Witchcraft

Week 8: Written February 23, 2016

Bullies tend to hit their stride in the second grade. Before then, it’s all playful teasing; all the kids are the same size, give or take, and under constant supervision. But in the second grade, rug rats develop into full-fledged children. With that, bullies like Trevor Harrison learn which punches land and which don’t, how much you can get away with and how much you can torture another kid before it stops being fun.

It only took a few weeks for Joseph Carter to tire of being Trevor’s victim. So on the last Friday in September, he brought a gun to school.

It wasn’t a real gun, but the kind made of fingers, the kind that looked like an upper-case “L” lying on its back. It was imaginary, which made it all the worse.

At the end of recess, Joseph waited behind a bookcase in the classroom for Trevor to return. He knew his fake gun wouldn’t inflict any physical damage — although he wished it would — but if nothing else he wanted to terrify the boy, make him piss his pants, show him what it felt like to be the butt of the joke.

He positioned his fingers well in advance, so tightly his knuckles turned white and he could feel his fingernails digging into his palm. He pictured an actual gun in his hand, fully-loaded and ready to fire. The image made him more confident that when Trevor finally walked into the classroom, and he fired away, he wouldn’t miss. He’d nail the bastard point blank.

There were footsteps in the hallway, kids returning from play. Joseph could hear Mrs. Miyazaki yelling at someone to catch up, and then the door opened. Students flooded in, laughing and returning to their seats. But Joseph stayed put, waiting for Trevor’s voice, which was loud and raspy, standing out from the others. He never shut up.

There it is, Joseph thought when he finally heard it, and he stepped out from the bookcase, his gun at the ready.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!”

A drop of blood hit the linoleum. Joseph had cut himself, gripping his gun so firmly.

“Joseph! What are you doing?”

Mrs. Miyazaki ran over and grabbed Joseph by the ear, but the damage had been done. Trevor stood in shock, his mouth agape, his face pale. Some other kids laughed, but not him. He found his seat and put his head down on the desktop.

Joseph followed Mrs. Miyazaki to the principal’s office. It was a serious matter, he knew that, but he didn’t realize the severity.

“This is bad,” his teacher muttered. “This is very bad.”

She spoke to the principle, Mr. Larson, first, while Joseph waited in the lobby. He rubbed his hand. It hurt. He’d gotten blood on his shirt and pants, and that made him madder. Trevor was the one who deserved to bleed, not him.

“Joseph, come in,” Principle Larson stand. “And stand there, please, on the pedestal.”

It was a few inches off the floor, a wooden stage with room for only one. There were icons painted on the wall behind it that didn’t mean anything to Joseph. He’d never been to the principle’s office before.

“He hid in the classroom after recess, sir, laying in wait for Trevor Harrison.”

Mr. Larson nodded, sitting at his desk with his hands clasped together. He looked ready, at any moment, to bolt, as if he expected something unexpected — and dangerous — to happen.

Joseph felt compelled to apologize, but wouldn’t give in. He wasn’t sorry, and he wanted them to know it.

“I just wish it was a real gun,” he said, no longer able to keep his temper at bay. “Trevor is mean. He bullies me all the time. He deserved it.”

Mrs. Miyazaki gasped, then covered her face with her hands. She muttered something under her breath that Joseph didn’t catch until she said it again.

“Witch.”

“Did you learn this from anyone? Your parents? Your mother?”

Joseph didn’t understand. “Learn what?”

“The mischief.” The principle pointed at Joseph’s bloody hand. “Is the blood a part of it? Did you need the blood or it wouldn’t work?”

Joseph held up his hand, still confused.

“No! Keep your hand down at your side. Keep it down.”

Joseph did as he was told. He was getting nervous.

“I just wanted to scare him, that’s all.”

“With what? Your magic? A gun from your hand?”

Mrs. Miyazaki was standing in the corner, her hands still over her mouth, still muttering to herself, over and over. Witch, witch, witch.

“But it’s not a real gun. It was just pretend.”

“Then why did you hide? Why the blood? Tell us, who taught you this. For God’s sake, what if the spell had worked? What if Trevor had really died?”

“It wasn’t a spell, it’s imaginary.”

Principle Larson was getting frustrated now. He signalled Mrs. Miyazaki to lock the door, and she did so. That’s when Joseph noticed the shadow on the floor of something dangling over his head.

A noose.

“You will tell us what you intended to do and who taught you this mischief, or we’ll be forced to conclude you conjured this by yourself. Are you in league with the Devil?”

Joseph didn’t know how to respond.

“Answer!”

Witch. Witch. Witch.

“I didn’t do any curses or anything, I was just pretending, like Eric and I did when we used to play–”

“Eric?”

Mrs. Miyazaki spoke. “His older brother, in the third grade. Eric Carter.”

Principle Larson picked up the phone. “Bring Eric Carter to my office immediately. I don’t know his classroom, but check the records. He’s in third grade.”

Then he smiled, finally relaxing.

“You made the right choice, son. We want to help you, and we can only do that once we know from whence your affliction came. You did right today — by your soul.”

Mrs. Miyazaki didn’t seem all that reassured, but Mr. Larson looked relieved.

“How do we know that’s the extent of it?” she said nervously. “What if there’s more? What about his parents?”

“We’ll talk to Eric and trace it back. Don’t worry, we’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Everything seemed to be settling down, and Joseph was anxious to get back to class. But the shadow on the floor got larger. The noose was being lowered.

“You’ve done well, son,” Principle Larson repeated, his finger pushing a button on his desk. “Very well. Now there’s just one final step to purifying your contaminated soul.”

The noose was nearly upon him, and at that sight, Mrs. Miyazaki finally calmed down.

But not Joseph. He wished as hard as he could that the imaginary gun in his hand was real, not simply a figment of his imagination. He closed his eyes, held up his hand, and fired away.

“Bang!”

Sparks shot from his finger tips, Mrs. Miyazaki screamed, and when he opened his eyes, Joseph saw Principle Larson slumped over his desk in a pool of blood.

It worked.

“Witch, witch, witch,” Mrs. Miyazaki repeated, sliding down the wall to the ground, in shock.

Joseph just smiled and unlocked the door. It was time to give that son of a bitch Trevor the punishment he truly deserved.