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There were only three more weeks left of class before summer vacation. Wilford wasn’t the only one who would have rather been somewhere else. The entire class was too busy looking out the windows and thinking of all the places they could go, and the games they could be playing. There was a baseball field about halfway between the school and home, and that’s where Wilford wanted to be. His mom was afraid that hockey would make him too angry, and that football would break him in half, so he’d been in Little League for a few years and was finally starting to get good.
They didn’t practise at the field by his house though. That field was old and in between too many buildings. The buildings were old too, which meant that people didn’t come out to chase him right away whenever he knocked a new window out. He usually had a good head start to run and hide before anyone came out after him.
“Wil, eyes up front,” Mr Holland said, coming back to close the blinds next to Wilford’s desk again.
Wilford sighed and rested his chin in his hands as he pretended to listen to the boring old man talk about some book nobody cared about. The author had been dead for a hundred years. What did it matter? It was just a stupid story about some stupid girl.
Less than five minutes later, Wilford had completely drowned the man out and had the blinds open again. He could see Mr Holland’s car in the parking lot. Wilford had seen him getting into the car a few times, and knew it was his. Maybe after school, if he was fast and sneaky, he could stick something into one of the tire valves and let all the air out. That would be funny.
“Wilford,” Mr Holland said sternly, prompting a ripple of giggles from his classmates. “What’s so interesting outside?”
“Don’t call me that,” Wilford said. He hated that name. It was a grandpa’s name. Every time a teacher used it, other kids laughed and made jokes.
“Then pay attention,” Mr Holland warned.
“I don’t want to,” Wilford said, opening the blinds further.
Mr Holland stomped back over to the window and shut the blinds, but as soon as he turned away, Wilford just reached to open them again. He wondered if he could make the teacher scream at him. That was always kind of funny too. Instead, Mr Holland closed the blinds, this time remaining between Wilford and the window.
“Up front,” he said, pointing to a desk at the front of the classroom, next to his own.
“No,” Wilford said defiantly.
“Now, Wilford,” Mr Holland commanded.
“Yeah, granddad. Get up there!” someone taunted.
“Don’t forget your teeth!”
Wilford didn’t move. He stayed right where he was in his seat, glaring up at the teacher, as the teacher glared down at him.
“Now,” Mr Holland repeated. He didn’t wait for Wilford to respond this time. He picked up Wilford’s book and papers from his desk, and dropped them down on top of the desk at the front of the class.
“If I have to say it again, I’m calling the principal.”
Wilford growled under his breath, finally getting up to move while the rest of the class laughed at him. He slumped down into the chair that faced the rest of the class, glaring daggers at anyone who made eye contact. As soon as the teacher seemed convinced that Wilford would sit quietly, he resumed his lesson about some crusty old dead guy, unaware that he was being flipped off behind his back. When some of the other students laughed, he hazarded a glance back toward Wilford, but it was too late. Wilford had resumed his silent death stare.
He stayed quiet for the rest of the day, ignoring everything Mr Holland said. They switched lessons, from English to history, but Wilford didn’t bother switching workbooks. He was too busy working on something on his lap, where nobody else could see because there was a desk in their way, and Mr Holland was too busy addressing the rest of the class. Wilford had a little bottle of hand sanitiser, and was tearing little bits of paper out of his workbook and getting them wet with the goopy gel. Then, he’d slip it into one of the drawers in Mr Holland’s desk. The one where he was pretty sure files and grades were kept. Every couple of minutes, another little slip of paper got stuck into the drawer.
Once he thought he had enough paper in there came the hard part, because it would make noise. He waited patiently until someone started making enough noise to cover it. It was just a matter of time before the other kids started getting bored again, and distracted, and cracking jokes. All he needed was for things to get loud enough to cover the sound of his lighter. Eventually, someone else got told to pay attention, jokes were made, and chaos descended. School let out in about ten minutes, and everyone knew it, making it more and more difficult for Mr Holland to bring everything back down to silence. Wilford quickly lit one more scrap of paper on fire and stuffed it into the desk drawer, and then quickly grabbed his bag and suck out the door. He barely made it out to the hall before Mr Holland noticed and shouted at him to come back. Wilford did not come back. He broke into a full sprint down the hall, making a break for freedom. There was a knife in his bag that he’d stolen from his brother, and as he ran he tried to dig into his bag to find it. It was one of those fancy silver knives where the handle split into two pieces and the blade swung out from between them. Trying to open it and run at the same time made Wilford slip and cut open his hand, but he didn’t stop, even as other teachers stepped out of their classrooms to see what was going on. By the time anybody seemed to catch up with the situation, Wilford managed to burst through one of the side doors out of the building and into the parking lot. He was on the wrong side of the building, but he could run fast, and that’s what he did, heading straight to Mr Holland’s car. He stopped just long enough to shove the knife into one of his tires, but then he couldn’t pull it out again, so he left it behind. It wasn’t like it was his anyway.
As soon as he reached the sidewalk, he heard the fire alarms going off. It was all the more reason to keep running and not look back.
He’d expected to be chased, so when he realised nobody was following after him, Wilford eased his pace and looked down at his hand. He’d cut the side open pretty good, and blood had smeared all down his arm and onto his shirt. He didn’t care. It was worth it, even though it hurt, because Mr Holland wouldn’t tell him what to do anymore. Nobody chased him, so he’d got away with it.
Or that’s what he thought, until he got home and saw two police cars parked outside his house. He tried to turn to run, but this time somebody spotted him and chased after him. It didn’t take long for one of the cops to catch him and drag him back to the house, kicking and screaming and biting all the way.
He was supposed to have won. It wasn’t fair. They didn’t chase him, so he won. He thought that at least his parents would tell the cops to go away and bother someone else. They’d done that before, when Wilford had been caught breaking out windows from old buildings or something, but this time was different. Dad didn’t look angry like he normally did. He looked like he was expecting this, and when the cops wanted to put Wilford in handcuffs and put him in their car, Dad just shook hs head and walked back inside.
It wasn’t fair.
They didn’t practise at the field by his house though. That field was old and in between too many buildings. The buildings were old too, which meant that people didn’t come out to chase him right away whenever he knocked a new window out. He usually had a good head start to run and hide before anyone came out after him.
“Wil, eyes up front,” Mr Holland said, coming back to close the blinds next to Wilford’s desk again.
Wilford sighed and rested his chin in his hands as he pretended to listen to the boring old man talk about some book nobody cared about. The author had been dead for a hundred years. What did it matter? It was just a stupid story about some stupid girl.
Less than five minutes later, Wilford had completely drowned the man out and had the blinds open again. He could see Mr Holland’s car in the parking lot. Wilford had seen him getting into the car a few times, and knew it was his. Maybe after school, if he was fast and sneaky, he could stick something into one of the tire valves and let all the air out. That would be funny.
“Wilford,” Mr Holland said sternly, prompting a ripple of giggles from his classmates. “What’s so interesting outside?”
“Don’t call me that,” Wilford said. He hated that name. It was a grandpa’s name. Every time a teacher used it, other kids laughed and made jokes.
“Then pay attention,” Mr Holland warned.
“I don’t want to,” Wilford said, opening the blinds further.
Mr Holland stomped back over to the window and shut the blinds, but as soon as he turned away, Wilford just reached to open them again. He wondered if he could make the teacher scream at him. That was always kind of funny too. Instead, Mr Holland closed the blinds, this time remaining between Wilford and the window.
“Up front,” he said, pointing to a desk at the front of the classroom, next to his own.
“No,” Wilford said defiantly.
“Now, Wilford,” Mr Holland commanded.
“Yeah, granddad. Get up there!” someone taunted.
“Don’t forget your teeth!”
Wilford didn’t move. He stayed right where he was in his seat, glaring up at the teacher, as the teacher glared down at him.
“Now,” Mr Holland repeated. He didn’t wait for Wilford to respond this time. He picked up Wilford’s book and papers from his desk, and dropped them down on top of the desk at the front of the class.
“If I have to say it again, I’m calling the principal.”
Wilford growled under his breath, finally getting up to move while the rest of the class laughed at him. He slumped down into the chair that faced the rest of the class, glaring daggers at anyone who made eye contact. As soon as the teacher seemed convinced that Wilford would sit quietly, he resumed his lesson about some crusty old dead guy, unaware that he was being flipped off behind his back. When some of the other students laughed, he hazarded a glance back toward Wilford, but it was too late. Wilford had resumed his silent death stare.
He stayed quiet for the rest of the day, ignoring everything Mr Holland said. They switched lessons, from English to history, but Wilford didn’t bother switching workbooks. He was too busy working on something on his lap, where nobody else could see because there was a desk in their way, and Mr Holland was too busy addressing the rest of the class. Wilford had a little bottle of hand sanitiser, and was tearing little bits of paper out of his workbook and getting them wet with the goopy gel. Then, he’d slip it into one of the drawers in Mr Holland’s desk. The one where he was pretty sure files and grades were kept. Every couple of minutes, another little slip of paper got stuck into the drawer.
Once he thought he had enough paper in there came the hard part, because it would make noise. He waited patiently until someone started making enough noise to cover it. It was just a matter of time before the other kids started getting bored again, and distracted, and cracking jokes. All he needed was for things to get loud enough to cover the sound of his lighter. Eventually, someone else got told to pay attention, jokes were made, and chaos descended. School let out in about ten minutes, and everyone knew it, making it more and more difficult for Mr Holland to bring everything back down to silence. Wilford quickly lit one more scrap of paper on fire and stuffed it into the desk drawer, and then quickly grabbed his bag and suck out the door. He barely made it out to the hall before Mr Holland noticed and shouted at him to come back. Wilford did not come back. He broke into a full sprint down the hall, making a break for freedom. There was a knife in his bag that he’d stolen from his brother, and as he ran he tried to dig into his bag to find it. It was one of those fancy silver knives where the handle split into two pieces and the blade swung out from between them. Trying to open it and run at the same time made Wilford slip and cut open his hand, but he didn’t stop, even as other teachers stepped out of their classrooms to see what was going on. By the time anybody seemed to catch up with the situation, Wilford managed to burst through one of the side doors out of the building and into the parking lot. He was on the wrong side of the building, but he could run fast, and that’s what he did, heading straight to Mr Holland’s car. He stopped just long enough to shove the knife into one of his tires, but then he couldn’t pull it out again, so he left it behind. It wasn’t like it was his anyway.
As soon as he reached the sidewalk, he heard the fire alarms going off. It was all the more reason to keep running and not look back.
He’d expected to be chased, so when he realised nobody was following after him, Wilford eased his pace and looked down at his hand. He’d cut the side open pretty good, and blood had smeared all down his arm and onto his shirt. He didn’t care. It was worth it, even though it hurt, because Mr Holland wouldn’t tell him what to do anymore. Nobody chased him, so he’d got away with it.
Or that’s what he thought, until he got home and saw two police cars parked outside his house. He tried to turn to run, but this time somebody spotted him and chased after him. It didn’t take long for one of the cops to catch him and drag him back to the house, kicking and screaming and biting all the way.
He was supposed to have won. It wasn’t fair. They didn’t chase him, so he won. He thought that at least his parents would tell the cops to go away and bother someone else. They’d done that before, when Wilford had been caught breaking out windows from old buildings or something, but this time was different. Dad didn’t look angry like he normally did. He looked like he was expecting this, and when the cops wanted to put Wilford in handcuffs and put him in their car, Dad just shook hs head and walked back inside.
It wasn’t fair.
