The seat Harry chose was one row back and over from the kid Brandon. From his vantage point he openly stared over his shoulder, and no one noticed. The head of the person directly in front of Harry obscured him from the view of the teacher. Only if he were standing at the far end of the chalkboard would he be able to see Harry. In fact, Harry was so close to the student in front of him that he could differentiate multiple strands of hair.
His goal was easy- unscrew both ends of the mechanical pencil that was waiting for him on his desk. Then precariously tear pieces of his lined paper, put them in his mouth to cover them in a coat of saliva and shove it into the end of the hollow pencil. With careful aim he would direct the remainder of the torn paper to slide across the ground and lay flat underneath Brandon's desk. With the evidence left falsely under the boy's desk, he could shoot the spitball into the teacher's forehead- as long as his aim was good.
As Harry awaited for the moment he needed to set his plan in motion, he blatantly ignored the teachings that day- it did not matter, no one could see him regardless of what he was doing. Instead of listening to the counting he dazed off and cast his eyes around the room to take in every aspect of the four corners.
One occupied a small ruggish desk for Mr. Van Shee. Its wobbly rolling chair had a depressed cushion with the seams pulling apart to reveal the fluffy sack. One drawer hung open, out of the three vertical drawers on the right side of the desk, it was the middle one. Manilla folders were stacked as high as they could go without catching on the upper layer of wood. Atop the desk was a desktop. The fine machine had thick cords running off to the side and behind the desk.
The front edge of the desk held a single personal item of Mr. Van Shee's. The black photograph faced the chair of the desk and was invisible to the view of the rest of the room's occupants. But to Harry's teacher he could peek at it whenever he wished, and by the finger smudges on both sides of the backing, it was obvious he admired the picture often.
Harry declared it to be honorable. The photo that is, not the fact Mr. Van Shee cared deeply for whatever the image was. Instead, the way the sunlight flickered through the set of shades on the window to cast light on the frame and caused it to glow. The way sun caused the dust particles in the air to illuminate and give it a dreary and old feel. It created an elegant beauty that couldn't be recreated.
It almost scarred Harry's eyes, knowing he could be so close to a world of beauty, so delicate that it could shatter under the pressure of a single finger but could never be a part of it himself. Something so perfect was accomplished unknowingly and without the interference of the object. No one could ever give Harry the kind of grace he saw in the photo that he so deeply desired.
Harry was disgusted.
Reality is not perfect, and perfection is not reality. If that were so, we'd all be dead.
He was tempted to glide across the room and destroy the sight that had been teasing him, but if he did his plan would be ruined, so he bided his time.
But it was splendid that his hatred had been focused on the teacher's desk, for when Mr. Van Shee took his place at his desk after assigning the class lines, Harry was the first to notice. And gladly he did.
With his target in place and his scapegoat a meter away, he was ready to put his plan in motion.
One small edge of the paper was ripped and rolled into a ball. Harry's hand lifted it to his face and it was popped into his mouth. Pulling it out again Harry was disgusted to find that his fingers had suffered under the saliva as well. The thin layer of liquid glistened, it was stunning that the small thing was about to cause so much damage.
The damp crumpled paper was shoved into one end of the mechanical pencil and altogether set down upon the desk. Harry took care to make sure he was holding only the torn paper and not any that were underneath it in the pile. He hastily leaned out of his seat across the aisle so that he was breathing down Brandon's neck. From his standing point he could peer over Brandon's right shoulder and see the lines he had been writing. Which Harry was happy to see consisted of drawing a cartoon Mr. Van Shee in an embarrassing position.
The paper slipped from Harry's grasp and thankfully landed beneath the desk, just pointing out into the aisle. The return to Harry's own desk was a piece of cake and he grabbed for his pencil. The plastic log perched just so on his bottom lip and his top lip closed around it, forming a tiny o.
Focusing on where he wanted it to go, Harry blew. The spitball hit its mark and Harry quickly took cover behind the head in front of him to conceal him from suspicion. He screwed the pieces of the pencil together, wiping away a little spit when necessary and started writing his lines.
Mr. Van Shee's name wasn't as true to his personality as it could be. The more appropriate name for the instructor was Mr. Ban Shee. The screech he let loose when he pulled a gross paper from his forehead was tasteful.
The teacher launched from his seat and strode beside every set of desks gazing into everyone's eyes. With each new desk he passed a new voice joined in the whispers, and Harry let out a breath when he passed by him.
As predicted, the hawk eyes that adults all seemed to have despite being very limited in their investigation, settled on the paper that was now jammed under Brandon's foot.
"Detention Mr. Brandon." His voice rang through the class.
The protest was quick to come, "Wha- Sir I haven't done anything."
"I'm sure you haven't. A criminal will always plead guilty unless there is overwhelming evidence, now get back to work before your detention gets doubled."
"Mr. Van Shee that isn't fair!" Brandon shouted.
"Nothing is ever fair, I will also be informing Jonathan of how you disrespected me and embarrassed me in my own classroom."
"Bu-"
"That's enough. I don't want to hear anymore." His closure was so final that no one seemed to be able to even keep their eyes on the interaction and all spectators returned to their work.
The awkward silence came immediately after and only the sound of pencils scratching on paper could be heard until Mr Van Shee dismissed them.
"Oh and Harry?" He softly demanded Harry's attention while Harry attempted to pass out of the room undetected.
"Yes Sir?"
"I know you're new, but I was told to inform you that it is your turn to help with lunch today. I suggest you head over to the kitchen right away so that Pauline can assign you to something."
"Yes sir." Harry concluded hoping to leave.
"When you leave this room, the kitchen is just to the-"
"I know where the kitchen is Mr. Van Shee." Harry said a bit rudely but wanting him to stop being overly helpful.
"Alright, well I will see you tomorrow." The teacher dismissed him.
Harry didn't bother to reply or make any move to acknowledge that his senior had said something, he simply slammed the door behind him and proceeded to make his way to the kitchen. All the while he giggled, seeing Brandon's face when the door closed while still in the classroom was all too funny.
xXx
Upon entering the kitchen, Harry was greeted by the sweet aroma of melting cheese. Pauline stood by the pristine stove pushed up against the far wall of the kitchen behind the island, her flower dress reaching down to her calves and frilling out. The loud fan was turned on above her bent head, sucking up all the fumes that the hot food produced. She was pouring a bag of milk into a cheesy pot and whisking another with the other hand. Her attention was on the two burners while another was left unsupervised. A wooden spoon lay across the top of the open pot where few bubbles formed a layer of foam, sheltering the pale rubbery elbows submerged in the water.
Content to delay his work, Harry remained standing quietly in the doorframe waiting for Pauline to take notice of him rather than announce his entrance. He didn't have to wait long as when the milk bag had been completely emptied into the pot, the lady turned away from the stove to open the garbage cupboard.
"Oh, Harry, you're here. I didn't see you there." She commented, "I'm just about finished the majority of lunch and the table had already been set."
It seemed all the work had been done, and misunderstanding the woman's words Harry turned to leave. He nearly made an escape, but Pauline had called out to him.
Upon throwing out the bag, she had realized that the garbage can was full.
"I do have something for you to do. I can't leave the food unattended- I don't want the chicken patties to burn before we eat them as sandwiches. Would you be a doll and run this garbage bag out to the garage?"
With a contained grimace, Harry replied, "Of course, I am here to help."
Harry circled the island to where the elder had motioned that the trash was. He bundled up the top of the bag and tied it shut to prevent any spillage. Using his previous experiences doing the same chore, he pulled the bag out from its spot and heaved it onto his shoulder. Without a second thought he went out the door and circled the house to the garage.
Upon his arrival, he faced the dilemma of having to open the sliding door. With a sigh he dropped the trash he was holding and reached for the handle. Heaving it upwards, Harry sent the heavy door up and out of the way. Instead of carrying the bag to its new home, Harry dragged it across the smooth floor and wrestled it over the edge of the bin.
It seemed luck was not on his side, he nearly fell face first into the bin along with the bag. But had he not neared the smelly gunk, he wouldn't have seen it.
The idea struck him as soon as he saw it; the large strip of cardboard. A bread brown, smooth and crunchy.
What a delicacy that he had found.
His hands found the edges of it and, careful not to get it dirty, he pulled it out.
Harry wouldn't waste this opportunity.
A large shelf to his right held a black tool box which he eagerly abandoned the cardboard for. Inside, Harry found what he was looking for- a pen knife.
Returning to the cardboard, Harry could easily cut palm sized pieces.
The two slices were shoved into the waistband of Harry's pants and he carelessly put the leftovers back in their original place. He threw the lid onto the bins to cover up the stench and left the building, closing the garage door behind him.
The cold of the wind bit into Harry's face as he wobbled around the orphanage's main building up to the door. The wind was strong enough to push him back, but Harry continued forward with new purpose.
He took no note of the inside of the house until he returned to the kitchen.
"I put everything in the garage, do you need anymore help?" He asked Pauline innocently.
"Well, if you wash your hands you can help me place these sandwiches on the dining room table."
"Does it matter where I put them?" he wondered.
"No, just make sure every seat has a plate with a sandwich."
Smiling to himself about how easily he had gained access to his next plan, Harry continued with the charade.
In twos- one in each hand- Harry carried the loaded plates out to the table to place them at each seat. Harry worked from one end while Pauline filled the other end of the table.
The final time they returned to the kitchen, only two plates remained, "How about I take out these plates and you start cleaning up?" Harry offered.
"What a bright idea Harry. Go on then." Pauline none the wise, answered.
He confidently grabbed the two remaining plates and made his way to the centre of the table. Upon placing them, Harry glanced upwards in both directions making sure no one would be watching.
He knew which group of boys regularly sat at the seats at the centre of the table from his previous meal experiences. And he was glad that two of the seats would get the plates in his hands.
Quickly, one by one, he pulled apart the two pieces of bread on the sandwiches and removed the chicken patties. He switched them out for the cardboard strips which filled the bread. A bite into either of these two sandwiches would prove to have a bland taste.
Surely this would cause a fuss amongst two of the boys he disliked.
xXx
"We know it was you Harry."
"What do you mean." Harry asked as he looked up from the text he had been reading while sitting down outside. He had explored after lunch and found a nook in a tree down by a lake where he could sit comfortably.
"We know you did it Harry." Brandon said.
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about." He said.
"We know you're the one who got Andrew and Brandon whipped, and switched out our chicken for cardboard." spoke Donald quietly from the back.
"And how did you figure that?"
"You arrived here yesterday, every mess we've been in arrived when you did. You're the only explanation." Brandon answered.
"And you're going to pay for it." added Andrew.
It was then Harry understood what was happening. Closing in in front of him were the boys he had humiliated and who had taken the blame for all his pranks. They all wore the same frowns upon their faces, looking down at him.
The ranks of angry boys were doubled up and they outnumbered him greatly. He had no defense for the bigger boys launching an assault on him. In fact, Harry had been confident that after his show of being smarter than all of them, they would let him be.
The risks he had taken since arriving at the orphanage to ensure that they wouldn't hurt him, were all for nothing; he would have to take control of the house through other means.
One of the boys-Andrew, was unbuckling his pants, "I'm going to whip you worse than Jonathan whipped me. You'll be crying for your mommy by the time I'm done with you."
His words seemed to be a sort of signal as two boys closest to Harry on either side leapt into action.
They grabbed him by the wrists, pulled him to his feet and pinned him against the tree. Suddenly, he realized that his book wasn't as great as it seemed. Harry began to struggle, wriggling beneath the kids in an effort to get free.
His struggle was useless, they were too big and too strong for him to physically fight off. The fear started to sink in, nothing was worse than someone who wanted revenge. They maneuvered him-tripping on the roots of the tree a few times- so that his face was pushed up against the tree.
There was a small moment of silence, like the calm before a storm. Then he heard the crack of the belt breaking the sound barrier, and the thump of it digging into his back.
He couldn't feel the pain of it, at least, not until he had fallen and they had crowded him. A rainbow of shoes dug into him as they kicked him and pounded him with their fists. Harry's body curved inwards, taking up the position of a child in the womb. His arms wrapped tight around him, trying to protect himself from the assault.
The toe of someone's foot caught him unaware. It had gotten through the maze of his arms and beneath them his chest had been left unprotected. It clipped him just beneath the ribs in an upward motion poking into his chest cavity.
He was wounded and felt like he couldn't breath.
A green flash went through the air and suddenly there was no one else left raining hits down on him.
Hesitantly looking up he saw the sky and the canopy of leaves. There were no shadows or angry faces.
But the sounds told him otherwise. Someone was splashing through the murky water which blossomed beneath the tree. His eyes met the sight of Donald standing waist deep in the liquid. Harry couldn't for the life of him understand how he had gotten there.
Around him the boys littered the ground in varying states of rising to their feet. It was like they had all been tossed backwards from their circle.
Brandon raced to the water's edge to grip Donald's hand, failing to pull him from the water. Instead the two of them went tumbling back into the blue.
"Oi, help us out!" Brandon's scratchy voice called to the others who were still on land. It pulled them out of their reverie and they rushed over to help. The strength of more kids worked to get Brandon and Donald, one by one, out of the water.
Donald, the first one in the water, stumbled into all the boys when he was removed. They had to catch him to prevent him from tumbling into the ground. Their supporting hands soon turned into restraints when Donald eyes spotted Harry.
"Leave it Donald, he's not worth it."
The defeated words did nothing to calm the boy, he only struggled more.
Thrashing in their arms, Donald was dragged away from Harry towards the house.
"You're a freak! You're a freak Harry!" He called back.
The words echoed in his mind, freak.
For Years he had been called that.
For Years he had been pushed aside, like a stray dog.
For Years he had been worthless.
For years, he had been angry.
You're a freak Harry.
