by Brian Toal
Beside him Ben Able fashioned a crude aeroplane out of the cardboard back of his notebook and aimed it so it careened off the head of a girl two rows over.
Yes! A paper aeroplane. Quickly he ripped out the top page of his notes. He didn't need to consult his written notes anyway, he already knew everything he would ever need to know about the Civil War.
His hands moved quickly, knowing that Mr. Clifford could return at any time. He folded the paper and fashioned the wings. It didn't need to be perfect - just as long as it flew. He completed the final folds and lifted it aloft, bringing his hand back behind his head to launch it on its way. His eyes followed its flight as it rose upwards, did a double turn and then dove towards the floor.
Lift up! he thought, projecting his thoughts towards the aeroplane as it slid onto the floor and skidded to a stop against the front wall.
Rise up! He projected again, willing the plane to lift from its position and again become airborne. It lay against the front wall, its aerodynamic shape enabling it to glide, but laws of physics holding it to the floor.
Chris felt a certain disappointment. For a while he thought he had actually been able to move objects - telekinesis. He knew the name but little else about the subject. He would have to research it as soon as possible...
Lift up - Rise. He commanded the inert plane, his handwriting visible against its blue-lined whiteness. The plane remained stationary, laying on one wing.
The class was still in an uproar, children talking, two of them drinking cans of pop from their lunch (strictly forbidden in class), books and desks in disarray, when the door crashed open and Mr. Clifford stalked back into the room, his face stern and flushed with anger.
"Quiet!" He roared, as his eyes moved about the class, taking note of the students caught away from their desks and the forbidden drinks. "Mr. Lawrence, Mr. Shackelton...," addressing the two students, who were still foolishly holding cans of Coke, "...out in the hall. Miss. Mingay, please review, for the class, the pages that you have read in my absence."
Silence settled on the class as Judy Mingay stood by her desk, her knees visible below her dress, wobbling with fear. “Mr. Clifford...sir...I didn’t have a chance to read any of the assignment.”
"Sit down!" Mr. Clifford commanded and Judy thankfully collapsed back into her seat. He waited, watching the two boys walk past him and open the door into the hallway. "The rest of you...I have just about had it ...."
He began a typical 'teacher' tirade which Chris had heard many times before in his short lifespan and since this particular lecture was not being directed specifically at him, he allowed his attention to return to his forgotten paper aeroplane lying on the floor behind Mr. Clifford.
Scenes were again flickering through his mind: A football in flight, slowly spinning in the air. A large hawk, its wings flexing as it flew. His paper aeroplane plunging to the floor. A jet belching smoke as it left the runway. His aeroplane. A circle of parachutists that he had seen last summer. The paper aeroplane rising in flight. Suddenly the images stopped - blanked out, like a T.V. in a sudden power failure - his mind empty of the moving pictures. Chris jerked upright in his chair, the sudden loss of visual stimulus shocking in its absence. Something was happening though, little twitches of itchiness, scratching at the inside of his skull. Slowly, Chris returned his attention to Mr. Clifford whose tirade had increased in volume, his right hand raised, index finger extended as he bellowed at the class.
Moments later, Chris threw himself back in his seat, his eyes going wide with horror as his paper aeroplane rose over the left shoulder of his teacher.
George Clifford stopped speaking, his hand still raised, his face turning from a ruddy red to a purplish hue as the fragile plane rose over his shoulder, to the combined gasps of thirty- four children sitting in front of him. He ducked as the plane did a loop directly in front of face, then took a hurried step back, almost falling over his own feet as the plane shot by his nose. Watching with his arm now raised above him as the plane gained altitude and then with a high-speed turn dove into the centre of his tie. He lowered his arm as the plane rolled and fluttered down front of his shirt, finally falling to the floor at his feet. There was dead silence in the classroom. Students' faces went rigid, betraying no expression, awaiting the unthinkable consequences of this ill-timed assault.
George Clifford stared down at the aeroplane between his feet with unfathomable rage.
Slowly he raised his head to look at the class. "Who...who threw that aeroplane?" He whispered, his composure a sign of deadly intent.
The class sat silently, some students folding and interlocking their hands on their desks in front of them, to indicate their childhood innocence.
He asked again, his voice still low. "Who threw the paper aeroplane, that now sits at my feet?" His eyes slowly scanned the classroom, moving from one student to the next. "I want to know who threw this aeroplane, because...." And as he carefully bent down and picked the plane off the floor, crushing it in his hands as his voice rose to a bellow, "I will kick you out of this class and this school so fast you will think you have jet fuel for farts!" He took two paces backwards to stand in the exact centre of the room. "I want to know now!" He bellowed. "By now, I mean NOW! This very moment!"
The class sat in silence, those directly in front of him not even daring to swallow.
"I see." His voice again a hoarse whisper. "Is that how it’s going to be?" He stood silently, the colour of his face draining slowly. "Everybody take out their texts and begin to read the chapter I assigned. I’m going to call each of you to the front one by one, until I find out who threw this plane and then...” He stopped as he looked down at the crushed plane in his hands.
"Well, well, well..." He spoke slowly, a grin appearing under his busy mustache, his voice deadly serious. "I don't think that will be necessary. Apparently, the plane maker decided to throw about his own notes. Not that he could read them, because..." and his voice again rose to a bellow, "...he can barely write!" He spun on his heel and in two strides was standing over Chris, dropping the mangled plane onto the top of his desk.
"Mr. McCarter! It seems the material of this plane is an exact duplicate of the type of paper in your notebook and, I’m sure if we called the forensic science people..." His dark humour was sadistic in intent, "...they would determine the decrepit handwriting on this page is an exact match to the other equally pathetic scratch I can see quite well from here." He leaned over Chris' desk, their faces only inches apart, and bellowed. "Did you throw this plane?"
"Ahhh...no...not actually, sir." Chris answered, his voice shaky with both fear and anger. Fear regarding the possible outcome of this confrontation - he had learned, over the years, to do everything possible to avoid shouted confrontations with adults of authority. And anger - anger that Mr. Clifford had put him into such a position, in front of his classmates.
"Not actualeee..." Mr. Clifford drew out the last syllable, his face inches away from Chris' own, "How could you only partially throw an aeroplane?" Chris heard some of the braver students giggle from behind him.
"I did throw the plane sir...but before you came in. It was sitting on the floor when you were talking."
"Sitting on the floor, was it? Then it just got up and flew about the room?"
"Yes, sir. That's what it did."
"Stand Up!" Mr. Clifford bellowed, spittle flying from his mouth to spatter against Chris' upturned face.
Chris pulled himself out of his desk to stand looking up at Mr. Clifford, his small desk between the two of them. Chris knew he should be scared, but that was not what he felt. Anger was his overriding emotion and something was happening inside of him again. He was having trouble concentrating on Mr. Clifford because of the blur of turmoil inside of his head. Colours, pictures, a kaleidoscope of activity before his eyes.
"You slouch over here hardly paying attention to what I say," Mr. Clifford continued, his voice lowered to barely acceptable decibels. "When I assign reading, you fli
p through it like a pervert looking for the centerfold. You take advantage of any opportunity to fool around. You exhibit no interest in learning..."
The pictures were flying faster, a smear of colour in front of his eyes. He tried to debate his position with his teacher. "But I didn't throw the plane at you!"
"We are talking about more than the aeroplane now." Mr. Clifford continued. "There is no doubt you threw the plane. We are talking about why your term in this class has ended! You don't listen. You don't follow directions. You are wilfully destructive. And you have little or no interest in improving your educational level...
"But I go to the library almost every night..." Chris tried to interject.
"Yes, undoubtedly to see if you can find any nude pictures in our library. We have all heard of your escapade at the public library. Mr. Averly caught you looking at dirty pictures at the public library - didn't he? He works for the school board now. That must have been a surprise to you when you started school this fall. Yes, we know what you do in the library."
Chris could hear the other students giggling in the background as he pressed his hips against his desk, his small body leaning forward to address the towering form of his teacher. The pictures had stopped scrolling and centred in his vision was a powder-blue piece of paper, folded slightly in the middle and surrounded by the brownish carpet of the school library floor.
"Yes, but at least I don’t send love notes to married women!" Chris yelled.
Mr. Clifford's mouth dropped as he pushed himself up and away from Chris' small desk, then his eyes hardened, narrowing to two small slits. "I beg your pardon?" He whispered, his voice cold and flat.
Chris' body was arched over the desk, both hands pressed to its surface, his upper body pushed forward to face the imposing figure of his teacher. He knew he shouldn't do what he was about to do, but his mind was churning with fury, his head about to explode with pressure from his anger and the forces of energy occurring within it. He opened his mouth and spoke, his voice filling the classroom...
"Dear Laura:
I will remember last week forever. I had forgotten what love could be like. Your soft body and tender kisses have awakened passions in me that I had thought were gone forever, buried deep within the cold demanding tomb of marriage. Our love is like a flower...."
His recital ended as he was smashed to the floor by a powerful blow from Mr. Clifford's right hand. Blood surged into his mouth from where his teeth cut the inside of his lips and cheeks and as he experienced the pain, the final transition occurred within him. A stillness settled over him, and the world became distant, he could see the furious face of Mr. Clifford leaning over his desk, spittle flying from his mouth to catch in his mustache as he mouthed silent sentences in Chris' direction. Chris felt no fear, he felt entirely composed, unsure of his next action but knowing no harm would come to him this day. He would strike back against this injustice and he would do so now!
Jesse Hersfeld witnessed the entire confrontation. He sat three rows over and two seats back from Chris, and when Mr. Clifford began his personal harangue of his friend, he was one of the many who stood up to view the encounter. Like most of the other students, he felt sympathy for his friend, having had his own encounters with Mr. Clifford. However, when Chris stood up and Jesse received his first direct view of Chris' face, he felt his sympathy turn to fear.
First, Jesse thought Chris must be terribly frightened; his red face and staring eyes, evidence of great internalized fear. But it was the look, his eyes, the way they stared directly into Mr. Clifford's face, not blinking or distracted, the deep blue irises with their widened black centres, visible to Jesse three rows over. That look, that intense but distant stare, as if Chris could see right through you, was almost the same, as the two times Chris had amazed Jesse by reciting volumes of memorized knowledge. But this time is was different, there was a power radiating from Chris, an almost detectable heat. He noticed the students closest to Chris and Mr. Clifford had begun to pull back, to move away from the scene of the confrontation. Even Ben Able slid out of his seat, forcing his legs over the bar that joined the seat to the desk and exiting on the opposite side. Ben's face was creased with the same expression of bewilderment and alarm as the other pupils close by, all of whom were rapidly retreating from the encounter. Jesse heard some members of the class, far at the rear, laugh as Mr. Clifford bellowed something else at Chris. Jesse was no longer paying attention to the words, his eyes were on his friend. He wanted to run over and shake both Chris and his teacher. To snap them out of their fixation. Couldn't they see they had gone far enough and whatever happened next, neither of them would control? Instead he stood frozen in the aisle beside his desk, as a voice that bore only a distant resemblance to the voice of his friend's, carried across the room. The words that Chris spoke were produced in the pre-pubescent voice of a twelve-year old, but the force and authority evident in the voice were unlike anything Chris or any other of his classmates could have mustered.
And then it all began. Jesse saw Mr. Clifford's hand sweep through the air, knocking Chris backwards onto the floor and out of view. Then he leaned over Chris' desk to scream other meaningless words in the direction Chris had fallen. Next came a terrible, continuous shriek of pain as Mr. Clifford threw himself backwards, knocking over Ben Able's desk.
Already his features were disappearing behind a wave of blood. His mustache was gone, torn from his lips as well as most of his hair. A wide flap of skin hung down the back of his head. Scalped like the luckless settlers in their history texts. His torn lip hung over his mouth and a strange high-pitched scream issued endlessly from its depths as his hands, trance-like rose to his head.
Jesse caught a glimpse of his mangled features, blood pouring from his face and head onto to his white shirt. Then he saw no more of Mr. Clifford, as the students in front of him stood up screaming.
Then the destruction began. The room detonated. Four rows of overhead lights exploded, showering sparks, choking white powder, and broken glass. The blackboard burst outwards. Jagged green shards slashed the students rushing towards the closed door. Ceiling tiles fell by two and threes onto the heads of screaming children below. Mr. Clifford's desk rose into the air, papers flying and loaded drawers crashing to the floor, then turning once in mid-air, it smashed through the front windows, onto the lawn outside.
Jesse stood at the centre of total pandemonium, amid the panicked screams of his bloodied classmates fighting their way to the front of the room, falling over overturned desks, broken and falling ceiling tiles and sharpened pieces of chalkboard. Next the metal supports for the ceiling tiles dropped with a thump, bracketing the entire classroom in rectangular squares of thin metal.
Students knocked down into the rubble lay pinned underneath as the frame fell on top of them. Others tripped and collapsed on top of those below as they fought their way across the room through tangles of metal, glass and fibre tiles.
The door to the hallway crashed open as the first students reached its sanctuary and Jesse caught a momentary glimpse of Mr. Victor, the vice-principal, before he was swept away by the tide of children pushing their way out of the door.
Jesse stood at the centre of the classroom, immobile and unhurt and as other students rushed by him, and he saw Chris' face for the very last time. Chris' blue eyes were calm and cold, but the face below was contorted in fear and bewilderment. Their eyes met and Jesse had enough time to notice the tears coursing down his cheeks, just before Chris turned and vaulted out of the smashed window onto the front lawn outside - leaving Jesse to stagger his way across the room to his own safety.
FIVE - TWO
Harry pulled up on the collective, the wide blades above him whipping through the air in the distinctive thump of a Huey many Vietnam vets still hear in their nightmares. Sliding the helicopter slightly to his left, he lowered the big machine down onto the dirt in approximately the same place he had parked three days previously. The vacant railroad siding to his right with the camp
just visible through the trees to his left. As he began to shut the machine down, he saw Charlie walking through the trees towards him.
Harry wasn’t exactly sure what his feelings were towards the guy. Last time he had certainly been cordial - but why not? Harry had arrived, offered to evacuate him, and he had refused. Fair enough, it hadn’t been a forced evacuation, but there had been something odd about him - a distance like a CEO might treat a mail-room clerk. Still, when Harry had got the call from his head office to bring a Huey into camp, he had jumped at the opportunity. The fire was under control, so it was either return to the hanger and sit on his ass until the next call-out or get a few more hours moving gear for this guy.
He popped the door open as Charlie got closer, bent low to avoid the blades still moving overhead.
“Hello again.” Charlie said from below him. “I was hoping they would send you.”
“Anything is better than sitting in some concrete hanger.”
“I suppose that’s true. I see you have a larger machine.”
“Yep, you said you wanted to move fifteen hundred pounds or more. This machine will do it for you.”
“Good.” Charlie stepped away from the door as Harry lowered himself to the ground. “I’ll show you what I want to move.”
“You want to sling it underneath or carry it inside?”
“That’ll be up to you - after you see it.”
“You bet.” Harry fell in beside Charlie as he turned back towards the camp. “Where do you want to take the load to. The nearest airport is in Cochrane, about an hour and a half away. But I can drop it anywhere there’s a road if you got transportation.”
“I want to go straight to Detroit.”
“Detroit! Holy Christ! That’s ten, maybe twelve hours away and it’s in the States too. I don’t have permission to fly into US airspace.”
