The foot gave an inch and his head rose above the confining sand.
He screamed.
The thing retreated back down into the sand as the classroom exploded into anarchy. The teacher, roused from her imaginary binge was wading through the bodies of children and pulling the larger boy off his back. He was already aware that he was crying, but there was no way to stop it. Tears spread the grit all down the side of his face and his hand, still clutching the blocks wiped furiously at the sides of his face despite the teacher’s attempts to stop him. For the most part the other children just milled about, half curious, half disturbed.
There was a moment of clarity, a moment of realization that the horror was over, but his mind would not seem to fully grasp it and he continued to scream, tears flowing faster and faster down the side of his face. His body throbbed with rage and embarrassment.
The solemn brick structure, it’s beauty forgotten by the world toppled over as the teacher led the boy out of the room and closed the door.
The world rushed by the car window and all was silent within. He was vaguely aware that he had done something wrong. The teacher had taken him down to the principal’s office, which was where they sent kids who had done something wrong. He had sat there for what seemed like an eternity before his mother had come to collect him. In all that time he had been crying, a torrent at first and then wallowing sniffles for the remainder.
His mother was silent beside him. Even at his young age he was beginning to grasp the fact that grown-ups could not handle everything. Between Saturday evening movies there were flashes of anarchy in places he was just beginning to learn about and there were stories told when he was dragged along to neighbour’s houses for afternoon coffee about thefts and beatings and other such things. He was just beginning to understand, but that understanding grated on his sensibilities. It made him feel edgy and vulnerable, even sitting in the car next to his mother.
She broke her silence.
“Do you know why that boy was picking on you?”
He merely shrugged.
She was silent a moment longer, the kind of silence he would come to recognize as helpless silence.
“Your teacher says you’re having trouble making friends. Have you talked to any of the other kids?”
He shrugged again. The truth was he didn’t like the other kids. They ran around and toppled over his blocks (the few times he got to play with them) and they screamed too loud when he was trying to read one of the thin storybooks hidden on the back shelves.
“And you don’t know why he was picking on you?”
He shrugged, but this time answered. “I just wanted to help. The tower was falling over. I don’t know why…”
It was hard to talk out loud.
“Is this the same boy who hit you last week?”
“No. I don’t know why he hit me. I just wanted to answer the question, so I stood up.”
She frowned as she turned the steering wheel.
“You wanted to show off?”
“If you know the answer you’re supposed to answer. I—”
“Do you answer a lot?”
He frowned. He didn’t like these kinds of questions. And he didn’t like being interrupted.
“I try to. The teacher doesn’t always pick me though.”
“Maybe you should let the other kids answer.”
“But if you know the answer you—”
“Some people don’t know the answer all the time,” his mother said, struggling for terms a six year old would understand. “And sometimes they get mad at people who do. I bet if you just answer one question a day the other kids might like you a little more.”
The boy’s hand rolled up into a fist and for an instant he could feel the thing that was with him down in the grime of the floor, skulking at the edge of his vision. His face welled up, red.
A string of nonsensical muttering let out.
“And stop muttering,” she exhaled.
There was a long silence as the awkwardness of her command ate up the air in the car.
“I got you something,” she said, reaching into the backseat and clutching at anything that would move them forward, past all the tears. Her hand re-emerged holding a hard, glossy rectangle.
The thing from the classroom receded and the boy’s eyes lit up, most of the trouble had dimmed. He eagerly grasped at the hard block of shiny paper.
“It’s about plants, and how people use them to make things like medicines and other things,” she explained as he rifled carefully through the pages, trying to take in all of the sharply coloured pictures he could before tracing over some of the hard to read words, sounding them expertly.
"I don't like medicine."
"Well, it's something that people need. And food. Everyone needs food."
"Like cheese and crackers."
“I guess. It’s a little ahead of where you are in school, but… I tell you what; you read that book, but don’t tell anyone about what’s in it. We’ll make it our little secret. Don’t even tell your teacher.”
The boy nodded furiously, starting in the middle of the book and running his fingertips over the lustrous sheets.
He would read it all and he wouldn’t tell anyone.
Part One
Jonah McAllister Goes to School
Days were bright misery.
The sun shone
