nothing comes.
Sometimes, like this morning, I feel like Iâm going to throw up. That passes.
My fifth-grade teacher hit me.
I drove him to it.
âThorn, for the last time, I know you stole the money. I know it, John knows it, the class knows it. Simple as that.â Mr. Holt loosened his tie. The blue tie with a yellow fish, dreaming of itself with legs. âThorn, are you listening?â
I slouched in my chair and picked at a scab of glue in the palm of my hand. I looked at him: âWhat?â
âWhat are you listening to, Thorn, if youâre not listening to me?â Holt crossed his arms. âWhy am I talking to you when I could be on my way home? Itâs Friday. Itâs three fifteen. Why am I here?â
I sighed.
This made Holt furious. What was it? My rudeness and carelessness and boredom? Thatâs what he said. He wanted to slap me. I could tell. Iâve seen the look a thousand times. Kulthat. Kulthat hit me and hit me and hit me. I remember the narrow fire-eyes.
Holt clenched his teeth and combed his hair with his fingers. Then he smiled. A smile without the smile. âLook,â he said. âIâm sorry, Thorn. I got carried away.â
Silence.
âThorn,â Holt said, soft as soft can be. âWhereâs Johnâs money?â
âI donât know. Really, Mr. Holt, I donât know.â
Holt squatted in front of me. He put down his fists like two stones on my desk. âThorn?â
âI didnât take it,â I said.
What could Holt do? He had no solid proof either way, so he dismissed me. He asked me to close the door.
I watched him through the window.
Mr. Holt sat at his desk with his head in hands. He mustâve wondered what in the end kept him from hitting me. Iâm sure of it. I could hear him thinking:
He canât be allowed to get away with it. One good, hard smackâ.
The very next Monday, Holt described an incident between a boy and a barber to my homeroom. âThis boy, Jimmy, needed a haircut. The boy, about your age, walked by a barbershop. He asked the barber how much for a haircut, and the barber told him to get lost.â
The class couldnât believe it. âHe didnât tell the kid?â
âNo,â Holt said.
âThatâs just wrong,â the class said. âWhatâd the kid do?â
âWhat could he do?â Holt said. âHe walked away.â
âHe walked away?â At this point, the class blew apart into a dozen small discussions.
Holt watched us. I watched Holt.
âEnough,â Holt said. He went to his desk. âWe have other things to do.â
My class discussed strategies for dealing with a barber. A rude barber. Holt went through his handouts.
âMr. Holt?â
Holt answered without looking up: âYes?â
âThat happened to you, didnât it?â
Silence.
âWho said that?â
âYou went to the barber,â I said. âNot some kid. Right?â
âNo, Thorn.â Holt tried not to explode. He kept on pretending to look over his papers. âThough every one of us has a story like that.â
âA story like what, Mr. Holt?â Not me this time. Candace Ingram. All curls and teeth.
âLike the one I just told.â Holt turned red. âSometimes strangers are rude to us.â
âOh,â Candace said. âThe way the barber was rude to you?â
âNo,â Holt said, but we all knew. His tone of voice and his redness. His eyes swirling like soup. âNow, letâs get back to work. And Thorn? See me at the end of the day.â
âThorn, weâve had our run-ins.â Holt leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and locked his fingers on top of his head. âBut I thought we came away from those times as friends. I was prepared to forget last Friday because weâre friends. Right, Thorn?â
I peeled a Band-Aid off my thumb. With my