by Josh Allen
“This again?” Hannah said. “Owen, you’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.” Owen shook his head. “But you can go on ahead. Go take your History quiz.”
Owen touched the sign’s cool metal pole.
“Whatever,” Hannah said. “Oh, and by the way, girls always win.” She stepped off the curb and crossed the street. When she was far enough away, Owen spoke.
“I see you,” he said to the boy and the girl. “I know you’re in there.”
He waited. The sign did nothing.
“Move,” he said, but the sign was just a sign. “Come on, move.”
Nothing happened.
“What are you?” The late bell rang.
Owen sighed and picked up his backpack. He took two steps, turned, and peered at the sign one last time.
He choked on his breath.
They’d moved—the boy and the girl. Right as he’d been standing there.
The girl was hunched in a low corner now, squatting. The boy stood behind her, and their arms seemed to be reaching out…to him.
“You want something,” Owen said, moving back to the sign. “Is that it? You’re trapped in there, and there’s something you need?”
Owen raised up on his toes. He stretched one arm. The sign was just within his reach…but before he touched one of the girl’s outstretched arms, he thought that maybe he shouldn’t.
For a week, the sign had been beckoning him. It had started when it had shown him a boy in front. Even now he felt the sign coaxing him nearer and nearer. Why?
But he couldn’t stop himself. He had to touch the sign. It was all so strange. So impossible. He just had to. So pushing past his fear, he reached up and pressed a finger to the girl’s tiny, reaching hand.
At once, the world spun and twisted. His ears filled with a windy, whooshing sound. Colors blurred. And for a moment, Owen struggled to breathe. Everything tottered from side to side.
Then his world turned to yellow and black.
* * *
After school, Hannah passed the sign on her way home. She’d waited for Owen by the flagpole like always, but he hadn’t shown up. Maybe he’d ditched her, still upset about losing that morning.
She didn’t even glance at the sign as she strolled by it, even though Owen had been completely obsessed with it lately. Why should she? It was just a dumb sign.
But if she had looked, here is what she would have seen:
Three children pacing through a crosswalk.
A girl…and two boys.
One of the boys was shinier than the other two children, newer, as if he had been painted on just that morning.
And it was this boy, glossy and new, who was out in front of the other two children.
Finally coming in first.
SOMETHING would have to be done about Mrs. Huber, Cindy thought. Something drastic. The school year was four months old now, and while Mrs. Huber didn’t assign too much homework or force students to do group projects, Cindy found her methods to be…problematic.
It was Mrs. Huber’s voice—the way she yelled so much—that bothered Cindy.
What to do, what to do? she thought.
She ran a finger along the shelf of old books that her grandmother had left her. She had a few ideas, but nothing definite. Nothing that had really taken shape.
One thing was certain though.
It was time for someone to stop Mrs. Huber. Someone with power.
* * *
“Silence!” Mrs. Huber screamed.
Her voice came out high-pitched and shrill, a bit like a cackling witch—exactly the way she’d intended.
Her twenty-seven students fell instantly quiet. They even stopped moving, widening their eyes and freezing at their desks with their pencils poised above their worksheets. Only the clock on the wall made a sound, and Mrs. Huber paused while it went tick, tick, tick.
“There will be no more talking today!” she continued, and the students stayed statue-still.
A warmth swelled inside Mrs. Huber, and she let it build and fill her up.
Perfect, she thought. This is perfect.
It hadn’t been easy, developing the perfect teacher voice. It had taken years—more than her gray head cared to remember—to get it just right. But now, after teaching sixth grade for what seemed like forever, she’d mastered it.
The Voice.
It was the only thing that made it possible for her to endure middle-schoolers at all.
The Voice could make students do anything.
It could bring a running hallway delinquent to a sneaker-skidding halt. It could send goo-goo-eyed hand holders on the softball field scampering in different directions. It could even silence an entire auditorium of gossiping students. And now, in her own class, when she’d wanted silence, it had brought all twenty-seven of her students to a graveyard-quiet stop.
Perfect.
“You will spend the last seven minutes of class reading in absolute silence!” Mrs. Huber said, softening The Voice just a little, but not too much. “You will not daydream! You will not whisper to your neighbor! And you will not doodle in your margins! Is that clear?”
Twenty-seven sixth graders nodded in unison.
“Good,” she said, bringing The Voice down to a low, raspy hiss. “Because if you do, I’ll burn your ears with my words.” She spoke this threat often, and when she did, she let her words hang in the air like a thick fog.
Her students opened their books gently, the way people opened magazines in quiet waiting rooms. Mrs. Huber smiled. Then she sat at her own desk and opened her book—The Fall of the Roman Empire. She pretended to read, but really she focused on the satisfied warmth swelling inside her. It felt so good to have control! She remembered her first few teaching years, before she’d mastered The Voice. They’d been so chaotic, so disordered. Students had shouted. They’d passed notes. They’d doodled.
But there’s none of that now, she thought as she crossed her legs, leaned back in her chair, and sighed.
Just then, out of the corner of her eye, she sensed something that wasn’t…right.
Someone in her class was acting differently. At the edge of her sight, someone’s head was straight up and stiff-necked, not hunched over a book at all. Mrs. Huber turned.
It was Cindy Watson, a small girl with mousy brown hair.
Mrs. Huber opened her mouth, but no words came out. She didn’t understand. Cindy Watson had never caused any trouble before. She turned her homework in on time. She sat with good posture at her desk. She did her worksheets in perfect silence. But as Mrs. Huber narrowed her eyes, there was no doubt about it.
Cindy Watson was not reading.
Somehow she was defying The Voice.
There was a book on her desk. It had a dark blue cover and a title Mrs. Huber couldn’t make out, but it wasn’t even open. Cindy was looking straight ahead with a blank expression, as if she were daydreaming out a window—only there were no windows in Mrs. Huber’s classroom, just solid, blank walls.
Mrs. Huber closed her own book and flung it onto her desk. How, Mrs. Huber thought, could this be happening? She stood up and glared at Cindy. The girl seemed not to notice.
I can fix this, thought Mrs. Huber. I can fix this now. She cleared her throat. She opened her mouth, filling her lungs with air, and prepared to use The Voice at one hundred percent strength.
Just then, the bell rang, and before Mrs. Huber could speak, Cindy shuffled out of the room to lunch along with the other students.
Mrs. Huber exhaled, and air wheezed out of her as if she were a deflating balloon.
She walked to Cindy’s desk. Her book was still on it, unopened and placed carefully at the desk’s center. It was a classic. The Witch of Blackbird Pond.
Witch. It was a word Mrs. Huber knew all too well. It was the same word her
students whispered when her back was turned. Usually, she didn’t mind this a bit. In fact, she kind of liked being called a witch. The more witchy her students thought she was, the more afraid of her they would be.
But this book—The Witch of Blackbird Pond—centered on Cindy’s desk right after she’d resisted The Voice, was too much. It was too bold—as if Cindy was calling Mrs. Huber a witch, not in a whispered voice behind her back, but right to her face.
How rude! How disrespectful!
Mrs. Huber swiped at Cindy’s book and sent it to the floor with a smack.
How could Cindy, mousy little Cindy, have done this?
* * *
Minutes later, Mrs. Huber pushed her way to the cafeteria.
“Move,” she yelled, using The Voice at full strength. A crowd of children pressed themselves against the hallway walls to let her pass.
Mrs. Huber hadn’t set foot in the cafeteria for longer than she could remember. Why, after all, would she want to watch her students eat? They had the manners of cave dwellers. Besides, the lunch hour was her time—her time to sit and think and be away from them and their loud voices and loud hairstyles and loud clothes.
But today Mrs. Huber stomped into a corner of the cafeteria, stood straight-backed by the wall, and scanned the tables. She needed to find Cindy Watson. Not to talk to her. To study her.
Know your enemy, she reminded herself. This was a bit of wisdom she’d picked up early in her teaching career. Now seemed the right time to remember it.
Since Mrs. Huber had perfected The Voice, not one student—not one—had disobeyed her.
Until Cindy.
How?
There had to be an explanation.
“Your ears will burn for this, Cindy Watson,” she muttered to herself. “They will sizzle, and they will burn.”
She scanned the cafeteria. She ignored the lunchroom smells—overprocessed meats mixed with too many growing bodies. She lowered her glasses and peered over them.
Suddenly a voice interrupted her.
“I’m glad to see you here, Barbara.” It was Principal Garcia. Mrs. Huber let out a little puff of air. She hated being called Barbara, especially around students. She was Mrs. Huber. “It’s good for the students to see us outside of class,” the principal went on. “It lets them know we’re human.”
He smiled.
Mrs. Huber didn’t.
The week before, Principal Garcia had called her into his office to talk about her tendency to speak a bit forcefully.
Mrs. Huber let out another little puff. This was Principal Garcia’s first year as a middle-school principal, and he had all kinds of “fresh” ideas about teaching. Eventually, she figured, he’d learn what really worked on children. But for now he was hopelessly bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
“I’m not changing my methods,” she’d told him that day. “I’m controlling my class—perfectly, in fact—and instead of calling me in here to ask me to change, you should be thanking me, young man.” She’d stood up when she’d told him this. “When you’re ready to show me appreciation for that, I’ll be in my classroom.”
She’d stormed out of his office, and she hadn’t spoken to him since. Now, in the cafeteria, Principal Garcia smiled at her like everything was fine. He put one hand in his pocket as if he were searching for something there, but just then, some student across the cafeteria called out, “Yo, Garcia-man!” and Principal Garcia smiled brightly, waved at the student, and walked toward him to give him a high five.
Mrs. Huber shook her head. She’d never thought she would see a principal high-fiving students or letting them speak so savagely. Yo, Garcia-man? It was repulsive.
Mrs. Huber sighed and went back to her search for Cindy.
Where are you? she thought. She scanned the near side of the cafeteria.
Just then, someone by the soda machines dropped a lunch tray. It clattered to the tile floor. Mrs. Huber turned, along with everyone else, to see who’d done it.
It wasn’t Cindy Watson, sadly.
It would have served her right, Mrs. Huber thought.
But it was André Parker, the shortest boy in her class. He was standing over his lunch, a mess of french fries and a facedown slice of pizza, his cheeks the color of raspberries.
One boy called out, “Smooth move, André!” and a few other kids clapped.
Mrs. Huber shook her head.
They were such a mess, these kids. No manners at all. No dignity.
Then Mrs. Huber found Cindy Watson. She was walking across the cafeteria, holding her lunch tray. Mrs. Huber pushed her glasses up. It was time to concentrate. How had Cindy resisted The Voice? What was so special about her?
Cindy walked toward André, who was on his knees gathering his mess. When Cindy reached him, she touched his shoulder. Then she crouched down and helped him clean up the last of his scattered french fries.
Mrs. Huber’s legs went slightly weak.
She didn’t understand it. This girl was the one who could defy The Voice?
André and Cindy stood. Cindy lifted her plate of french fries and pizza off her tray and held it out to André.
André shook his head shyly, but Cindy smiled, said something, and put the plate on André’s tray. Then she turned and walked away.
Mrs. Huber couldn’t understand it.
How? she thought.
Cindy Watson was the first disobedient student she had taught in years—in years! Of all the students who wanted to defy her, how could it be gentle Cindy Watson who had succeeded?
Mrs. Huber’s hands started shaking.
This wasn’t a rebellious girl. She didn’t wear black clothes or have strange piercings. She didn’t dye her hair blue or break the school dress code. She was the only student who had helped André Parker. The only one.
And yet somehow she had resisted The Voice. And if mousy little Cindy could resist…
Mrs. Huber didn’t finish her thought.
She stormed toward the cafeteria doors. Principal Garcia was standing nearby, laughing with a group of students.
“Come again, Barbara,” he said as she passed, and he slipped a hand into his pocket and seemed to want to say more.
She ignored him and burst into the faculty lounge, where she tore her lunch from the fridge.
Cindy Watson must be punished! she thought.
Cindy had been disobedient. It didn’t matter whether or not she looked like a rebel. She had been told to read quietly—in the clearest of terms—and she hadn’t. It was that simple. What she had just done for André Parker didn’t excuse that.
Mrs. Huber pulled a stalk of celery from her lunch bag.
If she let this girl defy her, there would be others. There would be chaos: passed notes and blurted comments and chronic lateness.
Yes, Mrs. Huber thought. Cindy Watson must be stopped.
She snapped the stick of celery in half.
After lunch, she’d have to confront Cindy. In front of everyone. She would have to use The Voice at its fullest strength. Mrs. Huber crunched her celery.
Even if Cindy resisted at first, like she had before, she’d give in to The Voice eventually. Everyone did. It was like magic.
Besides, reducing Cindy to rubble—making her weaken and wobble in front of all the others—would be a good reminder to everyone that no one was safe in her class. No one. Not even the “nice” kids.
She finished her lunch and clopped down the hallway. She almost smiled, thinking of the lesson that was soon to come for Cindy and for everyone else.
Do not challenge Mrs. Huber.
When her students trickled into her classroom, she’d burn that lesson into their ears. Forever.
* * *
She pushed through her classroom door and checked the clock. There were three minutes before the bell would ring and the s
tudents would start filtering in. The Witch of Blackbird Pond lay on the floor by Cindy’s desk. Mrs. Huber bent to pick it up, but stopped short—
Cindy could pick up her book herself.
Mrs. Huber sat at her desk and waited. She breathed slowly in and out. She cleared her throat.
And that was when she saw the note. It was on a small white card and had been placed on her desk just next to her stapler. The note said:
Mrs. Huber,
For all you’ve done, you deserve this.
There was no signature, but next to the note there was a small black box. It was the kind that usually held jewelry.
Mrs. Huber picked it up.
Finally, she thought. Someone appreciates me.
She remembered Principal Garcia in the cafeteria—his friendly words and the way he’d seemed to want to say more. He’d even reached into his pants pocket, like he’d been about to pull something out, hadn’t he? Something maybe the size of a jewelry box?
The man has finally come to his senses, she thought. He’s apologizing. He must have brought his apology gift here while she’d been in the faculty lounge eating. Too bad he didn’t have the guts to apologize in person, the weasel.
She fingered the note. She opened the box.
Earrings glittered beneath the classroom lights, gold ones with tiny hoops. Her mouth opened slightly. They were fancier than the simple jewelry Mrs. Huber usually wore, and she plucked them out of the box.
Why shouldn’t she enjoy a reward for all her hard work over the years? She removed the silver studs in her ears and put the new earrings on. They swung slightly from her earlobes.
Principal Garcia is still doing everything wrong, she thought. But maybe there is hope for him. When she saw him next, she’d nod and point to the earrings, and then she’d go on using The Voice as she always had.
The bell rang, and the students began to trickle in. After a minute, Cindy walked in and sat straight-postured at her desk.