PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS
Part 1 of 2
by
Henry Snider
James
Singer leaned back, eyes closed. In less than ten minutes the screaming horde he claimed as his fourth grade class would
make their entrance for the day.
In the final minutes before class, he let his mind wander, drifting to when teaching involved ideals
and hope for the future generations. Learning was a dead subject, replaced by computer games, drugs and violence.
School had become little more than a place for James to collect a paycheck for lasting another two weeks. "Teaching
. . . what the hell was I thinking?" His voice sounded empty, as if made by a speaker and not vocal chords.
Outside, children yelled, played, cursed and fought in the New England sunshine. Yelling and
playful screams overlaid one another, becoming a constant drone. Out of boredom, James tried to focus on one.
After several seconds, fragments of conversations made their way through.
". . .catch it! Don't drop. . . ."
". . .gonna kick your. . . ." The unmistakable voice of Kevin, his class bully, echoed to him.
Anything to do with Kevin stood out no matter how hard he tried to deny it. The bully, and his two "henchmen," Troy
Jenkins and Matt Holt, caused enough trouble to make any teacher consider changing careers. As luck would have it, James
had all three. Even now, during the first week of October, they did whatever possible to secure not only fear from the
rest of the class but, more importantly, an audience for their exploits.
"Mister Singer?"
He looked up to see a boy, nine at most, standing nervously in the doorway. His clothes were
simple. It was the child's face that caught his attention.
Egghead.
The thought came and went in a nanosecond. With an oversized head on such a small frame, images
of bubble-headed cartoon characters forced their way into his mind. Pop bottle glasses thick enough to fry ants and
corduroy pants finished off the ensemble.
"Mister Singer," The boy repeated and stepped forward with hand extended, "my name is Timmy
Johnson."
James shook it, smiling. Manners. Definitely not what I'm used to. "What can I do
for you, Timmy?"
"I just thought you could . . . you know, use some help getting ready for class." He shifted
weight to the other foot.
"Don't you think you should be asking that of your teacher?"
"But I am in your class." The boy's smile faltered.
"Are you sure?" James tried not to sound doubtful; the last thing he needed was to upset a child
before the day had even begun.
"I just transferred in from Whistling Hills." Timmy's face held fast to the unsure expression.
He approached the desk and placed a transfer card on top of Jamesā€™ curriculum. As he stepped back Timmy
seemed somehow smaller.
James stared at the slip, hoping for some sort of mix up.
Great. "Great, Timmy." He
looked up from the list and into the childā€™s glass distorted eyes. He's hiding from the other kids.
"Tell you what, why don't you make sure all the markers work while I make a quick run to the restroom?" The boy nodded,
an unspoken understanding passing between them. James stood and left, leaving Timmy to the markers.
He walked down the main hall, listening to the hollow echo of footsteps reverberate throughout empty
classrooms.
Eggshell-white walls reflected morning sunshine to the point of pain. Passing the principal's
office still caused his pulse to quicken, even as a teacher. I wonder what if the principal's pulse does the same when
he passes?
"Miss Robertson, could you see if Mister Mackey has a moment?" He smiled. It wasn't returned.
For such a pretty blonde, her constant scowl put everyone off, including James.
"What is this about?"
"Is he in?" James already made the mistake of answering her line of questioning once before
and the truth about needing a few days off for a hemorrhoid operation. Her gossip spread like wildfire. Even now,
two years later, low-browed jokes still make rounds in the Teacher's Lounge about James being too much of a sore ass.
Instead of waiting, James walked around the counter and knocked lightly on executive's door.
"It's open," the principal bellowed.
James entered and found the hulking black form of Doug Mackey sitting behind a desk which took up
nearly a quarter of the small office. The typical myriad of photos, plaques and trophies that always decorated such
offices adorned the walls. Behind Mackey, a large window allowed a view of the playground. To the left of the
window, a kitten picture with the caption, 'Hang In There Baby, finished off the decor.
"Mister Mackey," he began, "I need to speak to you about the transfer student I just received."
"Timmy Johnson." Mackey thumbed through several manila folders before coming to one impressively
thick. "Yes . . . impressive student. He'll here for a couple of months before shipping off to McCaffey Middle
School." Dark eyes bored into James. "You know he's a genius. Rated right off the scale. Would've
already been through high school, but the parents wanted interaction with other children."
"Interaction. That's what I want to talk to you about." James sat down.
"Yes?"
"I'm not sure placing Timmy in my class would be beneficial to him."
"Why is that?" Mackey folded his burly arms across his chest and leaned back in his armchair.
"It has to do with a few of my students. They might be a little. . . ."
"Ah, yes, the 'Trio of Terror.'"
James suppressed a grin. "They could easily harm the emotional growth of a child such as Timmy."
Leaning forward, he shifted uncomfortably in the hardwood chair and crossed his legs.
"If you're asking for me to place him elsewhere, you're out of luck." His bored tone thickened.
You have the only empty seat in our sixth grade rooms." A frown crossed Mackey's face. "As far as the Trio's concerned,
you're the teacher. . .teach."
James nodded, stood and left. The distance back to the classroom felt like the long mile.
Shit. Memories of horror stories exchanged within the safety of the Teacher's Lounge flooded his mind. Each and
every one had involved at least one of the three bullies now gracing his classroom.
Outside, a bell rang, signaling the beginning of another school day. Yells, running feet and
other kid related sounds echoed through the hallway. He turned into the room and sat in front of the emerging class.
Timmy sat directly in front of him, center row, nose buried in a book. Looks like he's preparing for the worst.
As noises from the mob of children grew louder, James watched his new student scrunch down, trying to completely disappear
behind the book.
Children piled into the room, peeling off winter coats, gloves and scarves. All anxious, not
for class to start, but for the brief reprieve a recess would soon bring. Timmy received the stares James knew would
come. Snickers and giggles quickly followed. Muscles in the new student's jaw visibly tightened.
The last three into class were Kevin, Troy and Matt. All three gazed at the small form of Timmy
and smiled to each other as if sharing a private joke.
"Who's the Sped?" Kevin's smile broadened at the opportunity to use the slang term for special
education children.
"Talk about an egghead," Troy added.
"And those glasses. . . ."
James slapped the attendance book shut, getting everyone's attention. "Not in the mood today,
Kevin. Sit down."
With identical shrugs, all three went to their assigned seats, the only assigned seats in the class
which happened to be as far away from each other as James could make them; Matt's near the door, Troy's beside the windows
and Kevin's appropriately up in front, inadvertently beside Timmy.
Once again he looked at the small boy in front of him. Poor kid. James pushed his chair
back and stood to begin another day of class.
***
"Bug eyes! Man, you got bug eyes!" Laughter erupted
among the increasing group of children. Kevin Dobson reached out and pulled the hat off of Timmy's head. "Nice
hat," the mock admiration of the beat up MENSA cap apparent to all.
James sat at his desk, watching the scenario play itself out. Timmy had been an active part of the
class from day one. Unfortunately, in the process of consistently having right answers every day for a week, he'd made
enemies of the worst boys in school.
Maybe it won't be so bad, James thought. He's only been in the class a week. Maybe they'll
let it go after a little humiliation. James knew if he went out and stopped the taunting, it would be twice as bad for
Timmy after school. Problems such as this always worked out in the same fashion. Trying to defuse them only flared
tempers to flare hotter. Christ, can't they at least wait to get to know the kid before pummeling him?
"That's my dad's!" The sound of Timmy losing his temper and yelling signaled the beginning of
real trouble. A second of silence, followed by the word, "fight," chanted over and over, rising in volume with each
succession let the entire playground know of an impending tussle. James got up, ran down the hall and outside onto the
blacktop.
When James arrived on the scene Kevin had Timmy on his back. While straddling him, he punched
three short jabs into Timmy's face. The first punch knocked Timmy's glasses off. A second brought forth a spray
of blood from his nose and the third caught him in the left eye. James grabbed Kevin by his collar and hauled him off
the smaller boy.
Got to be sure this looks like I'm not playing favorites. "What's going on here?" He shook
Kevin as he spoke, but the bully just smiled that angelic smile all future convicts have and slowly nodded towards Timmy.
"He took a swing at me."
Timmy propped himself up on one shoulder and glared at the bully, blood flowing freely from his battered
nose. "That's because you stole my dad's hat!" Although the boy's voice was raised, it still sounded choked due
to blood running down the back of Timmy's throat.
James saw tears form. If he cries, there'll be no end to this. He directed his gaze at
Kevin, who in fact, still held the hat. "Is that true?"
A look of innocence crossed the bully's face. "No, Mister Singer. This is my hat.
I brought it to school." Kevin could hardly suppress the grin threatening to escape.
James countered. "Then perhaps you could tell me why Timmy has been wearing your hat all morning?"
Silence answered him. "Kevin, go to the principal's office." A hushed silence swept over the children at the very
mention of going to Mackey's office. Kevin turned to go. "Oh, and Kevin," the bully stopped in his tracks, "you
forgot to give Timmy back his cap."
Kevin stomped up to Timmy, thrust the cap out and casually stepped back onto the discarded glasses.
Timmy's eyes dropped from the outstretched cap to the crushed frames. Kevin's foot came down hard, cracking sounds of
broken frames loud enough for all to hear.
"Kevin!" James shouted his name, barely able to suppress his anger.
Kevin turned, being sure to pivot on the foot covering Timmy's glasses. A grinding sound told
all the lenses were ruined.
James walked to Kevin. "Take your foot off of the glasses now."
"Glasses?" He looked down. "Oh," holding an open palm up to his chest, "I am soooo sorry
Bug Ey--Timmy."
"Get inside," James growled. "Now."
Kevin dropped the cap in front of Timmy, partially covering the ruined glasses and started toward
the principal's office.
***
". . . that's where Halloween really comes from." James enjoyed the roomful
of unblinking eyes fixated on him. The "Halloween" lesson was one of his favorites. Mackey disapproved of this
part of his teaching schedule for years, claiming such a topic to be "too mature" for children. James countered, arguing
if he was forced to teach such things as the "condom curriculum," sex education for a class of children that in most cases
hadn't even experienced their first French kiss yet, then he should be able to teach about the true origins of Halloween.
Mackey finally yielded when James had brought up the point that if the school encouraged costume parties and candy gathering,
he should be able to turn the fun-and-games into a lesson to educate.
"You mean they put on masks to hide from ghosts?"
"Yes, in some cultures. In others, as I said, there were celebrations, and in some cases even
sacrifices." James leaned back against his desk; satisfied at the yearly dose of "creeps" he'd given his class.
He loved getting the shocked looks as the truth about their upcoming night of pranks and candy snatching sank in. Eighteen
children sat silently.
"Tell Timmy to take the mask off, Mister Singer!"
James focused his gaze on the screaming face of Kevin.
"Yeah," Troy piped up, "Halloween's not for another week." Muffled giggles echoed from around
the room.
"Please!" The obnoxious tenor voice of Matt Holt joined in,
"He's scaring me!" Laughter broke loose, flowing freely from the entire class.
Timmy sat, ignoring the chastisement.
"Really now." Constant picking and prodding from hell's version of the three musketeers wore
thin on James. "How about you three stay after school for the next couple of days and help me straighten up the classroom?"
He looked each boy in turn. Troy and Matt stared at the floor, but Kevin glared back with hate filled eyes. I
see prison in this boy's future, I truly do.
The only pair of eyes not fixed on him were those of Timmy Johnson. As per usual, his nose was
buried in a book, ignoring the exchange. He sat, oblivious to the world around him, engulfed in whatever world the pages
before him told of.
James took one step over to Timmy's desk and took the book. The text was old and heavy, binding
barely holding pages in place. He looked up at his teacher, stunned by his return to reality.
"You can pick this up after class." James didn't take the book to punish the child, but to keep
the rules applying to everyone equally. In truth, he knew Timmy couldn't fall behind, he was nearly done with the school
year's curriculum. Odds were, he'd be transferred before the first of the year. Must be tough, being smaller and
younger than anyone else in the class, never having any real friends.
A bell sounded the day's first recess and everyone piled out through the door, with the exception
of Timmy. He stayed at his desk, hands folded one over the other.
"Mister Singer, could I. . . ?"
"No Timmy. Go outside and play. You can have the book back after school."
"Yeah, Timmy," Kevin's voice echoed down the now empty hall, "come on out and play."
"Kevin, would you like to help me during recess too?"
Sounds of quick footsteps growing fainter with each slap of rubber against tile answered.
His student sighed and resigned himself to defeat. Rising, he left the room, shoulders slumped.
Less than a minute later, taunts of "bug eyes", "beetle boy", and 'ball-brain'screamed their way up to James' classroom.
James picked up Timmy's book and gently turned it over. No title had been printed on its cover,
only a series of intersecting raised lines. The leaf, if there had ever been any, had long since vanished. Curious.
He opened the book and flipped through a few age-hardened pages. Lines of text, written in an
elegant style, detailed the symbols. Illustrations acted as aides to the script. At the initial glance, it appeared
to be a form of medical journal, though subsequent pages detailed portions of an antiquated city and even others showed funerary
practices. The language is what stunned James more than anything else.
Latin? The boy's reading Latin?
***
"Look Timmy, I know you're . . . different, but. . . ." James sighed and gathered his thoughts,
"But I'm worried about the reading material you've chosen for yourself. James stressed the word "reading" hoping Timmy
would give some sort of clue via body language as to the depth of the text he'd been reading.
"I keep up with my homework, Mister Singer." The friendly tones normally used now gone.
"I really don't see what I read for fun has to do with this."
Christ on a crutch. I can't believe he's only nine. "Don't you think reading something
more . . . modern would be more to your liking?"
"It's not my fault you can't read Latin."
Timmy hit the nail on the head and they both knew it.
"I know enough to tell that a child your age should be reading a . . . healthier choice of topics.
Besides, you could be doing a lot of other things." James never thought, in this age of illiteracy, he'd be trying to
steer a student away from reading anything.
"No."
He continued. "Why not try playing with a few of the kids?"
"What should I do? Go outside and get the shit kicked out of me by Kevin again?"
"Timmy, watch your langua . . . ."
Timmy was too intent on making his point, dismissing the interruption, "Hide in the cafeteria?
Whine to you?" Tears welled up in his eyes. "I'm tired of being beat up just because I'm smart. It's not
fair!" With that he ran out, but not before grabbing the text confiscated by James.
"Timmy!" Footsteps sounded his retreat. Perfect. He looked out the window waiting
to see Timmy appear on the playground. After half a minute with no appearance, James decided a different route of escape
must have been chosen. I'll just let it go. Maybe he'll have a better perspective on things after the weekend.
***
In
the five days since James spoke to Timmy, the boy'd withdrawn further than before. Until today. This morning Timmy
showed up with a smile on his face and participated in several class activities, all the while making sure not to raise his
hand for every answer. At recess he'd even filed out onto the playground with the rest of the children without protest
or even a single look back.
Outside James could see his class going about the games all kids play. In a distant corner of
the child-filled lot, just past padded swings and a rusting jungle gym, Timmy fumbled with something shiny in his hands
as he sat on the concrete lip bordering the school's playground. It reflected brightly and blinded James for an instant,
leaving a pink spot in the center of his vision.
A gun. Memories of abuses children inflicted on Timmy rushed back to him. It has to be
a gun. The kid's finally snapped. He felt his feet moving under him as if in slow motion. Through the hallway,
out the double doors, past the hopscotch game, around the various cliques that formed each year. To his left he could
see Kevin Dobson, complete with subordinates, walking in the same direction, oblivious to his approach. I'm not gonna
make it.
Timmy looked up. Seeing James, he smiled broadly and closed a small fist around the reflective
object and quickly shoved his hand into his coat pocket.
Kevin caught sight of James at the same moment and turned sharply, angling away and heading for the
swings. Matt and Troy managed a glance over their shoulders, trying to see what caused their teacher to act as if he
were on a track team.
"Timmy," James gasped. Panic winded him and continued to suck air from his lungs.
"Hi, Mister Singer," Timmy said, voice unusually cheery.
His breathing slowed enough for him to
force words out.
"What . . . what do you have in your pocket?"
"Huh?" The boy's smile stayed frozen in place. Bottle thick glasses enhanced his eyes
to the point of absurdity.
James gulped another mouthful of air. "Your pocket, Timmy. What's in it?"
"It's not for you."
His pulse pounded in his chest, certain a shooting was about to take place. "Timmy, you can
either show me what's in your pocket now or you can show Mister Mackey."
At the mention of principal Mackey Timmy withdrew his hand from the pocket, producing a coin nearly
the size of James' palm. "It's a coin, Mister Singer. Neat, huh?" He held it out for James to see.
"My dad works for the museum. He's overseas most of the time, cataloging ancient civilizations." Timmy turned
forged coin over repeatedly in his hands. "He found this during a dig in Egypt. He said it didn't belong there.
Something about what it was made of being wrong. He brought it home to study."
"Uh, huh," James muttered, staring at the coin in his student's hand, using it as a focal point to
force himself to relax.
Timmy continued. "He's had it since before I was born. He called it a penny, but it's
too big. I think it's more. Much, much more." Small fingers traced the rim lovingly, as one would caress
a lover. "There was a piece of rock found with the penny. Do you want to hear what was written on it?"
Before James could answer Timmy muttered words in a long dead tongue. In a whispered voice,
little more than breathed, a string of consonant empowered words lacking even the occasional vowel spewed from Timmy's mouth.
Each expulsion of clicks and utterances too twisted to follow filled his ears. With each liquid-thick word, James felt
his grasp on reality slip.
Nothing he'd ever seen before came close to the elaborate etchings on the coin's face. It flashed
silver and copper in the bright sunlight. James felt his knees give way, dropping him in front of the boy, all vision
swallowed by the coin. He leaned closer and the disk Timmy held in his hands changed hue. Copper shifted to a
deep bronze then to a lighter golden color. Etchings gave way to other, more delicately defined lines appearing under
closer scrutiny. Miniscule patterns became visible between the smallest lines, coming together in a maddening arrangement.
Impossible. There's too much detail. A realization hit him. It's just not possible.
"Tell me, Mister Singer, what do you see?"
James didn't answer. His peripheral vision blurred, darkened, then all together vanished.
Numbing cold sucked greedily at his senses. Only the coin existed and Timmy's distant voice. A falling sensation
overcame him as the coin seemed to enlarge, creating a new horizon as it expanded. Instinctively, James put a hand out,
bumping into Timmy's invisible knee. The brush with reality eased his vertigo, but only slightly.
Even with his hand
firmly placed on Timmy's knee, the sensation of falling intensified, bringing nausea with it. His lungs burned, taking
in the icy air. As he fell, the designs took on a third dimension. Walkways interlocked with each other, creating
raised access to jutting towers. Open-topped passages that led nowhere or everywhere mish-mashed their way into the
darkened depths of the labyrinth. Outlines of people below, as if ants covering a landscape. Fires burned in what
he thought to be marketplaces. James felt himself suddenly accelerate to his right. Thick, sooty, smoke whipped
past as he altered its ascent.
Below, in the murk, something immense shifted. Walkways disintegrated, plummeting foot-traffic
into the darkened abyss. Pillars and vaguely humanoid statues crumbled.
James started to pitch forward. Ground raced up to meet him at a dizzying speed. His vision
brightened as someone clasped a firm grip on his shoulder, causing momentary double vision from the nightmare back to the
reality of the playground. Vertigo overtook him and he wretched uncontrollably, the spasms racking his body.
Vision swimming, he could hear laughter directed towards him. A silhouetted shape leaned over
him, partially blocking the sun. Timmy's voice piped up, "What did you see, Mister Singer? What did you see?"
The question came not as a verbal jab, but as true curiosity.
James tipped from the kneeling position onto his right side, curling into the fetal position.
He could see a shape which could be none other than Principal Mackey coming up quickly. "James, you all right?"
"I . . . uh, don't feel so good." Don't feel good. This couldn't have happened.
His mind whirled, trying to make sense of the experience. Hallucination? Hypnotism? Dear God, what happened?
Just attempting to grasp the concept of what had just happened forced his stomach into another knot.
He started to regain
composure, pushing himself slowly up into a sitting position. Looking up at Mister Mackey he simply said, "I guess I
shouldn't have tried the cafeteria food today, after all." Children laughed at the comment and dispersed, content with
enough gossip to keep rumors going for the next few weeks. Principal Mackey gave a cocked smile and knelt beside him.
"Seriously, James, are you all right?"
"Yeah. I just got a little dizzy from running over here." His eyes shifted to Timmy, who
still sat on the lip, smiling.
"I saw you shoot out of the school as if you were on the track team. What's gotten into you?"
James noticed Timmy's gaze shift from him to Mister Mackey, taking more interest in the conversation.
He's waiting for me to tell what happened . . . to sound insane . . . to sound . . . to sound what?
"Could I discuss this with you in your office?" He tried to keep his voice low, so as not to attract the attention of
the few remaining children.
Mister Mackey's eyes shifted from James to the children then back again. Smile broadening, he
said, "Sure, James. Let me help you up." With that said he extended a thick-fingered hand.
It took all of James' willpower to resist looking over his shoulder as he followed Mackey off of the
playground. He felt the gazes from the children following him toward the door. To his left, the three bullies
stared in Timmy's direction, laughing about some private joke.
