by Tom Birdseye
It felt good to take out his anger on something. Patrick raised his foot, set on breaking every one of the tape cases. It would serve Paulette right for not being home when he needed her. She deserved to lose her music. She deserved to never dance again.
Patrick stopped. It had been such a long time since Paulette had danced across the living room floor, arms outstretched, head thrown back like a ballerina. It seemed like forever, since before Dad had left. But now the thought of her doing it was with him, and it wouldn’t leave. The image was so real in his mind he could almost see her, smiling and dancing as clearly as if she were actually there.
A heavy blanket of guilt fell on Patrick, pushing him to his knees. He picked up all the cassettes. He switched Paulette’s cracked case with one of his own. (He didn’t listen to the tape in it anymore anyway.) He neatly arranged the tapes back on the shelf, making sure each and every one was lined up in a perfect row. Then he decided to straighten up the rest of the shelves, too. That would be a nice thing for Paulette to come home to. It was the least he could do.
It was on the bottom shelf that Patrick found the tape Mrs. Romero had brought to him when Paulette was sick. It was the one he had listened to so many times when he was working on the mural—the story of the knight who defeated the evil dragon. Turning it over in his hand, he could imagine the narrator’s voice telling the tale. Even though he hadn’t listened to it for a while, he could hear each and every word as if it were being spoken now.
Patrick burst into a sudden grin. In seconds he was out the back door, flashlight in hand, searching through the oleander bushes.
It took him only seconds to find the tape of “The White Knight.” It was still lodged in the bushes by that particularly large white blossom. He grabbed it and ran back toward the house, leaping up the steps in excitement.
Sure! He’d just listen to it over and over, like he had Mrs. Romero’s tape. He’d memorize his own story—every single word of it. Then he could act as if he were reading it at the assembly tomorrow. He hit himself playfully on the forehead with his hand. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? He’d been so caught up in trying to read each word, each little sound …
Patrick darted into the living room, straight to the tape player. He inserted “The White Knight” tape, punched the green button, adjusted the volume, and then sat down on the couch. His own voice came loud and clear from the tape player speakers.
“The White Knight lay near death, alone in the Dark Forest of Tuskdor …”
Chapter 24
The Dark Forest of Tuskdor
Wednesday morning the students of Dewey Elementary School filed down the hall toward the gym—all classes, every single kid. It was time to go to the awards assembly for the writing contest.
Patrick walked with his class, eyes straight ahead, not talking. He didn’t want to take his mind off his story. He knew it by heart. Forward. Backward. He could probably say it upside down if he had to. He could stand up in front of all of those kids and teachers and that editor, Mr. What’s-His-Name, and tell his story, no problem. He could look down at his paper and act as though he were reading. He could do it just as he had in front of the mirror last night—over and over again. No one would know he wasn’t really reading. He could do it, and show Andy and Celina and Mrs. Nagle. He’d be the White Knight riding victorious, just like in his story. They’d see!
But then Celina suddenly dropped back in line and was beside him. She started talking fast.
“I know you’re going to tell me to get away, but before you do I just want you to know that I’ve been thinking a lot about everything, and I’m really sorry. You were right. I shouldn’t have entered your story in the contest without your knowing. Being angry at Andy, wanting to get back at him, is no excuse. You were right. I was wrong. I’m sorry. Really.”
Patrick kept walking down the hall, eyes straight ahead, concentrating on his story.
Celina stayed right beside him. “But I’m not sorry I love your story. I’m not sorry I thought it would win. Because it did. You’re not stupid like Andy said, or Mrs. Nagle thinks, or you said yourself that day. ‘Just call me stupid,’ you said. Well, no way! You’re not stupid. You’re smart. You can draw and play chess and write great stories. You’re so good you could be a professional writer someday. You’re brave and truthful and everything a knight should be. You’re the White Knight, Patrick. I believe in you. I’m sorry I wasn’t a good friend before, but I’ll be one now. No matter what happens, I won’t stop.”
Patrick continued walking down the hall, expression unchanged. But Celina’s words reached deep inside him, and he could feel his anger at her softening. A part of him began wanting to thank her for apologizing, tell her how afraid he was, ask her to stand up there beside him on the stage and read his story for him.
The rest of Patrick was still hurt and angry, though, and determined to show everyone—especially Celina—that he could do it alone, that he didn’t need help, that he could read. That other part wanted to lash out, call her names again, even really hit her this time. That other part of Patrick was a balled fist, ready to take a swing.
Patrick walked and stared, torn, not knowing what to do or say, when just as suddenly as Celina had appeared, Principal Gordon and the newspaper editor were by his side, too.
“Patrick, this is Mr. Miller from the Daily Sun,” Mr. Gordon said, sweeping Patrick out of line and over to a tall man with a red tie. “He’ll be presenting the award.”
Before Patrick could begin to look up into Mr. Miller’s face, Mr. Miller was extending a big hand. Words came with the handshake. “Great story, Patrick … love it … real talent … writer someday …”
Patrick gave a shy nod, and forced a quiet thanks toward his lips. But it didn’t have time to get there. Mr. Gordon and Mr. Miller quickly ushered him away from Celina and into the gym, through the noisy crowd of kids getting seated, up the squeaky wooden stage stairs to a chair of honor. And before Patrick could do more than gawk at how big the gym seemed today and how full of faces it looked from way up there, Mr. Gordon was at the podium, talking into a microphone, his voice filling the room, echoing. Then Mr. Miller got up and talked into the microphone, too, his voice echoing, filling the room.
Patrick heard his name being called, and Mr. Gordon was prodding him out of his chair and up to Mr. Miller. A piece of paper and another handshake, there in front of everyone. Applause. Loud noise. Echoes. Big room. Big crowd. Big podium. Big microphone.
“Patrick Lowe,” Mr. Miller said, “our first-place winner.”
Suddenly everything was very quiet as Patrick found himself opening the cover of his story. He looked down at the first page—so carefully lettered by Celina—but didn’t focus. Just as he had practiced, Patrick looked … but didn’t focus. That was the key: Pretend to look at the words. Pretend to read.
Patrick glanced up from his book to the gym full of faces. He could act as though he were seeing them, too, instead of only the back wall. He forced a smile onto his face, then returned his unfocused gaze to his story. He was the White Knight. He could do it. He gathered in a breath and began.
“The White Kn—KNIGHT.” His voice caught in his throat, then came out louder than he intended. It echoed as it filled the gym. Patrick stopped for a moment, startled by the large sound of himself through the microphone and speakers, but then quickly began again. He had to keep going. Pretend to look at the words. Pretend to read. Pretend to look up occasionally at the gym full of faces. Don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop. Keep the fear away. Keep the weight and the walls back, the closet door open. Don’t stop.
“The White Knight lay near death, alone in the Dark Forest of Tuskdor. He was the bravest knight to ever live, and had never broken the code of chivalry.”
The words came out of Patrick’s mouth, into the microphone, through the speakers and out into the gym—echoing, filling the room: “… bravest knight … never broken the code of chivalry … bravest … never broken �
�� valiant … code of chivalry … chivalry … chivalry …”
The echo stopped. Patrick stopped, too. Even though he knew he must not, he did. It wasn’t the echo or the gym full of people that stopped him. It wasn’t the sight of the words on paper either. He had only pretended to read. No. It was the meaning of the words Patrick had spoken that stopped him cold on the stage. His words. They sounded false. How could he tell his story—pretending to be the lone White Knight, pretending to be honorable—at the same time he was lying through his teeth? What he was saying, and what he was doing, were two completely different things.
Patrick looked out over the microphone at the faces in the audience, not the back wall. They knew he was a liar. They had to. He looked back at his story. But maybe he could stop the lie. Maybe if he concentrated, really focused on the words and concentrated, he could actually read ….
The walls rushed in on Patrick as soon as he focused on the first page of his story. A suffocating weight pressed in, too. He couldn’t breathe. His body and mind went numb. His ears began to ring. He quickly looked away, back to the audience.
People were starting to turn to each other, exchanging looks, then turning back to him. Someone giggled. Behind him Patrick heard Mr. Gordon whisper something to Mr. Miller. Each and every one of them knew.
Patrick panicked, seized by the overwhelming need to get away. He had to get away. Everything went blurry—words, faces, the deafening roar of everyone staring.
Voices began to echo in Patrick’s head—first his father’s, then Andy Wilkinson’s. “Stupid!” He could imagine all the audience quickly joining in. “Stupid! Liar! STUPID LIAR!”
Patrick wanted to scream, “NO!” But he couldn’t get a breath. He had to get away. He had to run!
Forcing his eyes to focus again, Patrick frantically searched the gym for the nearest exit. The room was beginning to tilt and swirl, still closing in from all sides. Everything was going dark. He was sure he would die if he didn’t get away! Across the sea of faces his vision sped, searching for a way out.
Then Celina stood up. She stood up in the middle of the seated audience, and she smiled.
A light in the rapidly approaching darkness. Patrick latched onto Celina’s eyes and her smile with all of his might. It took every single ounce of his concentration, but he latched on. And when he did, he could hear her words in his head as clearly as if she were saying them through the microphone and the speakers on the wall. You’re brave and truthful and everything a knight should be. You’re the White Knight, Patrick. I believe in you … I believe in you … I believe in you.…
Echoing, echoing. Her words echoing in his head. Celina nodded her encouragement, her smile growing warmer.
I believe in you.
Another face came into focus. Mrs. Romero’s. She was smiling her encouragement, too.
I believe in you.
Then Patrick saw a movement at the back of the gym, and there was Paulette. Paulette! Mom! She had given up work and study to come and hear him. She was smiling, too.
I believe in you.
Slowly, the tilting, swirling of the gym stopped. Patrick looked around. The double exit doors at the foot of the stage steps were within twenty feet. Beyond them was the playground, the sidewalk, a way out. In a matter of seconds he could be gone.
Patrick looked back at Celina, Mrs. Romero, Paulette.
We believe in you.
It was true. They did believe in him.
The gym walls receded, and with them the dark, suffocating weight. The closet door was open. He could breathe again. And he could see clearly.
We believe in you.
He could see that there was another way out besides the gym doors. It was the way a true knight—the bravest to ever live, who had never broken the code of chivalry—it was the way the White Knight would choose.
Patrick put down his story and forced himself to look directly at the faces in the crowded gym again, even at Mrs. Nagle, then Andy Wilkinson.
He took a deep breath. “I can’t read so great,” he said. “But this is the story I made up, and I can tell it pretty well.”
He found Celina, then Mrs. Romero and Paulette. They all continued to smile their encouragement.
Patrick smiled back.
“I can tell it pretty well,” he said again.
And with a clear voice and shining eyes, he did just that: “The White Knight lay near death, alone in the Dark Forest of Tuskdor …”
Chapter 25
A Clearing in the Forest
The next day, when Patrick went down the hall to the Reading Resource Room, Mrs. Nagle said, “I guess we could give this classroom thing a try … for a while, anyway.”
Patrick stood and looked at her with his mouth hanging open. Sure, he’d seen her stand for the big ovation after he had finished telling “The White Knight.” She had even privately complimented him later, too. “It was good, Patrick, very good,” she had said. “Well, I loved it.” And yes, she had then added, “Perhaps I’ve misjudged a few things.” But still, just what did she mean, give this classroom thing a try?
“Work on your reading there,” Mrs. Nagle said. “With Mrs. Romero. For a while. Then we’ll see.”
Although Patrick understood what Mrs. Nagle was saying, the reality of what it meant still didn’t sink in. He started to ask when, why, how come? But Mrs. Nagle shooed him away with what he thought might be a small smile. “Go on now. Back to your classroom for reading.”
Which should have made Patrick happy. After all, there had been lots of compliments to go along with the standing ovation—“Great story, Patrick! Yeah!” And then there was the double layer chocolate cake Mrs. Romero and Paulette had made for him last night—the two of them in the kitchen, laughing and talking as they worked. He and Celina were friends again, too. She had accepted his apology for calling her names with a big smile. “Hey, no problem!” she had said. “I know you were just upset.” And now, to top everything off, there was this news from Mrs. Nagle. He could go back to Mrs. Romero’s room for reading. No more race-car games, nonsense words, and worksheets. What else could he ask for? He should feel better than happy. He should be dancing down the hall with a grin on his face a mile wide.
But Patrick didn’t feel like dancing. He walked slowly back to his classroom and stood silently in the doorway, thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
What if “The White Knight” were just some weird kind of an accident? What if the next time he tried to come up with something it was stupid? Or worse yet, what if he couldn’t come up with anything at all?
And what if the weight and the walls came pressing back in on him, the closet door slamming shut and trapping him with no air to breathe? He’d done OK telling his story in front of the gym full of people. Something had come over him. He’d felt … suddenly strong, sure of himself. He’d believed he could do it, and he had.
But what if that were just a fluke, and he was his same old self again today? Telling a story was different from reading one, and everyone in Mrs. Romero’s class was reading—at their desks, on the old couch Mrs. Romero had dragged in, on the carpet, sprawled on the big pillows in the class library corner. Everyone was reading, and if he was to be there and not at Mrs. Nagle’s, he would have to do the same.
Sure, Mrs. Romero kept on saying he could do it. But Andy said that he had lost the bet, that he didn’t read … that he couldn’t. “You admitted it in front of everybody.” Then Andy had whispered that word under his breath. “Stupid.” What if Andy was right?
Patrick stood in the doorway, thinking about what would happen if he just went back to Mrs. Nagle’s instead of going in. He had hated it there, but at least he’d always known what to expect. What if he turned and left? Maybe he should …
But Mrs. Romero looked up and saw him. And without a word she was there at his side, gently ushering him to the big stuffed “Reader’s Chair” by the couch.
Patrick hesitated. He had never been in the Reader
’s Chair before.
“Have a seat,” Mrs. Romero finally whispered. “It’s the best one in the house.”
Patrick sat, and was surprised to feel how smooth the cushions were, how soft and silky to the touch.
Then Mrs. Romero was handing him a book—a big book. “Celina said you might want to start with this one.” She smiled at him. “It’s yours. A gift from your admirers. Relax. Have fun.” And she was gone.
Patrick watched Mrs. Romero go, then, not wanting to look around the room, not wanting to see the kids in the class stealing glances in his direction, not knowing what else to do, he looked down at the book Mrs. Romero had given him.
The Sword in the Stone. The picture on the front of Wart pulling at a sword stuck in a big, anvil-like rock told it all. The title printed there wasn’t necessary. In his hand lay a brand-new hardback copy of the book Celina had loved, and he had once loved, too.
Patrick ran his fingers over the jacket, letting them glide across the slick paper, then along the edges of the cover, down the spine, and around to the ends of the pages. So many pages! He turned the book over in his hands, letting the weight of it sink into his palms. Then, slowly, so no one would notice, he raised the book toward his face and breathed in the smell of all that paper. New. The book was really brand-new; it had never even been read. And it was his. A gift.
Patrick took a deep breath and slowly opened the cover. It was stiff, and crackled as it moved. The title, printed in dark, bold letters, jumped out at him. “THE SWORD IN THE STONE, BY T. H. WHITE.”
Patrick almost shut the book. Letters like that demanded to be read. Demands made him nervous. But he steadied himself, and instead of closing the cover, he turned a page, and another.
Then he noticed the numbers at the top of each page, and without really thinking or planning, found himself turning and turning, looking for a certain number.…
There! A two, with another two right beside it. He knew it—twenty-two. That was the number of the page Celina had first read to him. How had that part gone?