “Smartest kid in class does something wicked to the teacher. Sure. Right.”
Gregory looked at the circle of faces. His classmates were really paying attention to him. At the moment he felt they really liked him. If only he could do something to keep their positive feelings. “I am going to do something,” he insisted.
“Everybody hear that?” Ryan crowed. “Gregory’s going to get revenge on Wessex.”
“Man,” said Dori, “you do that you’ll be the hero of the whole class.”
Hero of the whole class. The words filled Gregory with excitement. He looked at Dori and smiled. Here was his opportunity. He would have his revenge and become a hero, too.
Two blocks from the Kennedy Memorial Middle School, tucked between Jack’s Skate & Snow Boards and Robert’s Famous Bar-Bee-Q-Ribs, stood Mrs. Barman’s candy store. You could buy any piece of candy for five cents. During most of the day, the candy store had modest sales. Between the hours of three and four-thirty, it was packed with kids.
The display case contained fifty-two white plastic trays of candy, from Black Crows to clear jellybeans to white peppermints — and all colors and flavors in between.
Behind the display case stood Mrs. Barman. She was a small old woman whose marshmallow-colored face, arms, and torso seemed to be all there was of her. If she had a lower body, no one had ever seen it.
Kids asked for candy by pointing and saying “one” or “two.” Mrs. Barman counted out the candy pieces and put them in a small white paper sack. “Fifteen cents,” she’d say. The price was all she normally spoke.
It was to Mrs. Barman’s that Gregory went after school. When it was his turn, the old lady gave him an inquiring look. “I want to speak to Tiny,” Gregory announced.
Tiny was Mrs. Barman’s son. If he was asked the proper way, he would sell you fireworks. Selling fireworks was illegal.
“Tiny!” Mrs. Barman shouted. “Kidtaseeya.”
Gregory waited nervously. He had never spoken to Tiny before, and he was only remembering what some kid told him to do. He hoped he’d ask the right way. One of the things the kid had told him was, “You got to ask right, or Tiny won’t sell you nothing.”
Tiny, big as a grizzly bear, lumbered out of the backroom. He had a large, glistening bald head, an incredibly thick neck, and a belly so huge it was on the verge of splitting the plaid shirt he always wore. No one had ever seen him smile.
The kids had all kinds of stories about Tiny. Some said he had played professional football. Others said his size was due to the fact that he ate nothing but his mother’s candy. Then there were those who claimed Mrs. Barman lost her bottom half because Tiny had blown it away with his fireworks.
“Yawanme, kid?” Tiny said to Gregory. His voice was low, rumbling.
“Crackers,” Gregory said, hoping he had remembered the password correctly.
Tiny looked hard at Gregory, then glanced around to make sure no fire marshal was lurking among the clamorous crowd of children.
“Follow me,” he growled.
Gregory followed Tiny down a narrow, dark passageway into a small room whose walls were covered with metal drawers. A low-wattage bulb dangled from flimsy ceiling wires.
Gregory looked about. It was all so creepy he began to wish he hadn’t come.
“Whadayawan?” Tiny asked.
Gregory, fist clenched, said, “A stink bomb and a smoke bomb.”
Tiny studied Gregory anew. “Whacha goin’ta do wit’em?”
After a moment, Gregory said, “Put them in my teacher’s house.”
Tiny’s face unfolded into a smile. “I hate teachas,” he said. The smile vanished. “Seventy-five cent each,” he said.
Gregory laboriously counted out the quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies into Tiny’s huge hands.
“An’ twenty-five cent,” Tiny added. “Fa-da guvament tax.”
Gregory handed over the surcharge.
The large man opened two metal drawers and extracted two small tubes, each as thick as his thumbs. Frizzy gray fuses protruded from their ends. One tube was black and bore a label that read SUPER SKUNK. The other tube was a bright orange color and was called CLOUD OF DARKNESS.
“Okay, kid,” Tiny said, “where’dya get tha stuff?”
Gregory struggled to recall the proper reply. “Some kid,” he said.
“Don’cha forget,” Tiny said. Turning Gregory around with his big hands, he pushed him out of the room. But not before he whispered, “Go getcha teacha.”
Gregory left the candy store at a trot and went right to a gas station down the block. It sold cookies, chips, and soda. He went in and made a show of looking at the offerings. When no one was looking, he grabbed a book of complimentary matches from the counter and raced back to school.
At four-thirty Mrs. Wessex stepped out of the school. In each hand she had a cloth shopping bag loaded with books and papers. One bag bore the faded words, If You Can Read This Thank a Teacher.
Gregory
, crouched behind a parked car across the street, was waiting and watching for her.
He found it easy to follow her. Not only was Mrs. Wessex a large woman, she was wearing a bright blue coat. Though Gregory knew — without knowing how he knew — that she lived in that neighborhood, he didn’t know where. But then, he still didn’t know his way around the area very well. In any case, she walked slowly. To Gregory it appeared she had no interest other than in the pavement before her.
When she went into a small grocery store, Gregory hid behind a garbage can. Emerging, she carried a paper bag stuffed with goods. Every now and then she paused and clumsily shifted her load. She was having trouble balancing all her belongings.
Gregory, clutching his stink and smoke bombs in his pocket, followed at a safe distance. At one point he thought she might be turning to look. He quickly ducked behind some passing people. When the teacher continued on without looking back, so did Gregory. He was becoming excited.
One block from the grocery store, Mrs. Wessex made a right turn onto Pearl Street, an old street bordered by large oak trees. The early spring leaves were bright green. Pearl Street ran through a dilapidated neighborhood of small wooden houses. Gregory had never been on the street before. Potholes marred the pavement. Many of the houses, if not quite in a state of decay, were in need of new paint and carpentry. Porches sagged. Paint peeled. Here and there a cracked window winked at the world.
After walking another six blocks, Mrs. Wessex turned onto a cement pathway that led to one of the single-story frame houses. It was in a row of similar houses. All had small porches. The house Mrs. Wessex entered was set back from the street by a small, sparse lawn and was covered with dull white aluminum siding. Two cracked cement steps led up to the front porch. Beyond the porch was a faded yellow door.
Upon reaching the porch, Mrs. Wessex set down her two shopping bags, shifted the paper bag, and entered the house. In moments she returned, gathered up the shopping bags, then went back inside again. This time she shut the door firmly behind her.
Gregory, standing behind a lamppost, had watched her intently. Only when Mrs. Wessex had gone in did he appraise the house. The building’s rundown appearance was not what he had expected. He was not sure why, but he had assumed his teacher was rich. The apartment house he lived in was in better condition.
And now that he’d actually arrived at Mrs. Wessex’s house, Gregory began to feel uneasy. What if she had kids? What if there was a Mr. Wessex? What if he got caught? Worst of all, what if he did nothing, and the kids at school got on his case? Instead of being a hero, he’d be more of a nerd than ever. He wished he’d not been so public about proclaiming his revenge. He remembered Ryan’s taunt, Dori’s promise. He squeezed the smoke and stink bombs in his pocket, then touched the book of matches. He had to go on.
Mrs. Wessex’s house was no more than five feet from the homes to the right and left. In the alleyway between her house and the one on the right was a jungle of bushes. As far as Gregory could tell, that side of the house had no windows. Then he saw what appeared to be a window low to the ground. Partly open, it was built into the building’s foundation. Gregory guessed it led into the basement.
After making sure no one was watching him, Gregory darted across the street and into the tangle of greenery. Once there he threaded his way through the foliage to the low window and squatted down. To his surprise, Mrs. Wessex’s house was propped up by cement block pillars. Between the pillars was siding. There was no basement. What he had thought was a window was nothing more than a sheet of wood, which covered a gap in the siding.
Gregory touched the board. It fell over with a loud thump. Fearful of discovery, he darted a look over his shoulder. No one was coming.
Feeling safe again, he peered through the gaping hole into a crawlspace.
Next door someone stepped out onto the porch, slamming the front door. Fearful of discovery, Gregory dove into the crawlspace beneath Mrs. Wessex’s house. There he lay, face down on the dirt, breathing hard. His courage was evaporating.
When no further sounds came from next door, Gregory lifted his head and looked about. It was gloomy there with a strong, clammy stench that almost made him throw up. Fumbling, Gregory drew out his pack of matches and lit one. The area from the ground to the house was no more than three feet in height. It was littered with junk: bottles, cans, clumps of matted newspapers, an old mattress, even a broken birdcage. Overhead ran crisscrossing pipes and wires. So unlike Mrs. Wessex’s desk!
Even as Gregory looked about he heard footsteps above his head. Automatically, he ducked. The match went out.
Gregory listened intently. He heard the sound of muffled voices, but who was speaking, or what was being said, he couldn’t tell.
The footsteps retreated. The voices drifted away.
He lifted his head. The more he looked around the more perfect the crawlspace seemed as a place to set off the bombs. All he had to do was find the right location so that stink and smoke would get into the house. His courage returned. He touched the bombs and grinned.
Lit match in hand, he explored the area by crawling around. It took three more matches to discover something promising. A trap door. At least it was a square over his head with hinges on one side and a metal latch opposite.
Gregory worked his way beneath the door, then lit another match and examined the latch. It was a metal shot bolt. He yanked at it. Not only did it pull free, the door dropped down, smacking him hard on his head. Gregory saw stars.
When he recovered, he looked about. Three shoes had fallen to the ground. After pushing them aside, he crawled directly under the now open space. Another lit match allowed him to look up.
At first it seemed as if he were gazing up into a bundle of rags.
The match went out.
Gregory drew himself up on his knees, then slowly lifted his head until it was poking up through the opening. He was inside the house. The area was quite dark save for one side where, along the floor, ran a strip of light. Gregory guessed he was seeing room light seeping under a door. That made him realize where he was: in a clothes closet. Better and better.
He decided to take a chance and light one more match. The flame revealed clothing hung from wire and plastic hangers on two sides of the closet. Against another wall — all in a heap — lay shoes and slippers. On the fourth wall was a door. There was also a plastic basket heaped with rumpled clothing. High above was shelving holding a variety of boxes. In the ceiling was an unlit bulb.
Hearing nothing, Gregory pulled himself up until he was standing in the dark closet. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the stink and smoke bombs. He made up his mind to light them, jerk the door open, heave the bombs in, then make his escape. He’d even be able to watch what happened from out front.
He took out the matches.
Suddenly, he heard a voice from beyond the closet. “. . . tell you how exhausted I am. I have to lie down.”
It was Mrs. Wessex.
“You’re always complaining,” said another voice. To Gregory’s ears it sounded like an older woman, but he could not be sure.
“I’m not complaining,” Mrs. Wessex said.
Gregory’s first impulse was to dive back down the hole and make his escape. His second impulse was to stay and listen. He was in his teacher’s closet! Listening to her private stuff. Irresistible. He leaned forward and put his ear to the door.
“My dear,” said the voice of the older woman, “I just wish you wouldn’t come home from that school so tired every day.”
“Ma, it is exhausting, that’s all. I just need to lie down.”
“Well, you could be thankful you have a good job. Lots of people don’t have one.”
Suddenly the closet doorknob rattled. Panicked, Gregory flung himself to one side. The door opened. The closet seemed to explode with light. The blue dress Mrs. Wessex had worn that day came flying through the open door and fell in a heap on the floor. It was followed by a pink bra. The door slammed shut.
/>
Gregory looked at the clothes and nearly fainted. What was he doing there! He had done a terrible thing. He’d be arrested. Put in jail! He lowered his feet into the trap door.
“Ma . . . ,” the voice continued from beyond.
“Madge, try to remember they’re just children. And you do get vacations.”
“Ma, I’ve been teaching for fifteen years. I have thirty-six kids in my class. I get lousy pay. Each year the kids get worse and worse. Ruder and ruder. They don’t want to learn. All they can talk about is sports, movies, and TV. They can’t even sit still. They hate me.”
“Sometimes I think you should have stayed married to Benny. You could have had your own kids.”
“Do you know what happened today?”
“Benny wasn’t such a bad man, Madge. Yeah, he drank a little. But really, not much. And when he was transferred — ”
“Ma, listen to me! Today, I was sitting there reading. It was reading time. Someone shot a spitball right on my book.”
“A what?”
“A spitball.”
“That’s dreadful. Can’t your principal do something?”
“Ma, you don’t understand.”
“Madge, I’m trying to understand.”
“You don’t understand!” cried Mrs. Wessex. “I knew who did it. Ryan Jurgensen. The class clown. But he thrives on being the center of attention. So instead, I called up this boy . . . Gregory. . . .”
“Why him?”
“Because Gregory is the smartest one in the class. It makes the other kids resent him. But I keep thinking if I pick on him enough the other kids will accept him. Can you grasp that? I’m afraid that if the kids turn against him, he’ll want to deny his intelligence. I want to keep him smart. That’s what it comes to. I’m picking on him so he’ll stay smart and amount to something. It’s crazy.
“But you know what, Ma? At the same time I resent Gregory. Because he’s so young and could do so much and I can’t do anything anymore.”
“What did he do when you blamed him?”
“Gregory? He made fun of me.”
“How?”
