Am I A Coward?	Am I A Coward?

 by Mary

  

 

 Disclaimer: 

 Author's Notes: 

 Story Notes: Another in my series of young Ben stories.

 

 

 My grade eight school year didn't start out any more auspiciously than
grade seven. At eleven, I was a little older and wiser, but still younger
than most of my classmates and, perhaps sometimes just a bit too wise for
my own good. Starting over with a new teacher was no help, especially
considering that, as far as I was concerned, my grade seven teacher was
forever without peer. But Mrs. Beers was no longer my teacher, nor
anyone's teacher, having retired at the end of the previous term to start
a family. I was inconsolable. 

 Incorrigible was the pronouncement of Mr. Tilley, the principal at the
Tuktoyaktuk Village School. When I showed up in his office first thing on
that third day of the school term, he well remembered me from our several
previous encounters. 

 "Fraser, Benton," he declared as I presented myself to him as ordered by
my teacher. "Is this a social visit?" 

 "Huh?" 

 He scowled and sighed his annoyance. "Are you here to tell me how much
you missed me over the summer, or do we have business to transact?" 

 Even to my young, naive ears, the sarcasm in his inquiry was eminently
apparent, and I didn't relish answering him. "Business, sir," I whispered.


 "Oh, what a shame. It's going to be another one of those years, is it?" 

 I didn't answer, just stared at him expectantly. 

 "What is it this time, Fraser?" He looked fed up yet curious at the same
time. 

 "Um, the doors, sir." 

 "Doors? What doors?" But before I had a chance to expound, he figured it
out. "Oh, those doors." His eyebrows arched up in seeming disbelief. "That
was your handiwork, eh?" 

 My handiwork earned me a 'get out of school free' ticket for the day.
Well, not exactly free. There was that label 'incorrigible' that he placed
on me, swiftly followed by a big, wooden paddle, whose existence I had
heretofore chosen to believe was mere myth. Schoolboys wore punishments
like a badge of honour and, therefore, weren't beyond embellishing for
dramatic effect. 

 "You're grade six?" he had first asked. 

 "No -- um, eight, sir." 

 "Eight? That can't be." 

 "It is, sir," I nodded. "I was in seven last year. You put me there." 

 "Did I now? Well, I can just as easily take you out, Fraser. Keep that in
mind." 

 "Yes, sir." 

 Meanwhile, as long as I behaved like a mischievous grade six child, I
would be dealt with like a mischievous grade six child. 

 On top of everything else was the misconduct report I was instructed to
deliver to my grandparents and, before I knew it, I found myself in quite
a spot. Trouble with a capital T. And before I even knew the names of all
the kids in my class.  

 As the schoolhouse door shut behind me, leaving me all alone in the
stillness of the yard, the weight of my situation began to dawn on me in
earnest. As I said, I'd been in trouble at school before -- not
infrequently; however, this was the first time I'd been suspended. True,
it was only for the day, but it was entirely different from my usual
punishment of detention, so I was left feeling rather uneasy. The paddling
had unnerved me a bit, too, having only ever been spanked at home.
Humiliation, fear, guilt, and a modicum of pain all conspired to
disconcert me on that lonely morning. 

 Telephone service in my neck of the woods didn't extend to many private
homes, so the parents of a disciplined student were sent for only in
extraordinary circumstances. My infraction -- although it warranted
relatively severe penalties -- was more tame in nature; therefore, I was
held accountable to get myself home and report what had happened. Once
left to my own devices, however, a decision was quickly made not to go
straight home. I needed time to recover from my visit to the principal's
office before enduring another confrontation with authority. So I walked.
I had no particular destination in mind; I simply resolved to allow myself
the temporary autonomy of a solitary stroll through town. 

 I hadn't really been paying much attention to my surroundings until at
one point I realized I was standing right outside Mrs. Beers' house.
Suddenly, it was all I could do not to burst into her home and plead for a
smile and a hug to assuage the dire need that was overwhelming me. But I'd
been instilled with a code of manners which did not fail me on this
occasion. In fact, I was so wary of making a false move that it took a
good deal of agonizing before I was convinced to knock at her door. 

 "Oh, my, if it isn't Ben Fraser! What a lovely surprise!" she exclaimed,
cradling her crying baby in her arms. My favorite teacher was as beautiful
and sweet as I remembered, even as she strained to calm her infant. 

 "Hi, Miss Beers," I said, and, then, stepping back, "...I'd better go." 

 "No, honey, wait," she said, taking my arm to coax me back. "Would you
like to come in?" 

 "I'd better not disturb you." 

 "You're not disturbing me, honey." 

 "But your baby's crying." 

 "Yes, she's hungry. It's time for her bottle." 

 "Okay. I'll go." I again turned to go but was reined by Mrs. Beers. 

 "Hold on a minute. I wonder if you could possibly do me a huge favour
before you go?" she asked. 

 "What, ma'am?" 

 She asked me to feed Jenny. Now, I had never fed a baby in my entire
life. I had seen and even held countless babies, including newborns,
because I often accompanied my grandmother when she visited the village
women in her role as midwife. But the indigenous women nursed their
babies, so I was never called upon to provide that service. Until Mrs.
Beers.	

 "Here you go," Mrs. Beers said as she handed me the warmed baby bottle
and then once again fluffed the pillow she'd placed under my arm so that
the baby and I would be comfortable. Jenny was still crying and wriggling,
which did nothing to strengthen my shaky confidence. "Go ahead and give it
to her, honey. She'll calm down as soon as she knows she's getting fed." 

 And, sure enough, she did. I put the nipple to the baby's lips, and she
immediately quieted down and sucked the nipple into her mouth. I relaxed
as she seemed not only content, but genuinely pleased to be in my care. 

 "There now, see," said Mrs. Beers. "You're a natural, Ben." 

 "A natural what, ma'am?" 

 She laughed and caressed my shoulders, and I looked up and grinned,
forgetting my troubles for the time being in favour of enjoying that
moment with Mrs. Beers and her baby. "She likes you, honey." 

 "Yeah?" I looked down at the baby, who stared back, drinking heartily.
"Maybe she's just hungry." 

 "Babies are amazingly intuitive. She can probably sense you're a nice boy
and she's perfectly safe with you." 

 "But I'm not that nice...not all the time." Guilt was creeping back into
my consciousness. 

 "Well, nobody's perfect, honey," she said, seeming not to notice my
despair. "Um, would you mind if I do a little tidying up while you finish
with Jenny?" 

 "Okay," I agreed, hoping she wouldn't leave me alone with the baby for
too long. 

 "I'll just be across the room if you need anything. All right?" 

 "Uh huh." 

 Watching Jenny watch me was mesmerizing. It was almost as if the baby and
I were all that existed in the universe...except for a comforting
peripheral awareness of Mrs. Beers hovering a stone's throw away. Feeding
that infant as she lay in my arms did more to revive my crushed spirit
than any solitary walk might have, and I felt I had stepped outside the
events of the morning into a safer world. But Mrs. Beers was not as
ignorant of my predicament as she'd seemed. 

 "How's it going, honey?" she inquired as she worked in the kitchen. 

 "Fine, ma'am." 

 "You haven't told me why you stopped by." 

 "Um...why?" 

 "Yeah, was it just to visit, or was there a specific purpose?" 

 "Um, just to visit, I guess." 

 "You don't sound too sure." 

 "Yeah, um, I saw your house, so I wanted to say 'hi' and stuff." 

 "Well, I'm glad you did. I've missed seeing you at school every day." 

 Her mention of school brought me back to reality and also made me wonder
where our conversation was headed. 

 "Speaking of which, I thought you had decided to attend the village
school again this year?" she said, answering my silent question. 

 "Yes, ma'am, um...uh-oh." 

 "What's the matter, honey?" 

 "I think she's all full up, Miss Beers. She won't drink any more." The
baby had spit out the nipple and wouldn't take it back. 

 "Is the bottle almost empty?" 

 "No, there's lots left." 

 Mrs. Beers left her work and headed over to lend assistance. "It's
probably just a little gas." 

 "Gas?" 

 Mrs. Beers knelt on the floor beside us and took the bottle, setting it
on a table. "They get gas bubbles, so you have to help them expel it." She
saw the horrified expression on my face. "She needs to be burped," she
clarified with a smile. 

 "Oh. How do you do that?" 

 "Well, if you lay her over your shoulder and rub her back, like this,"
she said, taking the baby and demonstrating. 

 "Oh, um...can I try?" 

 "Sure, if you'd like." She handed Jenny back to me and positioned both of
us, and I emulated her demonstration. 

 "Am I doing it right?" 

 "Perfect, honey. But why don't you try some light pats on her back. Here,
like this." She took my hand and showed me. "There, good. That sometimes
helps." 

 Mrs. Beers stayed at my side and soon enough the baby emitted a loud
belch, along with a fair portion of her meal. 

 "Uh-oh," I said, fearing I had burped the baby too well. 

 "It's all right, Ben. That's what she's supposed to do. She's let out the
gas, and now she can finish her bottle." Mrs. Beers moved the baby back to
my lap. "Oops," she said, taking the baby's rag and wiping my shoulder.
"Looks like Jenny got you a little bit with that one. Sorry, honey." 

 "That's okay. It's not my real good shirt, just my...um..." 

 "Your school shirt?" she asked. 

 "Yeah." 

 "Well, here." She handed me the baby bottle. "Let her finish her bottle
and then you'd better take off your shirt so I can rinse it out for you." 

 I offered the bottle to the baby, who was eager to get back to drinking.
"You don't have to, Miss Beers." 

 "It won't take but a few minutes. I'll get you one of Geoff's shirts to
wear in the meantime. We can't have you showing up at school in a soiled
shirt, now, can we?" She smiled pleasantly, as if to assure me that
everything would be all right. 

 "I guess not." 

 Once the baby finished her bottle, Mrs. Beers took her and walked her
around the room to let her digest her milk. "Take off your shirt, Ben, and
then run into the bedroom and help yourself to a shirt in the closet." 

 "You sure it's okay?" 

 "Scoot, Mister Fraser, and do as you're told!" she ordered with mock
severity. 

 "Yes, ma'am." 

 By the time I returned to the room, the baby had been put down for a nap
and Mrs. Beers was rinsing out my shirt in the kitchen sink. I stood in
the center of the room and awaited further instructions. 

 "Have you found one, Ben?" Mrs. Beers called out as she hung my shirt to
dry over the stove, unaware that I was standing just a few metres behind
her. 

 "Yes, ma'am," I replied, at which she jumped, startled. 

 "Ah, yes, that suits you." 

 I looked down at myself, uncertain. "It's kind of big. I look funny." 

 "Nonsense. You look like a very grown up boy." 

 "I do?" 

 "Sit down, Ben. I'll fix us some tea, eh?" 

 I knew I should be getting home, but tea with Mrs. Beers was an offer too
tantalizing to pass up. Home, and the inevitable t^te-...-t^te with my
grandparents, could wait. 

 Tea was brought in and Mrs. Beers settled herself in the rocking chair
next to the baby's bassinet. "It's bark, is that all right?" she asked,
lifting her mug for a sip. 

 "Yes, ma'am. It's my favourite." I took the remaining mug and tested the
tea's temperature with a finger. Suddenly embarrassed by the suspicion
that it might be rude to slurp my finger, I hurriedly grabbed the napkin
which had been set out for me, wiped my finger, and then set the napkin
across my lap where it belonged. Mrs. Beers then took her napkin and did
likewise, smiling sweetly at me. 

 "Wonderful, and help yourself to the biscuits, eh." 

 "Thank you, ma'am." I took a biscuit and resisted my initial impulse to
stuff the entire cookie into my mouth, instead enjoying just a small
morsel at a time. 

 "Well, what shall we talk about, honey," Mrs. Beers asked
enthusiastically. 

 My mind raced for something to say, but came up empty, so I shrugged.
"Whatever you want, ma'am." Much to my chagrin, I'd given her just the
opening she needed. 

 "Very well, then why don't you tell me all about school." 

 I stopped chewing and swallowed hard. "School?" 

 "How's it going this year? Have you made some new friends? Do you like
your new teacher? What are you learning about? Tell me all about it." 

 I took a gulp of tea and considered how to reply. "Um, there's nothing to
tell yet, ma'am. It just started." 

 "Oh, I see. Well, is there a holiday already?" 

 "No, ma'am," I whispered. 

 "Morning recess?" 

 "No, ma'am." I started to think I should've gone straight home instead of
loitering in town. 

 "Then is there a reason you're not in class this morning with the other
students?" 

 "Yes, ma'am," I admitted, but stopped short of offering the explanation.
Although I resisted, part of me wanted to tell her what had transpired
that morning at school. I somehow felt that if anyone could make things
all right again, it was Mrs. Beers. She always made me feel she was on my
side, even when she had to correct me. 

 "And what might that reason be?" she coaxed gently. 

 I squirmed and put down my tea. "May I please go to the bathroom, ma'am?"


 "If you honestly have to go, certainly you may. But if you're simply
evading my question, I'd rather you stayed right where you are." 

 We stared each other down while I pondered which road to take, in the end
deciding I didn't really have to go to the bathroom. 

 "Are you playing truant, Ben?" she asked, obviously suspecting I was. 

 "No, ma'am, I'm not. I promise." 

 "Do your grandparents know you're not at school?" 

 "Uh-uh...not yet." Tears were starting to gather at the corners of my
eyes, so I blinked rapidly to dispel them. 

 "What's the matter, honey? What happened? Something happened at school
today, am I right?" 

 I nodded but couldn't speak as I was overwhelmed with the task of
suppressing the emotion that had been building all that morning. Tears
that had pooled in my eyes began to stream down my cheeks, and I
frantically tried to hide my face in the crook of my arm. 

 In a flash, Mrs. Beers was at my side, bringing my head to rest on her
shoulder. "All right, Ben, settle down," she urged with a soothing caress
of the back of my neck. "Whatever happened, it's not the end of the world,
eh?" 

 I wanted to stop crying and knew this was not a moment I was going to
look back on with pride. Crying in front of others was something I never
did anymore, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd had such a bawl,
even in private. No, yes, I could. I remembered. But I didn't want to
remember. And I didn't want to cry, but cry I did. Apparently, what I
couldn't do in the presence of anyone else or in my own solitary company,
I could do with Mrs. Beers. 

 "Come with me, sweetheart," Mrs. Beers directed, leading me by the hand
to the kitchen sink. She took a clean rag and soaked it in cool water and
then placed it gently across my eyes as I struggled to bring my sobs under
control. "There, how's that? Better, honey?" 

 I nodded and grimaced as a new wave of emotion threatened to break my
surface. I took hold of the rag and pushed it firmly against my face,
daring a tear to so much as think about making an appearance. 

 Mrs. Beers ran her fingers through my hair, pushing it away from my face,
and then lifted the rag to see how I was doing. She smiled and dabbed at
both eyes and then wiped my cheeks clean. "Good as new, eh?" she asked
with a wink. 

 "I'm sorry, Miss Beers." 

 "You've nothing to be sorry for, honey. Not to me, anyway." 

 "I'm acting like a baby." 

 "You're acting like someone who has too much weighing on his mind." She
tapped my nose and said, "You might feel better if you tell me what's
troubling you." 

 I thought about it for a moment and agreed she might be right. "I did
something really bad." 

 "At school?" 

 "Uh huh." 

 "Perhaps it's not as bad as you think." 

 "Yes, it is. I'm in trouble." 

 "All right, then, what is it? Tell me about this bad thing you did." 

 "Um..." 

 "I'm listening; go ahead." 

 "Well...I...um...I took the doors off...in the bathroom...in the
teachers' bathroom...and threw 'em out the window." 

 She scowled her disapproval and shock. "Goodness, Ben! Why ever would you
do such a thing?" 

 "'Cause they dared me." 

 "Who did?" 

 "Other kids. They said I was too scared to do it." 

 "I'd've thought you were too smart to do it." 

 "Yes, ma'am," I bowed my head penitently. 

 "So, I guess you proved us wrong on both counts, eh?" she asked with a
touch of irony, to which I offered no reply. I didn't feel victorious for
answering the dare, and clearly Mrs. Beers wasn't happy with me, either.
"Does the school know what you've done?" 

 "Yes, ma'am. I got in big trouble. Real big." I crossed my hands behind
me and frowned to suggest I was still smarting. 

 "I'd imagine so." 

 "Are you mad at me, too, now?" I asked, my bottom lip unsteady. 

 She sighed, calming her anger. "Surprised is more like it. You're not a
vandal, and I'm shocked that you'd act like one. You know better; I know
you do." 

 I hung my head, ashamed to face her. 

 Mrs. Beers cupped my chin and lifted my face. "You've been sent home, I
take it?" she asked. 

 I nodded. "I have to give this to my grandparents," I said, pulling the
report from my back pocket. The report would've been much safer in my
pack, of course, which was precisely why I chose to stow it in my pocket. 

 She took it, but didn't read it. "This is a wrinkled mess. You'd better
tuck it in your bag where it won't be damaged." She handed it back to me,
but I didn't take it. 

 "Aren't you gonna see what it says, ma'am?" 

 "This is intended for your grandparents, not for me." 

 "They wouldn't care." 

 "That's not the point. Besides, what would they think if the seal was
broken, eh?" 

 "I could tell 'em I didn't open it." 

 "Ben, if you want to know what's in this report, you're going to have to
ask your grandparents about it." She held it out and insisted I take it. 

 "Yes, ma'am." With very little care, I stuffed the report back into my
pocket, eliciting a 'tsk-tsk' from Mrs. Beers for failing to follow her
advice. She didn't repeat that advice, however, so I left the report in my
pocket. "They're gonna be mad," I said. 

 "Of course they are. If my child came home with a report like that, I'd
be mad, too. Hoppin' mad!" she chastised. 

 "But you wouldn't kill him?" I asked, just checking. 

 "No, most likely I wouldn't go that far." 

 There was a moment of silence as we just looked at each other. Mrs. Beers
probably wanted me to decide on my own that it was time to go home, but I
was still hesitant. 

 "My grandmother's gonna despair of me. If I got in bad trouble again, she
said she was gonna." 

 "Then you owe her an apology and a very good explanation. Pronto." 

 "Yes, ma'am," I mumbled, still not taking my leave. 

 "Shall I walk you home, Ben?" 

 "No, that's okay. I can walk home by myself, ma'am." 

 "I hope you'll visit again, eh?" 

 "Uh huh. I will." 

 "Maybe in a few years' time you can babysit." 

 "Yeah? You'd let me?" 

 "When you've matured a bit more, yes." 

 I grinned bashfully and shuffled my feet as I worked up the nerve to be
on my way. 

 "Oh, dear," said Mrs. Beers, glancing across the room. "I'm afraid your
shirt won't have dried yet." 

 "Oh, well, I could wait longer." 

 "No, I don't want to keep you. You hang on to Geoff's shirt for the time
being and he'll stop by later to return yours. All right?" 

 "Yeah, okay, I guess." 

 "Thank you for your help this morning, honey." 

 "You too, Miss Beers."  

 Despite the prayers I had been throwing heavenward, when I arrived home
my grandmother wasn't out running errands or providing aid to a neighbour,
nor was she away from home for any other purpose. Sneaking a glance
through the window, I could see that she was right there in the kitchen,
standing over the counter, aggressively de-feathering a chicken whose time
had come. 

 "Is that you, George?" she called out after I entered the mudroom --
apparently not as stealthily as I'd intended. She didn't turn around to
look, so I remained quiet and momentarily considered my options. 

 It didn't take long to realize those options amounted to either
presenting myself to my grandmother immediately to inform her that I'd
been sent home from school, or hiding myself for several hours and telling
her about it later. As you can imagine, neither scenario was particularly
attractive, yet a decision had to be made. 

 Or did it? Before I got around to making a move, my grandmother took the
pail of chicken feathers and turned to make her way to the mudroom. In a
flash, she was almost entirely obscured from view by the feathers that had
been flung into the air and were lazily floating back down throughout the
room. 

 "Oops, did I scare you, Grandma?" 

 She sighed and blew through pursed lips at the feathers that fell over
her face. "My lord, just look at this mess!" 

 I looked. She was right. It was quite a mess. "Uh huh." 

 "Uh huh?!" she questioned severely. 

 "I mean...um...sorry." 

 The air was starting to clear and Grandma brushed her arms over her body
as she asked, "What're you doing there, Benton? Are you ill?" 

 "No." 

 "Then what're you doing there?" 

 "Nothing, ma'am," I answered with all the innocence I could
muster...which was minimal. 

 She peered at me through -- and then over -- her chained spectacles.
"What is that you're wearing?" 

 "Nothing, ma'am." 

 "That's not your shirt." 

 "Somebody said I could borrow it." 

 "Who? What happened to yours?" 

 I averted my gaze, failing to answer either question. It would've been
too confusing to start the story at that point. 

 "Come in here," she ordered, pointing to a spot directly where her feet
lay buried by feathers. Clearly, she was fairly certain she was dealing
with an errant child. 

 I advanced, shuffling and kicking at the feathers, but stopping well
short of the designated spot, so she reiterated her directive with a glare
and a flourish of her feathered arm. No other options presenting
themselves, I complied and bowed my head, staring at her shoes which were
still in the process of being covered by the falling chicken feathers. 

 "Now, what are you doing here?" 

 "What do you mean, ma'am? You told me to come here." 

 "I mean, what are you doing home in the middle of the school day -- and I
think you know that's what I meant, smarty-pants!" she said, tugging
firmly on my ear for emphasis. 

 "Oh, yeah, home," I replied with a wince, covering my tender ear. 

 "Was school let out early?" 

 "Um, no, ma'am. Not school, just....me." I frowned and reluctantly held
out the note the principal had entrusted me to deliver. As loathe as I was
for her to read the contents, it was preferable to having to tell her the
whole sordid story myself. 

 Grandma took the note and was silent. I still wasn't looking at her, but
I correctly guessed she was reading the Principal's report. "Ben, I want
you to clean up this mess immediately," she finally said, and, eager for
some distance from her, I started toward the mudroom for a mop. "And
then," she added, grabbing my elbow to stall my get-away, "...I'll be
waiting for you in the study." 

 I nodded, then set about my task.  

 "What the devil's happened here?" my grandfather exclaimed upon entering
the room just as I was getting to work. "Benton..." he said, noticing me,
"...what's going on? Looks like a hurricane hit!" 

 "I'm cleaning up, Grandpa." 

 "But, what " 

 "Grandma spilled some chicken feathers." 

 "Spilled some ...Where is your grandma?" 

 "Um, in the study, I think." 

 He started out the room, but then came back in. "Shouldn't you be at
school, buddy?" 

 I shook my head and wrinkled my brow, certain more questions would
follow. 

 "Why not?" He stepped further into the room. 

 "Um, 'cause I got sent home, sir." 

 "Sent home? Why was that?" 

 "It's in the note, sir." 

 "What note?" 

 "The one Grandma has...in the study." 

 "Ah." He gave me a look of questioning disapproval and then made his way
to the study.  

 A good twenty or thirty minutes later, the kitchen was finally free of
chicken feathers. I was tempted to head to my room rather than to the
study and to claim forgetfulness when my grandparents came looking for me.
But since they would come looking for me, trying to elude them would've
been a wasted effort. 

 I stood outside the study and fortified myself with a couple deep
breaths. My legs wanted to run away, but I wouldn't allow it. Instead, I
knocked on the door. 

 "Come in," my grandfather bellowed, sounding unusually irritated -- which
I suppose was justified, if not welcomed. 

 Grandpa had been seated on the edge of the desk, but he rose to his feet
upon my entrance. Grandma removed her eyeglasses and folded them to hang
from their chain then set aside the account books that had occupied her.
"Is my kitchen back in order?" she asked sternly as I stood across the
room, barely through the doorway. 

 "Yes, ma'am. Spic-and-span." 

 "Very good, thank you. Now, close the door and come over here." 

 I looked back toward the door and then at my grandmother. "Ma'am?" 

 "Were my orders unclear, Benton?" 

 "No, ma'am, but...um, everybody's in here, so why do we have to shut the
door?" 

 "Very well, leave it be and come have a seat." Her glare warned against
adopting an uncooperative attitude. 

 I crossed the room with a few large, quick strides and settled into the
chair opposite my grandparents, gripping the arms as if I were in danger
of falling from the chair. 

 "Your grandfather and I are both extremely troubled by this report, young
man," Grandma advised, lifting the note off the desktop, obliging me to
focus on it for several seconds. 

 I eventually lowered my eyes to escape the direct confrontation and
mumbled "yes, ma'am, I figured you would be" under my breath. 

 "I hope you also figured you'd be answering to us." She was as angry as
I'd seen her in a long time. 

 "Yes, ma'am," I admitted, barely audible. 

 "Good, then you won't be disappointed," she informed me severely and then
drummed her fingers on the desktop to command that I look at her. When I
did, she favoured me with a scowl of immense displeasure. "Mr. Tilley
tells us he finds you to be incorrigible." 

 "I know, ma'am." 

 "I beg your pardon?" 

 "Um, he told me...in his office...when he was, um, yelling at me." 

 "Reprimanding you, don't you mean?" 

 "Uh huh." 

 "And how did you answer him?" 

 "What do you mean?" 

 "Are you incorrigible?" 

 I thought for a moment, not certain what incorrigible meant...precisely.
"I'm not sure, ma'am," I answered truthfully. "Does it mean I'm bad?" 

 "It means you're being deliberately disobedient and troublesome at school
and will continue to be so despite any efforts to correct your behaviour."


 "Oh." 

 "Is that an accurate assessment of your intentions?" 

 "No...I don't think so, ma'am. I don't want to get in trouble." 

 "Yet here you are. Why, Ben?" 

 "Why?" 

 "For someone who claims he doesn't want to get in trouble, you've got
yourself in pretty deep. And this is far from the first time. We had a
number of misconduct reports on you last year. If this year is going to be
more of the same, we've got a serious problem on our hands. Obviously Mr.
Tilley concurs, as he's taken considerably harsher measures with you this
time." 

 "I try to be good, ma'am. Just 'cause I got this report doesn't mean I'm
gonna get lots more reports this year." 

 "Watch your grammar, please." 

 "Yes, ma'am." 

 "This doesn't bode well, though, does it?" Grandpa pointed out. "Land's
sake, buddy, it's only the first week of school. You keep this up and
you'll be expelled before the month's out." 

 "I won't...keep this up, sir. Please give me a second chance before you
get too mad." 

 "You've already had more than a second chance," Grandma said. "Much more.
You've been warned several times, both at school and here at home, that
you're expected to bide by the rules of the school, mind your manners, and
conduct yourself like a proper young man. Would you say you lived up to
those expectations today?" 

 I shook my head and whispered, "No, ma'am," failing in my effort not to
smirk at the absurdity of her question. 

 "What's the joke?" Grandma asked, infuriated. 

 A good throat clearing helped me to sober my expression. "Nothing,
ma'am." 

 "This isn't meant to be some sort of game, and if you can't discuss this
seriously, perhaps you'd better just " 

 "--I can, ma'am," I cut her off in mid-threat. "I can discuss it
seriously." 

 She paused before proceeding, allowing her eyes to penetrate mine in
search of some sign of repentance. "And what happened to your promise to
make a fresh start this term and be on your best behaviour?" 

 "Nothing." 

 She paused again and glared at me. "I sincerely hope this isn't your
best." 

 "No, ma'am. I made a mistake. I'll do better. I'll be good. I promise.
Don't worry, okay?" 

 "We're already worried, Benton." My grandparents looked at each other
silently for several seconds. Then Grandma studied me before asking, "Is
everything all right at school, honey? How are you getting along with your
new teacher, Mr. Hilyard?" 

 "Okay," I shrugged. 

 "He's a pleasant enough fellow and eminently qualified." My grandparents
had met Mr. Hilyard before registering me for grade eight. I, on the other
hand, hadn't yet made the slightest effort to get to know him. 

 "He's not Mrs. Beers, eh?" Grandpa astutely suggested. 

 I shook my head. "He doesn't like me." 

 "What do you mean he doesn't like you?" Grandma asked. 

 "He doesn't. I can tell." 

 "What do you expect when you pull a stunt like this one?" she asked. 

 "He didn't like me even before." 

 "Let's get something straight, mister," Grandma scolded. "Suspicion that
your teacher doesn't like you does not give you licence to misbehave!" 

 "I didn't, Grandma," I protested. "I mean, that's not why..." 

 She sighed with frustration. "All right, Ben, before we go any further, I
want you to explain yourself," she said, sitting back to listen. 

 Explaining myself was not to be confused with making excuses, as I well
understood by that time, having lived under my grandparents' care for
several years. So, as much as I would've liked to place the blame for my
actions squarely on the shoulders of the older kids who had taunted me
with their double- and, finally, triple-dog dares, I knew such a stratagem
would only land me in even bigger trouble. 

 "I couldn't be a chicken, Grandma," I offered. 

 "A chicken?" 

 "Yes, ma'am." I was distracted by a stubborn remnant of the chicken
feather incident which had lodged itself securely in my grandmother's
hair. 

 "Ben, look at me and pay attention, please!" 

 "I am, ma'am." 

 Grandpa had noticed the object of my distraction, so he reached down and
extricated the feather. When he showed it to Grandma, the three of us
shared a subtle, quick smile, which ended suddenly as Grandma abruptly
consigned the feather to the wastebasket beside the desk. 

 "This isn't funny, Ben." Grandma was now the one clearing her throat.
"There's nothing amusing about any of this." 

 "No, ma'am. I know." 

 "Am I to understand you vandalized school property because someone
challenged you to do so?" 

 "They dared me, Grandma. Triple-dog dared me." 

 "I don't care how many dogs they dared you, you had no business removing
the doors from the stalls in the teachers' bathroom!" This wasn't exactly
shouted, but Grandma had significantly raised her voice. If she hadn't
absolutely despaired of me, she was on the verge. 

 "Yes, ma'am." I paused, then pointed out, "I didn't break anything. The
doors just had to be screwed back on." 

 "Does that make it all right?" Grandpa barked. 

 "No, sir. I'm sorry. I won't ever do it again. I promise." When I looked
back at her, I discovered my grandmother's eyes were shut tight and she
was massaging her temples. "Grandma, are you okay?" I feared my antics had
over-stressed her; she wasn't as young as she used to be. 

 "I'm angry and disappointed with you, Ben. Very angry and disappointed."
Her eyes were open now and trained very insistently on me. 

 "Yes, ma'am." I accepted her disapproval and endeavoured to give her my
sincerest expression of regret in return. "I'm real, real, real sorry.
Please forgive me, Grandma. I won't do it again. Okay?" 

 She didn't immediately respond, holding me captive in her gaze for yet a
while. Finally, she sighed and spoke more softly, with exasperation.
"We'll get to the forgiveness in a bit. At the moment, I'm trying to
imagine what possessed you!" 

 "Because, Grandma, I told you...they were calling me chicken." 

 "You sure it wasn't because you don't like your teacher, eh?" Grandpa
queried. 

 "I didn't say I don't like him, sir. I said " 

 "I know what you said." He suddenly began to scrutinize me, leaning
forward for a closer look. "What in the sam hill are you doing in that
shirt?" 

 I looked down at myself and said simply, "Wearing it, sir." 

 "It's five sizes too big for you!" 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "Well?" 

 "Apparently," Grandma interrupted, "...someone lent it to him." 

 "What for? Expecting a growth spurt, son?" 

 I shook my head and stifled a smile at Grandpa's sarcasm. 

 Grandma eyed me steadily, unamused, and said, "My guess is this shirt
business will be clearer when the events of this morning are all sorted
out. Am I correct, Benton?" 

 I nodded silently. 

 "Then continue, please," she directed. 

 "Um, well, I did. I told you. Um...everybody was calling me chicken, I
said. That's why I did it. That's really why." 

 "Everybody?" she questioned. 

 "Um, well, yeah...mostly Jake." 

 "Who's Jake?" 

 "Just a kid. A new kid. He's in grade nine," I explained, as if to endow
him with god-like stature. 

 "A new kid. I see. And this Jake is impressing his new classmates by
picking on the younger students?" 

 I shrugged and looked away. 

 Grandma leaned forward and reminded me firmly, "Ben, honey, you mustn't
do everything Jake asks you to do simply because he's older and bigger
than you. You know the difference between right and wrong, and you need to
be your own person and do the right thing." 

 "I know. I don't do everything he tells me." 

 "Then you're going to have to exercise much better judgment in the future
than you demonstrated today, because if you thought you were doing the
right thing " 

 "--No, Grandma. I mean, I think I thought I did...at first. It was just
supposed to be like a joke or something. That's what Jake said. Just a
joke. I didn't know it was gonna be...so bad." 

 "Do you still think it was just a joke?" 

 I brushed my tongue over my dry lips as I shook my head. 

 "And what's going to happen the next time Jake -- or anyone -- calls you
chicken, eh?" Grandma asked. 

 I couldn't answer. I didn't like to think what I might be constrained to
do next time. 

 "Answer the question, boy," Grandpa commanded sternly. 

 "I don't know." 

 "You'd darn well better know!" he rebuked. 

 "But, gosh, am I supposed to just let people call me chicken?" I asked
them both, showing my obvious distaste at the idea. 

 "Do you lack the courage to do that, honey?" Grandma asked. 

 "Huh?" 

 "If I'm not mistaken, you submitted to the dares of this boy because you
feared what he'd do if you didn't. Is that any way to prove your courage?"


 My face fell and blushed with shame. "Oh. I didn't think of that. I just
wanted him to stop." 

 "We know, buddy," Grandpa said. "We've all been called names. It's no
fun." 

 "But not chicken, Grandpa. You weren't called chicken, were you?" 

 "Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. More than once." 

 "But you're not a chicken." 

 "Whether I am or not is immaterial to someone who wants to call me names,
eh? You see what I'm getting at?" 

 "Yeah, I guess." 

 "What?" 

 "Um, well, is it you're not chicken just 'cause someone says you are?" 

 "You got it!" 

 "So," Grandma said, "now that we've cleared that up, what's going to
happen the next time someone calls you chicken?" 

 I hesitated for a moment, then replied, "I won't do anything bad, ma'am.
I promise. So please don't despair of me 'cause I'm sorry about what I
did. Real sorry." 

 "Hmm." She briefly considered my response, still not declaring
forgiveness. "Have the doors been reattached?" 

 "Um, I don't know. I guess so." 

 "That should have been your job." 

 "I got punished, ma'am. Mr. Hilyard yelled at me in front of the whole
class and made me go to the principal's office, and then Mr. Tilley sent
me home after he, um, he..." 

 "Paddled you, yes, I know, that's fine. But you still should've offered
to replace the doors you removed." 

 "Yes, ma'am. I will next time." 

 Grandma's eyes almost bugged out of their sockets. "I understood there
wasn't going to be a next time?" 

 "Oh, um, no, there's not." 

 "Benton, I need to know that you understand your behaviour this morning
was totally unacceptable and cannot ever be repeated -- ever!" She seemed
clearly worried that I was embarking on a career as a vandal. 

 "I do, Grandma. I promise I do." 

 She sighed, and I feared she wasn't convinced. "I'm afraid I also must
enforce some discipline." 

 "Yes, ma'am." I had expected no less. "Am I, um, grounded?" 

 "No." 

 "I'm getting extra chores?" 

 "No." 

 "But..." I paused and recalled young Guy Skimmerhorn's boast that after
his parents learned he'd been paddled at school, he got it worse from his
dad. "Gosh, I already got a tanning. Do I have to get another one?" 

 "No, no, I think we can assume Mr. Tilley has sufficiently punished you."


 I nodded. It was sufficient, all right. But it was beginning to appear I
wouldn't have much to boast to the guys. Appearances, however, can be
deceptive. 

 "However, next time you misbehave at school " 

 "--Yes, ma'am," I cut her off. 

 "So, that leaves us with the discipline to see to, eh?" 

 "But you said it was sufficient, ma'am." 

 "The punishment, yes, but I'm talking about discipline." 

 "What's the difference?" 

 "The difference is that a healthy sense of discipline would've compelled
you to replace those doors you removed -- without having to be told to do
so." 

 "Or not take 'em off in the first place?" I suggested meekly. 

 "Hmm," she nodded in stern agreement. 

 "We expect you're gonna mess up now and then, son, just like the rest of
us," Grandpa interjected, "...but a disciplined man takes it upon himself
to clean up his own mess. We won't accept less from you." 

 "Okay...I understand now." 

 "Good," Grandma said. "Then you'll also understand why you'll be spending
this Saturday making things right." 

 "How, Grandma, if the doors are already put back?" 

 "I'll leave you to work that out with the school. Perhaps this'll prove
just the opportunity you need to get better acquainted with your new
teacher. I'm sure he and Mr. Tilley will have no trouble finding tasks for
you." 

 "Tasks? Mr. Tilley didn't say I had to do tasks, ma'am." 

 "I'm saying so. Tell them you'll be at school first thing after breakfast
on Saturday and they can have you for the day." 

 "But what if they don't want me? School's closed most of the time on
Saturdays." 

 "If they need someone to supervise you, your grandpa and I will be happy
to oblige. You let them know that." 

 "Gee whiz, this Saturday?" I whined, remembering I already had plans --
plans which promised a much more enjoyable day than my grandmother's
proposal. 

 "This Saturday." 

 "But, Grandma " 

 "You can work out the details tomorrow when you return to school." 

 "But, ma'am " 

 "Or do I need to work things out with Mr. Tilley for you, eh?" 

 "No, ma'am, but " 

 "No buts, Ben. I've explained the need to enforce some discipline." 

 "But you've forgotten something, ma'am. About this Saturday." 

 "No, I haven't forgotten anything, honey." 

 "But you said Julie could come over and we could have a picnic by the
river." 

 "That was before you misbehaved. You'll have to have your picnic another
time." 

 "Aw, gee whiz!" 

 "I'll go to town in the morning and get a message to the Frobishers." 

 "Aw, darn! Why can't you just whack me again instead?" I boldly lamented.


 "You watch that saucy mouth or you'll have yourself both!" Grandpa's
normally bountiful patience was waning. Aside from the fact I was arguing
with them, 'darn' was often considered unacceptably strong language in our
household. "If you think you can sit there and sass us " 

 "--I wasn't sassing, sir," I replied humbly, shaking my head. "I was just
saying, if I had a choice " 

 "--You don't have that choice, honey. That's up to me and your
grandfather, and we've given you our decision." 

 "But " 

 "--And our decision on this is final, Ben, and you will respect it. And
that means I don't want another 'but' from you, you hear? Otherwise, you
may spend the rest of the day in your room. That's your choice.
Understand?" 

 I nodded and hung my head to hide the pout on my face. It was a miracle
that banishment to my room for at least the day wasn't a forgone
conclusion, so I didn't want to squander that gift. "May I go now?" I
asked without looking up. 

 "No, we're not quite finished here." As I lifted my eyes a bit, I saw
Grandma pick up the principal's report and peruse it thoughtfully through
her spectacles. "According to Mr. Tilley, you were sent home a little
after nine this morning. Is that correct?" 

 "Uh huh. I missed the whole day of school, Grandma. Even attendance," I
bragged. 

 "I don't consider that an accomplishment, young man," she reminded me in
no uncertain terms, and I slunk down in my chair and peered at her
apprehensively, nodding in acquiescence. "Then where were you until almost
eleven-thirty? It shouldn't take more than a half-hour to walk home." 

 "Oh, um, I took a longer way home, ma'am." 

 "Which way was that? And sit up straight in that chair, please," she
ordered. 

 I immediately pulled myself up to comply. Mr. Tilley may have determined
I was incorrigible, but I wasn't prepared to submit to that
characterization. More often than not, I wanted to do what was expected of
me, even if I wasn't always successful. "I, um, came through town. I
didn't think you'd mind." 

 "I see. Still, that doesn't account for over two hours. Did you do
anything while you were in town?" 

 "Like what?" 

 "You tell me." 

 "Well, I was just walking around. I wanted to take a walk, ma'am. It's
good for you, you always say that, so I wanted to walk around and get some
fresh air and exercise like you always say I should and " 

 "--I also always say you should mind your elders and those in authority,
do I not?" 

 I nodded. 

 "Didn't Mr. Tilley tell you to go straight home?" 

 "No, ma'am. He didn't say that. I swear. He said I had to go home, but he
didn't say right away." I almost suggested she get confirmation from Mr.
Tilley until I realized I couldn't count on him to recall his exact words
-- especially if his exact words hadn't been as exact as intended. 

 Grandma eyed me suspiciously. I think she believed me but didn't care for
my equivocating. "Did you stop at the store for a sweet?" she inquired. 

 "No, ma'am." 

 "The diner for a soda?" 

 "No, ma'am." 

 "The gun and tackle shop to pester Joe Bodiak?" 

 I wrinkled my face in dismay. "I don't pester him, Grandma." 

 "But you visited him this morning?" She was tiring of this game and it
showed in her tone. 

 "No, ma'am...not him." 

 "Oh? Who did you visit?" 

 "Miss Beers," I finally confessed after some reticence. 

 "Ah, well, how is she? I haven't seen Emily since her baby was born." 

 "She's good, ma'am." 

 "And her little girl? Jennifer, is it?" 

 "Uh huh, Jenny. She's good, I guess. She doesn't do anything." I had
secretly rejoiced when Mrs. Beers' baby turned out to be a girl. Although
she'd told me she hoped for a boy who was just like me, I was much happier
without such competition. 

 "Yes, well, babies have their plates pretty full just getting used to
things. We can't exactly be expecting handsprings yet, eh?" 

 "No, ma'am." 

 "I hope you didn't make a nuisance of yourself." 

 "Miss Beers invited me to come in, Grandma. She said I could do her a big
favour and feed the baby her bottle." 

 "Ah, and did you?" 

 "Uh huh. Then she threw up all over my shirt." 

 "Ah, so that's that mystery solved, eh? Well, go get it for me and I'll
clean it up." 

 "Miss Beers already did. The baby always throws up, she says, so she's
real good at cleaning it up now. But it was still wet, so Geoff is gonna
bring it over later and I can wear his shirt for now." 

 "Fine, fine. And then I expect you came home, eh?" 

 "Yes, ma'am. Miss Beers said I should." 

 "Didn't you already know you should?" 

 I nodded guiltily. "I was gonna come home sometime, but I needed to be by
myself first...to think and stuff. That's why I didn't come right home,
Grandma. Are you angry? I wasn't too late, was I?" 

 Grandma looked at me and thought before replying. "Considering I wasn't
expecting you until much later this afternoon, no, I suppose you weren't
late at all." She bestowed the subtlest of smiles on me and then leaned
forward across the desk as she asked, "So, what are we going to do with
you now, young man?" 

 "Um...I don't know. Should I go to my room?" 

 "Heavens, no, the day is still young. I think we can make much more
constructive use of your time."  

 And so, after lunch, I was confined to the study with a pile of books and
assignments to keep me more than busy for the remainder of the afternoon.
I don't think there's any doubt that I learned more that day than on a
typical day spent at school.  

 Saturday was a miserable day. Dark, grey skies and pouring rain reflected
the mood as I plopped down at the kitchen table for breakfast. 

 "Good morning, buddy," Grandpa said after I failed to offer my usual
greeting. 

 "It's a yucky morning," I observed sulkily, obviously referring to more
than the inclement weather. 

 He frowned at me as we temporarily locked eyes, but didn't say anything. 

 "Now, don't dawdle, Ben," Grandma said after setting my plate before me.
"You've been dragging your heels all morning. I want you to perk up or
you'll keep Mr. Hilyard waiting, and that'd be rude." She pushed me up to
the table and pointed. "Get busy." 

 I picked up my fork, then sat, motionless, and stared out the window
wearing the longest face imaginable. 

 "Well, turns out this is no day for a picnic, eh, buddy?" Grandpa pointed
out, giving me an incentive and an opportunity to improve my attitude.
"They say it's gonna rain like this all day long." 

 I was unconvinced. "Mum was gonna take me on a picnic once but it rained,
so we had the picnic in the house. She put a blanket on the floor by the
stove and we had sandwiches and hot chocolate in a thermos. And it didn't
matter that it was raining outside." 

 "That's your mum, honey. Always knew how to look on the bright side. She
could find the silver lining in just about any situation." Grandma sat
down to eat with us, once again pointing to my untouched plate. 

 I didn't want to hear about silver linings, so I renewed my pout and
poked at my food with the fork, absent-mindedly moving it around on the
plate and making absolutely no progress as far as eating. 

 "It'll be hours until lunch, Ben," Grandma said. "If you don't want to
work all morning on an empty stomach, you'd better get cracking." 

 "Grandma?" 

 "Yes?" 

 "Maybe Mr. Hilyard wouldn't care if I did my tasks next Saturday instead.
If I ask him and he says it's okay, is it okay?" 

 "Mr. Hilyard said this Saturday was fine." 

 "I know, but if I ask him " 

 "--No, Ben." 

 "Why not?" 

 "Because there's no reason you can't do it today." 

 "Yes, there is. I'm supposed to take Julie on a picnic." 

 "We've cancelled that." 

 "I know, but I could go over to her house and maybe she could still " 

 "--No, you may not go over to her house. Not today. We've been over this
already. Squaring things with school comes first." 

 I cursed silently, then had a thought. "What if I was sick?" 

 "Where are you sick?" she asked, annoyed. 

 "Well, if I had a stomach ache " 

 "--Do you have a stomach ache?" 

 I hesitated and realized I couldn't lie. "No...not yet." 

 "That's the end of the nonsense, Benton. In ten minutes, you will be out
the door and on your way to school. Now, can you be trusted to get
yourself there -- on time and with a willing attitude -- or do your
grandpa or I have to escort you?" 

 I sighed in defeat. "I can be trusted." 

 "Very well." 

 I glanced at my grandfather and he favoured me with a wink. The battle
for this Saturday lost, I looked ahead to the following weekend.
"Grandma?" 

 "I'm not kidding, Ben -- ten minutes. If you haven't eaten your breakfast
by then, you'll have to go hungry until lunchtime." 

 I shoveled in a few mouthfuls to demonstrate a cooperative spirit, then
tried again. "Grandma, may I ask you something?" 

 "Yes." 

 "Can I take Julie " 

 "--May I take Julie..." she corrected. 

 "May I take Julie on a picnic next Saturday?" 

 "Perhaps. We'll discuss it after we've seen how the rest of today goes." 


 The rest of the day was going as expected: no fun and lots of work. I
actually beat Mr. Hilyard to the school and was starting to wonder if he'd
forgotten about our appointment when I finally spied him trudging his way
up the path through the driving rain. 

 "Mister Fraser, I presume?" he inquired, meeting me on the front steps. 

 I was buried underneath my mackintosh with the deep hood. Given a scythe,
I would've been a dead ringer for the grim reaper. "Yup," I confirmed
loudly over the thundering raindrops that beat upon my coat. 

 "You're early. Good." 

 "No, I was just on time, sir. You were late." 

 "All right, wise acre. Let's get inside where it's dry." He grabbed the
top of my hood and pulled me along, up the steps and into the building,
and I hurried to keep pace.  

 "I'm all done, sir," I announced to Mr. Hilyard as he sat at his desk in
the classroom, busy with his own work. Rather appropriately, my first task
had been to scrub clean the bathrooms until they sparkled like new. The
school didn't employ daily janitorial services back then, so it was lucky
for me that school had only been in session for a week. The job would've
been significantly more unpleasant later in the month. 

 Mr. Hilyard registered my announcement and then checked his watch. "It's
almost noon." 

 "Can I have lunch now, sir?" 

 "Where've you been?" 

 "Cleaning the bathrooms, sir, like you said...'til they sparkled." 

 "We won't get much accomplished at this rate." 

 "Huh?" 

 "You took your sweet time." 

 "If you're gonna do a job, you may as well do it right," I proclaimed. 

 "Eh?" 

 "You'll just have to do it again if you don't, and that's a waste of time
and effort." 

 "Are you insinuating I've done a poor job at something, Fraser?" 

 "No, sir. I mean the bathrooms." 

 "They sparkle, do they?" 

 "Uh huh." Not to brag, but they were, in fact, cleaner than they'd been
on the first day of school. 

 "You didn't sneak off to play for a while?" 

 "Uh-uh. I'm not allowed to play today. Duty before pleasure." 

 "Uh huh." He paused and regarded me uncertainly. "Before we proceed, do
you have any more platitudes you want to get off your chest?" 

 "No, sir." I didn't understand his question, but I figured it was safest
just to give him a reply and make a mental note to look up 'platitudes'
the first chance I got. 

 "Fetch your lunch and take your seat." 

 I turned and took off for the coat room. 

 "Walk, please, Mister Fraser."  

 I ate slowly, hoping to delay the assignment of another unpleasant task.
Once I'd finished my sandwich, I took the raisins and munched them,
thoroughly and one at a time, then kept my hold on the little empty box
and put on a charade each time Mr. Hilyard glanced in my direction. 

 A good half-hour or more later, Mr. Hilyard consulted his watch once
more. "Lunch break is over, Mister Fraser. Let's get back to work." 

 "But I'm still eating, Mr. Hilyard." 

 "Eating what? Let me see." With a wave of his hand, he requested me to
approach him with what was left of my lunch. 

 "This," I replied, holding up the empty raisin box. 

 "Are you planning to eat the box?" he asked. 

 "No." I tried not to smile at the idea. "Just the raisins, sir." 

 "Well, you ate the last raisin almost five minutes ago, so discard the
trash and come up here for your next assignment." 

 I never could fathom how some people manage to reap success from lies;
all I've ever reaped is more trouble. Perhaps successful lying is a skill
that takes practice and perseverance. Whatever it is, for good or ill, I
just haven't had what it takes. 

 "Shouldn't I digest my lunch, sir?" I suggested as I stood before him at
the desk. 

 "Your lunch will digest just fine while you're washing the blackboards."
He took the master room key from a desk drawer and offered it to me. "Get
a bucket of clean water and a sponge." 

 I nodded and took the key, feeling somewhat surprised, yet privileged, to
be trusted with it. Mr. Hilyard had supervised the gathering of supplies
for my morning work, so I waited for him to accompany me to the storage
room. 

 "Did you hear me, Fraser?" 

 "Oh...aren't you gonna...you want me to go, sir...alone?" 

 "Aren't you capable of getting a bucket of water and a sponge without my
assistance?" 

 "Uh huh." 

 He waved me on, so I obeyed. 

 Sponging down a couple blackboards was relatively easy work, so I took my
time and did a job in which I could take pride. Realizing I wasn't tall
enough to reach the entire height of the boards, I borrowed the bench from
the coat room, where unruly students were relegated to serve a term of
isolation or to await further consequences. 

 The task completed, I stood back to evaluate the results of my labour and
silently proclaimed it good. "May I have the key again, sir?" I asked my
teacher. 

 Mr. Hilyard glanced at the blackboards and then at my bucket. "Need some
fresh water?" he asked, handing me the key. 

 "I'm finished, sir...aren't I?" He didn't seem to think so, which worried
me. 

 "You've washed all the blackboards?" his voice rose with incredulity. 

 "Uh huh." But suddenly it occurred to me that he may have been referring
to more than the two blackboards in my classroom. I decided to wait for
his clarification, however, rather than run the risk of giving him any
ideas. "Don't they look clean?" 

 "These look fine," he agreed. "You'd best get started on the others," he
ordered, returning to his paper work. 

 "Oh, you mean I'm supposed to do all of 'em, in the whole school?" 

 "That's what I said." 

 After a slight hesitation, I replied, "No, you didn't...sir." 

 Mr. Hilyard looked up from his work, not at all pleased. "Do your
grandparents allow you to speak to them in such a manner?" 

 "What manner, sir?" I asked, blushing. 

 "Smart-mouth contradictions." 

 "No, sir, they don't let me do that, but " 

 "--Well, neither do I, and I'd suggest you remember that." 

 "I know, sir, but, um...you didn't say all the blackboards in the school
-- you didn't, really -- so I didn't know I had to do them all. That's
what I was saying...not smart-mouthing." 

 He wrinkled his mouth, then nodded. "Well, now is it clear what I want
you to do?" 

 "Yes, sir." 

 "Good. And in the future, I'll speak by the card so equivocation won't
undo me." 

 "Huh?" 

 "It's from Hamlet." 

 "Oh." 

 "Shakespeare's most famous play." 

 "Uh huh." 

 He held up a hand and said with a tinge of excitement, "Hold on. I'll
show you." After locating a book from the shelves, he brought it over and
placed it in my hand, wrapping my fingers tightly around it. "There. You
take that home and read it." 

 I set down my bucket and thumbed through the book. I'd heard of
Shakespeare; my dad and grandparents mentioned his works now and then, and
Grandma had made me sit through a production by a local amateur group when
I was much smaller -- too small to have paid any attention to the play
being performed while I struggled not to squirm in my seat and invite an
ear boxing. "When do I have to read this by, sir?" It was a daunting
prospect. 

 "It's not an assignment. Read it at your leisure. I thought you might
enjoy it." 

 "You did?" 

 "Your grandmother told me you like to read." 

 "She did?" I considered it for a moment. "I don't have to write a book
report or anything?" 

 "No. We can read it together if you like." 

 "Together?" 

 "Aloud. It's poetry. You should hear it aloud to truly appreciate it." 

 "Oh, you mean like I could be Hamlet and you could be..." I glanced at
the other names. "...somebody else? Just like when they do it on the
stage?" 

 "Yes. That's right." 

 I returned his smile, intrigued by his offer and curious to get to know a
little about this Shakespeare I'd heard so much about. But was I really
ready for that challenge, I wondered. "Um...okay." 

 "Good. We can get together after school, then. Maybe an hour a day when
our schedules permit. Would that work?" 

 "I can ask my grandmother if it's okay." 

 "Fine. You do that." Mr. Hilyard nodded then resumed grading papers. "The
blackboards, Fraser -- if you ever want to get out of here."  

 I had just finished the last blackboard in the last classroom. It wasn't
quite nearing dinnertime yet, but the daylight was beginning to fade on
this already dark day, and I wondered what the chances were that I'd be
dismissed upon reporting to Mr. Hilyard. Hoping to increase that
likelihood, I decided to dally for a few minutes before returning to my
classroom. 

 The grade nine classroom fascinated me. This was where the older kids
were let in on all the knowledge that was yet hidden from mere children
like me. It was also where those same older and smarter kids gathered to
hatch their diabolical schemes of torture against the lower classes. I
wondered what would become of me when I entered this room the following
year. 

 Sitting in the teacher's chair, I fingered all the gadgets and materials
that lay on the desk. I went so far as to open the spiral class plan book
and found, laminated on the inside cover, a diagram that indicated which
student sat at each of the desks. With seeming clairvoyance, my eyes were
immediately drawn to the little box with the name Jake Trask pencilled
inside. Unable to resist, I crept over to the corresponding desk at the
back of the last row and, after a paranoid look around to ensure I was
alone, slid my way onto the metal seat. 

 It wasn't a one-piece chair/desk combination like mine in the grade eight
classroom. The desk was bigger and roomier to accommodate a high-school
workload, and the chair was an entirely separate entity, allowing for more
freedom of movement. I had to wonder if that arrangement was such a good
idea when a student like Jake came along. Although he'd only been at the
school for a week, he'd already distinguished himself as a student who
appeared oblivious to -- or at least unconcerned with -- the existence of
any boundaries. A little forced exercise with limits might not have come
amiss. 

 Jake's chair cast its spell on me, teasing me with a freedom it only
seemed to afford. Sliding it back and forth and to and fro across the
floor, I was unperturbed by the loud screeching sounds that echoed
throughout the room and beyond. Or perhaps the resulting noise was the
very thing that made the activity so exhilarating. 

 Forgoing propriety in my giddiness, I found myself sticking my nose where
it didn't belong: inside Jake's desk. I engaged the latch to hold the
desktop open and then took stock of the booty it had concealed. At first,
I restricted myself to solely a visual inspection, but soon I had
surrendered to the temptation to let my fingers rummage Jake's belongings
quite thoroughly. It somehow felt right -- fair recompense seeing as I was
brought to this moment and place in time at the pleasure of Jake. 

 Even while going through Jake's desk, I hadn't ceased sliding the chair,
and suddenly Mr. Hilyard appeared out of nowhere behind me. "Fraser, stop
that infernal racket!" He approached, lifted me off the chair by the
scruff of my neck and, still clutching my collar, closed the lid on Jake's
desk. "What has been going on in here?" he demanded. 

 I couldn't immediately recall what had brought me to this room, the
screech of the chair still ringing in my head and clouding my mind. 

 "Answer me!" 

 Then it came back. "I washed all the blackboards, sir. All of 'em." 

 With an angry scowl, Mr. Hilyard snatched an object out of my hand -- an
object I had been only semi-aware was in my possession. "That's not all
you've been doing," he said, holding the object up for me to acknowledge. 

 I looked at it and finally it registered in my consciousness. It was a
pack of cigarettes. Now I hazily remembered finding something in Jake's
desk that should not have been there. Something that was forbidden. So I
had grabbed it, with no thought but to experience the touch of something
forbidden. 

 "Where did you get these?" he asked firmly. 

 I shuffled my feet and searched for an answer. "Um...uh...they...um..." 

 "They were in here?" he said, tapping Jake's desk. 

 I'm not sure why, but I couldn't find it in me to snitch on Jake Trask,
the boy who had made my first week of grade eight a very miserable one.
"Uh-uh," I lied, shaking my head uncertainly. "They're mine." 

 Mr. Hilyard cocked his head and slid the cigarettes into his shirt
pocket. "You're lying, Fraser." He looked at me and waited for a response,
but I offered none, except for a dropping of my head. "Follow me," he
said, escorting me out of the room by force. 

 "W-where are we going, sir?" I stammered, hurrying along behind him. 

 "Outside." 

 Now, my grandfather had once recounted a memory of being led outside by
his teacher in order to cut off a tree branch, but as there were no trees
of any stature in Tuktoyaktuk, I reckoned Mr. Hilyard had something else
in mind. "What're we going outside for, sir?" 

 "The rain's let up." He must've been too angry to elaborate, so I didn't
press him, remaining silent as he pulled me out the door, down the steps,
and just outside the perimeter of the schoolyard. "All right, here," he
said, taking the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering it to me.


 "Huh?" I stepped away, frightened. 

 "Let's have a smoke, eh?" he suggested. He extracted two cigarettes,
forcing one between my lips. "We've worked hard all day. We deserve a
break, eh?" 

 I spit out the cigarette and held it as far from my mouth as possible.
"But..." 

 "It's okay. We're not on school property. I have no authority over you
out here." 

 "Yeah, but..." 

 "Oh, you can't spare one for me, eh? Well, okay, here..." He stuffed the
second cigarette into my hand with the first. "I don't smoke, anyway, but
you go ahead. In fact, here, you may as well have them all." He crammed
the pack into the rear pocket of my jeans. 

 I just stood there, trembling, with no idea what to do next. Smoking the
cigarettes was not an option. If Mr. Hilyard wasn't going to have my hide,
my grandmother most assuredly would when I came home smelling like an
ashtray. Besides, when it came down to it, I didn't want to smoke the
cigarettes. That had never been the plan. 

 "Go ahead, before the rain starts again." 

 "But, sir..." 

 "Got a match?" Mr. Hilyard asked. 

 "N-no, sir." 

 "Oh, well, sorry...afraid I haven't got one on me, either." 

 I paused to steady my quivering mouth, then asked, "Can we go back
inside, please?" 

 "Ready to tell me the truth?" 

 "They're not my cigarettes," I admitted after a hesitation. 

 "I oughta make you smoke the entire pack. That'd cure you." 

 "It'd make me sick, sir." Realizing I was contradicting him yet again, I
added, humbly, "Wouldn't it?" 

 "Get back to the classroom!" he ordered, pointing the way.  

 After returning the bucket and sponge to the storage room, I entered my
classroom to find Mr. Hilyard sitting against the edge of his desk, his
arms folded across his chest. "Everything put away?" he inquired. 

 "Yes, sir." 

 With a finger, he beckoned me to approach, so I obeyed without question.
He regarded me quietly for a time, then said, simply, "You may go,
Fraser." 

 "Home?" 

 "Home." 

 "Am I in more trouble, sir?" 

 "More trouble?" 

 "Are you gonna report me to the principal?" 

 "For what?" 

 "For the cigarettes." 

 "No, I don't think that'll be necessary...this time. They're not yours
and you didn't smoke them." 

 "Oh. Is...somebody...gonna be in trouble?" 

 "That's none of your business. You just concern yourself with you and let
me worry about...somebody." 

 "Yeah, but it was my fault for sneaking into...somebody's...desk." 

 "Hmm, like I said, mind your own business in the future, eh?" 

 I nodded and turned to go, but Mr. Hilyard tugged my sleeve to detain me.


 "And if you ever lie to me again, you won't be getting off this easy.
Believe me, you won't!" 

 "Yes, sir. I believe you." 

 "All right. Go home now." 

 I started across the room, but only made it a few steps. 

 "Uh, Mister Fraser?" 

 "Yes, sir?" I replied, swiveling to face him. 

 "The cigarettes," he said, nodding toward my backside and holding out his
hand. "I'll take them, if you please." 

 I handed them over gladly, thankful to be spared from returning home with
a pack of cigarettes in my back pocket where anyone might've noticed it.
But before leaving, I reached into my backpack for the book Mr. Hilyard
had given me. I pulled it out and laid it on his desk, then turned to go. 

 "Chicken?" Mr. Hilyard said. 

 Stunned, I wheeled around to face him. "Huh?" 

 Mr. Hilyard picked up the book. "I thought you were ready to take a stab
at this, Ben?" This was the first time he'd called me 'Ben' and it didn't
go unnoticed. 

 "Yeah, but...I figured you wanted your book back now." 

 "I gave it to you for as long as you like. It's yours, if you want it." 

 "You mean...to keep?" 

 "That's what I said." He smiled, seeming to dare me to contradict him. 

 I grinned and stepped toward him. "Oh, that's right. I forgot." I held
out my hand for the book and he relinquished it to me. 

 "We'll start our reading schedule as soon as you've cleared it with your
grandparents. I don't imagine they'll have any objections." 

 I nodded and then secured the book -- my book -- in my pack where it
wouldn't be damaged if I had to walk home in another rain storm. "We're,
um...square now, sir?" I asked before taking my leave. 

 "Square?" 

 "I can't leave until I've squared things...with the whole school." 

 "We're square." He clasped his hand around my neck and gently squeezed
it. "Let's keep it that way, eh?"  

 Calm relief set in later that night as I prepared for bed. The school had
been satisfied and my grandparents had finally decreed forgiveness --
along with a firm belief in my ability to avoid misbehaving in the future.
My own level of confidence didn't quite measure up to the theirs, but I
let them carry their illusions. After all, everyone needs something to
believe in. 

 A knock at the door was quickly followed by Grandma peeking her head
through my bedroom doorway. "When you're finished in here, oatmeal raisin
cookies, warm from the oven, are waiting for you in the kitchen, honey,"
she announced. 

 "Oh, boy! Thanks, Grandma." I had smelled them baking and selfishly hoped
they weren't destined for a needy neighbour. 

 While I worked a brush through my snarled, wet hair, Grandma came fully
into the room. "Tsk, tsk," she chided, picking up my jeans from the floor
-- where everybody knew they didn't belong. 

 "I was gonna put those away," I claimed, without interrupting my
grooming. 

 "Uh, Ben, what's the meaning of this?" she suddenly asked in a rather
ominous tone. Before I had a chance to turn toward her, she snatched the
hairbrush from my hand and swatted my behind with it. "Turn around, honey,
and answer me." 

 "Answer what, Grandma?" I said, turning around to face her while
smoothing my hair with my hands. Then I saw the cigarette she dangled
between her fingers as if it were a toxic substance -- which, I suppose,
it was. "Oh..." 

 "Do you know where I found this?" she asked. 

 "Where?" 

 "In the back pocket of your jeans." 

 "Oh." 

 "No, you've got to do better than 'oh'." She stood there, holding the
cigarette in one hand and my hairbrush in the other, determined not to
make a move until she had the answers she required. 

 "It's not mine, Grandma. I wasn't smoking. I don't smoke. Honest." 

 "Then explain to me why there was a cigarette in your pocket. Can you do
that?" 

 "Yes, ma'am. You see, um, it's from school." 

 "Yes, go on." 

 "Um, well, when I was cleaning and stuff today, I found it." 

 "You found a cigarette just lying around at school? Where?" 

 "Yeah, um, no, I found a whole pack in, um, in one of the classrooms, and
so I, um, gave it to Mr. Hilyard." 

 "If you gave it to Mr. Hilyard, then why was this in your pocket? So you
could try just one?" 

 "No, ma'am! Because first I had to put the cigarettes in my pocket, to
take them to Mr. Hilyard in the other classroom." It wasn't exactly the
truth, but it was close enough to sound credible -- even from my lips. "I
guess one of the cigarettes must've got stuck in my pocket." That last
part had to be true, I reckoned. 

 She thought over my explanation for a moment and then, apparently
satisfied, nodded, dropped the hairbrush on top of my dresser, and again
retrieved my jeans from the floor. Tossing them to me, she said, "Put
these away properly." 

 "You believe me, Grandma? You believe the cigarette isn't mine?" 

 "If you were smoking, you wouldn't be able to hide it from me." She
tugged my ear and advised, "Remember that, mister, if you ever get the
bright idea that it might be fun to try one of these." 

 "I'm not ever gonna smoke. Never ever. It's bad for you." 

 "Yes, it's very bad, and I hope you're right that you'll never do it. But
a lot of people say they'll never smoke, and then one day they decide just
one won't hurt anything. So they try just one and when that doesn't kill
them, they try another...and another. And pretty soon, if they're not
already addicted to the tobacco, they're addicted to the habit or the
glamour of it. By then, it's too late; they're smoking like a chimney." 

 "Is that what happened to Grandpa? Is that why he smokes a pipe?" 

 "Something like that, yes. So, you see, it can happen to anyone if you
let it." 

 "I won't let it, Grandma." 

 "Well, keep in mind, should it happen to you while you're still underage,
you can be assured your lungs won't be the only thing burning!" She seemed
so determined to dissuade me from smoking that I think if she'd still had
my hairbrush in her hand, I would've received a darn good sample. "So be
on guard, honey," she added, a bit softer. 

 "Yes, ma'am," I blushed and then went about putting my jeans away
properly before seeing my grandmother to the kitchen for some milk and
cookies. 

End Am I A Coward? by Mary: mkelch@rochester.rr.com

Author and story notes above.