Mr. Hamilton pointed down the aisle. “Very well. Take your seat.” He then turned to the rest of the class. “Now, as I was saying, open your book to page 119. We will begin our study of the legend of Arthur.” Mr. Hamilton waited for the sound of turning pages to diminish before continuing.
With his tall, lanky form holding open the large textbook, he reminded Billy of the stereotypical country preacher, his deeply set, wide eyes and broad forehead staring with complete awe and reverence at the words before him. His thick mane of gray hair shifted, and it fell over his ears as he read. “Around the year 510, Arthur, a prince of the tribe of Britons called Silures, in South Wales, was raised to the title of Pendragon, a title given to an elective sovereign, paramount over the many kings of Britain. Supposedly, he was the only one who was able to pull a sword out of a stone, signaling that he was the rightful king.
“One legend identifies the sword as the famed Excalibur, though most authorities claim that it was the Sword of Britain that Merlin set in the stone. Excalibur, according to myth, was a gift from The Lady of the Lake, a goddess-like nymph who appeared in mysterious pools. Such is the character of legends. Who can know what is really true? The most popular legends give accounts of Arthur’s victories in battle over the Saxons and of his inner circle of knights who sat in council at his famous Round Table at Camelot.”
Mr. Hamilton continued his lecture, reading pieces of the text and giving his own views. He explained why he found this pseudo-history important; some of it was undeniably true, although other parts remained highly doubtful. “One of the keys to wisdom,” he said, “lies in separating truth from myth, and your ability to discern reality from fantasy will make you kings in this world of knaves, the foolish believers of myth.”
Billy looked over at Walter. He was spellbound. Mr. Hamilton’s words had apparently transported him to another land and another time, but Walter’s eyes were focused on something other than his teacher. Billy followed Walter’s stare to the chalkboard where he saw a glass-covered frame resting on the chalk ledge and leaning against the board. Under the glass was a painting of a shield with a beautiful coat of arms emblazoned on the front. Had Mr. Hamilton shown this to the class earlier? The design held a knight’s full helmet, silver-coated with gold trim and an ornate crown on top. Under that was a red breastplate decorated with three white clovers. Coming out from behind the armor were long red and white leaves with three-pointed ends that seemed to be trying to wrap themselves around the breastplate like snakes strangling a victim.
Billy tore his gaze away from the shield and turned to listen to Mr. Hamilton. As the teacher spoke, his passion for the subject rang with sermon-like ardor. His face rose and fell with each mystical legend, his wild, gray hair shaking with every movement of his aged head. Billy could almost see images of Lancelot and Gawain in his teacher’s eyes, not only the excitement of sword-to-sword tourney, but also the nobility and valor of a knight.
Yet not even Mr. Hamilton’s enthusiasm could captivate Billy when a matter of great urgency demanded his attention. From the time he was a small boy, his mother had warned him about drinking so much so early in the morning. The coffee, orange juice, root beer, and water had definitely done their job. He raised his hand in the air and waved it. “Mr. Hamilton?”
The teacher had just reached a crescendo in his story, and he stopped in mid-sentence, his arms raised to demonstrate a swordplay technique. “Yes, Mr. Bannister? What is your question?”
“I, uh . . . I have to go to the bathroom.”
Mr. Hamilton lowered his arms with a brief sigh and stepped toward Billy. “You have to go to the water closet?” That friendly gleam reappeared in the teacher’s eye. “It’s only first period. Did you forget to go before you left home, or did you have a bit too much tea this morning?”
A wave of snickers passed through the room, and Billy glanced at Walter who was turning absolutely purple. Billy had to swallow a laugh himself. “Er, no. I didn’t forget. I did drink a lot, though.”
The stately teacher took another step closer to Billy and studied his face. “Are you sick? Your face is turning red.”
He swallowed again. “I don’t think so.”
Mr. Hamilton marched back to his desk, and after scratching down a signature, he tore a piece of paper from a pad and extended it to Billy. “Here’s your pass. Hurry back.”
Billy hustled through the classroom door and finally let out the laugh he had worked so hard to stifle. When he neared the restrooms, he paused a minute to get more water, careful to swallow as little as possible to avoid further embarrassment later on. After every swish he tested his breath on his hand.
Not too bad.
He banged open the restroom door and then secluded himself in a stall, preferring the privacy there to the adjacent urinals. After a few seconds his sigh of relief was accompanied by a scratching sound, something dragging on the restroom floor right outside his stall. Billy hurried to finish and then peered through the crack at the doorjamb.
It’s Adam. What’s he doing dragging a stool into the boys’ room?
Adam pulled the stool to a spot about two feet in front of one of the sinks and climbed to the top. It was a short stepladder, the kind that librarians use to reach a book, yet tall enough to allow Adam to stretch his lanky arms to the ceiling. At this point he must have spied Billy’s head over the stall barriers. He let out a gasp, then blew a relieved sigh. “Oh, it’s just you, Dragon Breath.”
Billy left the stall and looked up at Adam. Standing on tiptoes, Adam flicked on a cigarette lighter and moved the flame close to the fire alarm sprinkler on the ceiling. Billy put his foot on the bottom step. “Adam! What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Shut up, Dragon Breath! You’ll keep quiet about it if you know what’s good for you.”
“You’ll set off the alarm!” Billy tried to clamber up the stool to stop him. The thin metal legs squeaked and jerked under the shifting weight.
“Hey!” Adam cried. He kept the lighter poised at the sprinkler, trying to hold it steady while he fought back Billy with his other hand, pushing down on his forehead. “Stop it!” he growled. “Get off!”
Billy finally managed to dodge Adam’s hand, and with a tug on the bigger boy’s shirt, he hoisted himself to the top. Unable to battle any farther past Adam’s flailing arm, Billy craned his neck to try to blow out the lighter.
WHOOSH!!!
The sprinkler spewed on their faces and shoulders with several jet streams of putrid smelling water. Alarms blared throughout the building, sounding like a swarm of screaming bats flying through the halls. Adam jumped off the stool just as Mr. Hamilton stepped into the bathroom.
Billy scrambled down, but not before Mr. Hamilton had seen him, and not before Adam had expertly slipped the lighter into his hand. Billy could only stare at his open palm, the stream still showering his head. Drops of water fell from his drenched hair into his hand creating a shallow puddle under the crime scene evidence, a silver lighter with a bronze, coiled snake emblem on the front.
“Well, well. Mr. Lark, Mr. Bannister,” the teacher said, standing at the door, just out of reach of the smelly spray. “I thought Mr. Bannister might be ill, so I came to check on his condition, and now I see you two have filled the water closet with . . . er, with water.”
Adam pointed at Billy. “It wasn’t me, Mr. Hamilton! I came in here, and Billy was standing on the stool with a lighter! I tried to stop him, but it was too late.”
Mr. Hamilton shook his head slowly. “Come now, Adam. If I know you, you were cheering him on.” He opened the restroom door and gestured toward the hall. “We’ll let the principal sort this out. Now march!”
Just as the two boys were about to exit the restroom, Mr. Hamilton barred the door with his arm. The corridors had filled with a disorganized mass of students, excited preteens haphazardly lined up by a frazzled teacher, and teenagers sauntering by with sleepy, bored expressions. They all seemed to be slowly migrating toward the exit door.
Mr. Hamilton shouted instructions to the teachers and hall monitors. “No need to panic. It’s a false alarm. We must, however, continue to guide the students to the proper exits.” He waved at a monitor. “Mr. Johnson, please check on Room 107. My students are likely following routine drill protocol, but propriety demands a responsible guide. I must stay here until all is clear. Please also advise Mr. Tompkins that I may arrive late for study hall should our delay extend into next period. He can supervise the students without me.”
He turned to Billy and Adam. “I’m sure Dr. Whittier will deal with you severely, so I’ll not subject you to further embarrassment. You may stand here until the halls have emptied.” It took a while for the fire department to arrive, finish their obligatory check, and give the “all clear” signal. The sticky, smelly water clung to Billy’s shoulders and back, making the wait seem interminable. He heard a bell signal the end of class, and the minutes dragged well into second period.
After the students returned and scattered to their classrooms, Mr. Hamilton allowed Billy and Adam to start their march down the hall. Everything was quiet now, and the corridor seemed much larger than usual. Billy followed his teacher toward the principal’s office, walking as slowly as possible while still keeping reasonably close behind. His shoes squeaked, and he left a trail of pancake-sized puddles in his wake. He thought he had seen this in a movie somewhere. He was the condemned prisoner tramping down the final corridor.
What’s at the end, Warden? The chair? The gas chamber? I’m innocent, I tell you!
Billy threw sidelong glances at Adam from time to time, trying to gauge his reaction. Though covered with streaming water, Adam’s face seemed to be made of stone. He stared straight ahead and kept his mouth in a tight line.
He’s probably used to it. I’ve seen him follow other teachers down the hall. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been expelled by now.
Billy marched on, staring at a large door at the far end, the door to the principal’s office. Billy had heard rumors about the new principal. “Eccentric old guy,” one friend had told him. “He’s really weird,” another friend had said. Billy mulled over the opinions. He thought a lot of people he knew were eccentric, especially his history teacher, but most kids said that the principal made Mr. Hamilton seem normal. Billy felt apprehensive and curious at the same time. Although he had wanted to see what the other kids were talking about, this wasn’t exactly the best way to make a good first impression.
Mr. Hamilton shooed Billy and Adam through the door and then into an interior office, walking right past a girl who was waiting to see the principal. Billy caught her glance. Her eyes gleamed, and a hint of a smile crossed her face. He felt the heat of embarrassment surge into his cheeks, and he spun his head forward.
“Two miscreants for your judgment, Dr. Whittier. They were the ones who set off the fire alarm. The water clo- . . . Ahem! The restroom next to the North entrance is flooded. When I walked in, Mr. Bannister was on a stool under the sprinkler, but I suspect both of them were involved.”
“It wasn’t my fault!” Billy and Adam shouted at the same time.
Adam continued, thrusting a finger toward Billy’s face. “He did it! I tried to stop him!”
Billy felt his tongue stiffen and his throat clench shut. What could he say? He probably
was
the one who set off the sprinklers. He felt condemned, his wet hair and shoulders shouting out his guilt.
Adam went on. “Ask Mr. Hamilton. Billy had the—”
“Quiet!” the teacher scolded. He then turned back to the principal, regaining his attitude of formality. “I will be leaving you with these two, Dr. Whittier.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I was wondering who caused all the commotion. I was helping Mr. Andrews guide his students to the exits, so I couldn’t find out who triggered the false alarm. He doesn’t get around any better than I do, you know.”
Mr. Hamilton nodded graciously and closed the door behind him, leaving Billy and Adam alone in the strange office. As Billy gazed around at the walls, he understood what the other kids had said about the principal. But it was worse than anything he had heard. This man wasn’t eccentric; he was dangerous!
Chapter 3
Billy stared in awe at the decor of the room. Broadswords, shields, and coats-of-arms hung from the walls in glass cases.
They can’t be real. How could they let weapons like these into school? They must be plastic replicas, but they sure look authentic.
The collection resembled museum pieces from the Dark Ages. One display held an assortment of thumbscrews, and Billy imagined the squashed thumbs of misbehaving boys who had the misfortune of running into this hard-hearted principal.
Dr. Whittier glared at the boys, his yellow-green eyes shining like a cat’s and his voice matching a feline’s guttural growl. “Well, now, suppose you two tell me what’s going on.”
Adam coolly rattled off his story. “Ms. Albertson gave me a hall pass to use the restroom. As soon as I went in the door, I saw Billy on a stool, holding a lighter up to the sprinkler. I tried to stop him, but as soon as I got close, the sprinkler came on. That’s how I got wet.” Adam pointed an accusing finger at Billy. “Look! He’s still holding the lighter he used to set it off!”
The principal’s graying eyebrows slowly advanced toward the middle of his forehead. “Is this true, Mr. Bannister? Is that your lighter?”
Billy held the lighter out with an open palm. “I do have the lighter, but that’s because he shoved it into my hand when the sprinkler went off. It’s really his, not mine.”
Adam kept his eyes on the principal and maintained his composure. “Dr. Whittier,” he said, his finger still pointing, “I’ve never seen that lighter before in my life. Remember, you took my lighter last week, and I haven’t smoked a cigarette since, just like I promised.”
Billy scowled at Adam, amazed at his ability to lie without any hint of guilt.
The principal shook his head and ran his fingers from front to back through his gray hair. It reminded Billy of a closely cropped horse’s mane, thick and bristly. “I have heard about your promises, Mr. Lark,” Dr. Whittier replied. “They’re not exactly from the lips of God.” He then reached his hand toward Billy. “Let me see that lighter, young man.”
Billy handed it to him, and while Dr. Whittier examined it, someone knocked at the door.
“Come in,” the principal answered.“Come in,” the principal answered.
The door opened slowly, and a pair of bright blue eyes peered in. “Dr. Whittier?”
The principal’s expression softened. Even the shimmering in his eyes seemed to dim. “Oh, Bonnie. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. That fire alarm made me forget.” He extended his hand. “Here, I’ll sign your note.”
A young girl wearing an oversized backpack stepped up to the desk and stared quizzically at Billy while Dr. Whittier pulled out a pen. Billy was careful not to stare back, but he did cast a glance or two in her direction.
That must be the new girl from Montana I heard about. Bonnie Silver, I think. She was looking at me when I came in. Why does she keep staring at me?
“These two rascals came in just after you did,” Dr. Whittier explained. “I’m sorry they interrupted us.” He studied the absence excuse and slid the lighter to the side. “Quite an elaborate story you have here.” He held the paper even closer to his face. “Whose signature is this?”
Bonnie glanced at each of the boys and then drooped her head before answering quietly. “My foster mother’s.”
“Did she write this story?”
“Uh, no. I wrote it. But she read it and signed it.”
Dr. Whittier leaned forward and lowered his voice, too. “The part about the brave drugstore clerk who walked six whole blocks to bring you Pepto-Bismol was very interesting. And I’m sure the neighbor’s dog made quite a mess when he pulled the dead raccoon through the kitchen. I’m sorry you had to clean it all up yourself, even though you only had a box of tissue and a bar of deodorant soap.” The principal let out a sigh and tapped his finger on Bonnie’s note. “But your story doesn’t mention whether or not you saw a doctor for your illness.”
Her head sank an inch or two lower. “I didn’t see a doctor. It was just a bug. It only lasted a couple of days.”
Dr. Whittier scrawled his signature across the note and handed it back to her. “I know you’re new here, Bonnie, so I signed it this time. Our policy is that a student must bring a doctor’s note for absences of more than one day due to illness.”
Bonnie picked up the slip and slid it into her pocket. “I understand, Dr. Whittier.” Before leaving, she pointed at the lighter on the desk. “I see you have Adam’s new lighter.”
Dr. Whittier’s eyes became narrow slits again, and he glared at Adam while raising the lighter up to Bonnie’s eye level. “You recognize this lighter, Miss Silver?”
“Sure,” she explained with a casual shrug of her shoulders. “Adam likes to show it off to the girls. He thinks the snake emblem on it is really cool.”
Dr. Whittier motioned for Bonnie to leave. As she did, she looked back and smiled at Billy, and he offered a weak but thankful smile in return.
The principal shook his head slowly. “Adam, Adam, Adam. Why did you even try to pull this one?” He opened a drawer and drew out a file. “I should have known the lighter was yours. Look, you’ve been caught smoking in the boys’ room four times, and Billy has no record at all.”
“But I quit. Honest I did. I gave the lighter to Billy when I kicked the habit.”
“But you said you’d never seen the lighter before.”
“I . . . uh . . .”
Billy’s smile grew to a wide grin. Dr. Whittier had Adam on the hook. Time to reel him in.
While Dr. Whittier lectured on the evils of smoking, lying, and “bearing false witness against thy neighbor,” Billy tried to catch a glimpse of what was in the contraband drawer. He noticed several items: a large pocketknife, several packs of cigarettes, and a can of beer.
Are all of those Adam’s?
When the lecture finally ended, Dr. Whittier pulled two forms from his lower right-hand drawer. The sheets had dozens of blank lines and empty check boxes, and he used a sharp pencil to neatly fill in several spaces, printing names and violations in perfect block letters.
Billy spoke up hesitantly. “Does this mean I can go? Now that you know it wasn’t my lighter, I can just—”
“No!” The principal frowned menacingly and pointed his pencil toward Billy. “You were caught on the stool whether it was your lighter or not. I’m suspending you both for three days.”
Dr. Whittier called for a hall monitor who escorted both students to their respective classes to get their books. When they returned, the principal ushered them into a detention area adjacent to the office, giving them each a towel to finish drying off. “If we’re unable to contact your parents, we’ll keep you right here until school gets out.”
After Dr. Whittier shut the door, Billy wiped his face and then glared at Adam who had chosen a desk on the opposite side of the room. Billy sat heavily in a nearby desk and rested his chin on his hands. He rubbed the towel through his hair and then across his arms.
I wonder how long I have to sit in here with Adam? There’s no telling what he’s going to say to me.
But Adam never spoke. After about a half hour, a middle-aged, rough-looking man entered the room with Dr. Whittier. His slender frame reached about five-foot-six, and his three-day beard and dirty jeans made him look like a homeless tramp. Billy caught a glimpse of a cigarette pack in his shirt pocket, and his blackened hands told of grimy labor in the nearby coal mines.
Adam rose from his seat, a look of tired resignation on his face. As they walked out, Billy watched the man place his hand on Adam’s back and grasp a handful of Adam’s damp shirt, maybe even his skin, squeezing it tightly as they left the room.
Billy jumped up and hurried to look out the door’s window, a square viewing port at eye level in the thick, wooden frame. He tried to catch the pair as they left the office, but by the time he pressed his nose to the glass, they were gone. When he turned back around, he wrinkled his nose. What was that awful smell? It reminded him of the brewery just outside of town.
Dr. Whittier reentered the detention room. “Curious, Billy?”
“Well, I—”
“I saw you looking out the window.”
“I, uh . . . I’ve never met Adam’s father before. I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
Dr. Whittier held out his hand for Billy’s towel. “I’ll get you another one if you need it.” He folded it neatly and laid it over his arm. “We haven’t been able to contact your parents yet, so I’m afraid you’re stuck here for a while.” He pointed at Billy’s backpack. “You did get your books, didn’t you?”
Billy nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“Then make yourself comfortable. I left a message on your answering machine. I’ll let you know when your parents call back.” He exited abruptly and closed the door. Billy peeked through the window again, watching the principal limp back to his desk and sit down.
I didn’t notice that before. He must have a bad leg.
Billy plopped back down in the desk and haphazardly pulled a textbook out of his backpack.
I guess Mom’s on the office line, maybe rescheduling flights for Dad so he can go to the festival. She’s probably just letting the machine catch all our calls.
He finished his history reading assignment and then went on to the chapter questions. History had always been his favorite subject, so he was glad to pass the time by engrossing himself in the lesson. Unfortunately, the assignment wasn’t long enough.
After counting the ceiling tiles several times, he started flipping his pen in the air, first a double flip, then a triple. A few minutes later he had successfully performed a twelve-rotation spin as well as an eleven and two tens. Finally, after a few more spins, he flopped back in his seat.
“Still waiting, Mr. Bannister?”
Billy jerked his head up when he recognized the voice. “Oh! Hi, Mr. Hamilton. I was just reading ahead. I’ll be missing three days of school, in case you haven’t heard.”
“I heard. I’m going to see what I can do to shorten that for you.” He stroked his chin and looked down at Billy with a piercing stare. “Are you a friend of Adam Lark?”
Billy’s eyes opened wide. “No way! I don’t ever hang out with his crowd.”
The teacher nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. Well, I suspect Mr. Lark wouldn’t care about his grades and keeping up with the rest of the class, but I thought you might. Would you like the lecture notes? I have them on my computer, and I can send them to you in an e-mail post.”
“Sure!” Billy felt a surge of relief, but he was still worried about the prospect of staying in “The Chamber of Boredom” for the remaining hours of the school day. “I can’t go home yet, though.”
“Haven’t they been able to reach your parents?”
Billy noted a definite hint of concern in Mr. Hamilton’s tone. He had never seen a teacher with this kind of expression before. Was he worried about something? “No,” he replied. “It’s probably because Mom’s trying to reschedule the charter flights for my dad’s business, so she’s too busy to answer the main phone line. He wants to come to the festival tomorrow night.”
“I see.” Mr. Hamilton looked at his pocket watch and then opened a booklet he had pulled from his jacket pocket. “I have my planning period free and all of lunch. Would you like a ride home?”
“Well . . .” Billy hesitated, contemplating which would be worse—to accept a ride home from his very strange history teacher, or to spend the rest of the afternoon flipping his pen and counting ceiling tiles. “Okay,” he finally decided. “That would be great. Thanks.”
Mr. Hamilton paused and stared at Billy as if wishing to ask a question, but he just sighed and turned around. “I’ll see if Dr. Whittier will give his permission.” He then strolled out of the room, and Billy stuffed his books into his backpack while he waited. Mr. Hamilton returned after a few minutes and poked his head in the door, holding out a fresh towel. “I pulled your address from your file, Mr. Bannister, and I printed out directions to your home. Let’s depart.”
Mr. Hamilton unlocked the passenger door of his station wagon and opened it, but Billy couldn’t sit down right away because his seat was filled with books of various sizes and ages.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Hamilton said, pointing at the pile. “Just throw them in the back.”
Billy lifted the top book and read the title out loud. “West Virginia Natural Resources?” He glanced at his teacher, who was rounding the back of the car. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed it toward the rear seat and then read each title as he went through the stack. “A History of Coal Mining . . . Appalachian Wildlife . . . Early West Virginia Settlers.” After he tossed the last book, he spread out his towel on the seat and sat down.
Mr. Hamilton glanced back at the pile of books, buckled his seat belt, and cleared his throat. “One must learn about one’s new home, mustn’t one?” He started the engine and revved it up, and the car jerked forward before stopping again abruptly. Billy fastened his own seat belt, trying to muffle the sound of the metal click. His teacher smiled apologetically for the lurch, and Billy responded with a queasy half-grin. He turned toward the road, his right hand clutching the armrest.
“So what did you think about Arthur and his knights?”
“Huh?” Billy turned to see the teacher looking straight at him. He wasn’t watching the road.
“You read the chapter, did you not?”
Billy couldn’t answer. He held his breath and pleaded silently.
Please, please look at the road.
“Well?” Mr. Hamilton said, turning to face the road.
Whew.
Billy could finally breathe again. “I, uh . . . I didn’t see what I expected.”
“Why is that? It has the traditional legends and much of the current data speculating on the actual history involved.”
“I was hoping to read about Merlin. I like stories about wizards.”
Mr. Hamilton jerked the wheel, and the two right tires slid off onto the pebbly shoulder, grinding and popping the gravel beneath. Billy clutched the door handle, but it only took a second for his teacher to bring the car back onto the pavement. “How you Americans ever became accustomed to driving on the wrong side of the road, I’ll never know!”
He stopped the car a moment later at a railroad crossing. A freight train made its way slowly across the road, its wheels squealing displeasure at their burden of coal. The delay seemed to please Mr. Hamilton. “Now, where was I? . . . Ah, yes! Merlin! Now there’s quite a bit of controversy surrounding that chap, and, you’re right; the book doesn’t cover him at all.”