Harvest of Changelings (16 page)

Russell started Resource on September 9, the Monday of the third week of school. Miss Findlay came to get him personally. He was a little scared of her when she walked in the room and asked for him.
Russell could tell this tall, thin black woman wouldn't take any mess off anybody.

“Russell. Go with Miss Findlay. You can correct your test when you get back. You'll be going to her trailer every day at about this time,” Mrs. Collins said from where she sat in reading group. “You'll have reading with her; take your book with you.”

Russell had done exactly as she had said, not wanting Miss Findlay to wait a minute more than she had to. She stood in the classroom door, arms folded across her chest, watching, as he hurriedly got his things together.

“Ready? Let's go. You're late starting Resource here—paperwork and all that mess,” she said as she closed the classroom door behind them. Russell felt drab beside her. Miss Findlay had a bright, multicolored scarf around her head, and her dress flowed and swirled about her, looking at first red, then pink, then orange. “Let me fill you in on what the class project is: we are, each one of us, making a book. In fact, everybody in school is or will be for the Young Writers Conference. I'm just getting a head start . . .”

Resource at Nottingham Heights was in a narrow, rusty trailer parked between three or four pine trees and some pyracantha bushes on one side and the faculty parking lot on the other. Inside the trailer was something like an obstacle course, with file cabinets jutting out at odd angles, crammed book cases overflowing on the floor. Russell followed Miss Findlay into the trailer to a seat near her desk. She kept talking the whole time about this book she wanted him and the rest of the kids to write. There were five other boys and two girls already writing, their desks all in a row, their backs to the windows. Half were from Mrs. Collins's class. Russell guessed the others were Mrs. Markham's kids.

“We are writing stories from dreams. Here is a list of dreams the class came up with—if you can't remember any of your own. Now the rest of the class got started last week so I want you to work hard today to catch up. Try and get something on paper today before you leave. Are you with me, Russell? We'll do reading in a while. Russell?” Miss Findlay said as she sat down, pulling her swirling dress in.

“Yeah, I think so,” Russell said. Writing about a dream would be easy. He took out a piece of paper, and started writing:
One night I had a dream. I was standing in a big, grassy meadow in the middle of the night. The sky was filled with stars and there were two moons in the sky ...

“Russell, I do believe you wrote enough today to have caught up
with the others,” Miss Findlay said when Resource was over. “I bet you will be able to have your first draft done by Friday. Good work. Now, class . . .”

Russell was surprised at how easy the story came that week. For the first time ever the words just came and he could trust them to be right and true. They didn't twist and distort themselves on the paper. The story began with the flying horse and ended with the centaurs, just as he planned, just as he had dreamed. His hands even seemed to be working smoothly—his pencil didn't snap and fly across the room or jab and tear the paper. There were lots of misspelled words, Russell was sure of that, but they weren't scrawled all over the paper or smeared from being erased and rewritten over and over. When Friday came he handed in the story with the rest of the Resource class, sure he had done a good job and his hands hadn't betrayed him. It was a good story.

 

The next Monday morning when Russell walked into Mrs. Collins's room, she told him to go see Miss Findlay immediately.
Hey, maybe she's read
my
story and she loved it. She wants to get it published and let everybody read it. I'll get to read it over the intercom—

Miss Findlay glared at Russell when he stepped into the trailer. She was tapping her long fingernails on the desk.

What have I done now? I just got off the bus and I went straight down the hall and then I came straight here. I haven't done anything. She won't believe me whatever it is. She's like all the rest
—
why did I think she would be different? Boy, I was sure dumb.
And the feeling was the same: bitter, angry, and hard, all tied together with overwhelming sadness. No matter how many times he promised himself he would never let himself like a teacher, let alone trust one, he did. Over and over and over.

“Russell. Let me get straight to the point. I read your story last night and I wanted to talk to you first before I do anything else.” She opened his folder on her desk and motioned for Russell to come and sit beside her.

“Is something wrong with it? I worked really hard on it. I know a lot of the words are misspelled, but you said not to worry about that right now. Didn't you like it?” Russell asked as he sat down. He could smell Miss Findlay's perfume, light and sweet.

“Russell, I liked your story all right. I liked it the first time I read it, when I read Jeffrey Gates's story. Except for some rearranging of the order and a few details, same story. And you and Jeff have never written anything as good before. I even called your old teachers, just
to be sure. I talked to Mrs. Perkins this morning and she told me both of you have come in and checked out fairy tales. What do you have to say for yourself? Tell me the truth: you copied this from a book in the library, didn't you?” She stared at Russell with The Look.

Jeff Gates? Oh, yeah, that shrimpy little kid in Miz Markham's class. He sits three chairs from me here and he never talks.

“I didn't copy my story from nobody. I wrote it all myself. I worked really hard at it.”
Why is it
so
hot in here?

“Russell. Please,” Miss Findlay interrupted, her voice sharp and cutting. “You could not possibly have written anything like this. I know you and Jeff live close to each other. You even ride the same bus. Now, tell me the truth.”

“I am telling you the truth. I didn't copy anything! Did you ask Jeff? What did he say? I've never even talked to Jeff. I did it all myself.” Russell gripped the seat of his chair with both hands. It was really hot in the trailer. Russell could see sweat beads on Miss Findlay's forehead.

“Don't raise your voice at me, young man. Jeff isn't in school today; I'll deal with him when he gets back. Neither one of you is capable of work of this quality—it's just too good. You're getting off to a bad start, Russell—Mrs. Collins wasn't even surprised that you did this. I am very disappointed in you.”

“Miz Collins is a liar and she hates me. I've never copied anybody's work ever and I wrote every word of that story myself. It's my dream! It's the best work I've ever done in school and you think I cheated. I didn't.” Russell stood. He wished he could take back every word he said, every word he had written; he wished he had stayed in bed, safe in the warm darkness, the covers over his head.

“I told you not to raise your voice at me. Very well. Russell, you leave me no choice. I will have to give you a zero and call your father. This goes in the trash,” Miss Findlay said and held his folder over the can.

“Don't throw my story away!” He jerked the folder out of the startled woman's hand and bolted for the door. Russell made his face as tight as he could; if he let go for a second, he knew he would bawl his head off.

“Russell White, you come back here this instant. Don't you dare run away from me.”

Russell tripped right at the door and looked up to see Miss Findlay, her hair, wet with sweat, falling about her face, her bra transparent through her wet blouse.

“Get up. Now. You don't look hurt to me.”

“No, let me go, don't touch me,” Russell yelled and pushed her hands away, as she tried to pull him to his feet. He pulled away, his back to the metal door, breathing hard, and sweating. He was drenched with sweat and the air was close and hot, so hot it almost hurt to breathe.

“I said: get up, boy. If you lay a hand on me, you will be sorrier than you ever have been.”

“I didn't touch you, leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone, I didn't cheat.” He scrambled to his feet and pressed himself as flat as he could against the door and watched Miss Findlay. The only person he had ever seen as angry had been his daddy. She took a step closer and raised her hand.

“No,” and Russell held his own hand up to stop her and he hit the air. It was as if the air in front of him had suddenly acquired substance and heat. The spongy, hard air was hot—realty hot. He pushed the air when she took another step toward him and to both his and Miss Findlay's astonishment, the hard air knocked Miss Findlay down, sprawling on the trailer floor. Now Russell could see the hard air—it was glowing white-yellow and it looked like fire. It flew over Miss Findlay, as she tried to stand, singeing her hair. When she ducked, the air-fire smashed into the bookcase behind her desk. The books, the papers, the wooden shelves, the games—everything burst into flames. Miss Findlay half-stood, her back to Russell, staring in total disbelief at the burning bookcase.

Russell ran.

He didn't look back to see if she was coming after him, if she was fighting the fire; Russell just ran. He threw himself against the trailer door and took the steps down in one leap, gasping as he felt the cooler outside air. He ran to the building, banged the door open, and then, took one look back. There Miss Findlay was, staggering dazed out the door, smoke coming out with her. He couldn't see inside the trailer—only smoke, thick, black, and everywhere.

Russell turned and ran across the hall to the opposite door that faced the playground. Once outside again, Russell took off, kicking up blue gravel. The hounds were after the Red Fox. He barked as he ran past the surprised PE teacher who was taking a kindergarten class out. The fox raced down the hill and across the playground and into the woods surrounding the school. A fox could hide anywhere: under a log, in a thicket, just lay still, panting, while the hounds ran around like crazy. But the hounds could smell, maybe the fox should find a creek . . .

Branches slapped and scratched Russell's face and he was a boy
again. Foxes didn't get popped on the forehead by a dogwood or get spider webs caught in their hair. And foxes didn't trip over logs. Russell slammed against the ground, twisting his ankle as he fell. He dropped his folder and the pages of his story flew everywhere. After what seemed like a long time, Russell started crying. There was the fire alarm, and the siren and the fire truck horns. He had burned up the Resource trailer. Miss Bigelow was going to kill him. It was bad enough he had pushed a teacher—he could hear the principal's machine gun voice repeating those words and over—but he had burned up the trailer. She would never believe him that it had been an accident, he hadn't meant to, and had no idea how the fire had started, it just had.

Magic
—
it had to be magic. Yeah, right, magic.

“Russell? Are you all right? What in the hell happened? Everybody's outside, the fire trucks are here, Margaret Mary—Miss Findlay—is—and you, out here. What in the hell did you do? Have you lost your mind?”

Russell rolled over and sat up to see Miss Montague, the PE teacher, coming through the trees. “I think I sprained my ankle. Can you help me walk?” Russell asked. He figured trying to explain what happened was not worth the trouble.

“You must have lost your mind. Come on, child, let me help you. Let's go, Russ,” she said and they started back to the building, leaving his story behind in the leaves and pine needles.

Russell sat outside the office for a long time, waiting until the fire was out and the trucks, the police, and the WRAL Channel 5 Action News van had left and everybody was back inside. He had never felt so tired in his life and wanted nothing more but to go home and crawl into bed and sleep, sleep, sleep. But his ankle hurt too much and the scratches from the tree branches stung. Even so, he did nod off once, but woke up when his head drooped. Finally after what seemed like days, Mrs. Anderson came out of the office and told Russell Miss Bigelow was ready to see him.

“Now, be smart, boy,” Mrs. Anderson said, shaking her head. “You are in a world of trouble—just say yes ma‘am and no ma'am. Don't you even dream of talking back. Now, just stand there until they tell you to come in.”

Miss Findlay was talking when Russell stepped inside Miss Bigelow's office. “Bad wiring in that old trailer, Hallie. What else could it have been to blaze up like that?”

“You're probably right—but there has to be some sort of investigation, insurance, the fire department. We'll put Resource in the
computer room until we can get a new trailer. Russell, come in,” Miss Bigelow said, shaking her head. She leaned back in her chair, her glasses in one hand, the other rubbing the bridge of her nose.

Russell leaned against a bookcase as the women talked to him. He was afraid to look any of them in the eye, so he stared at the floor and took Mrs. Anderson's advice: no ma‘am, yes ma'am, I don't know, ma'am. He refused to admit he had copied part of his story from any book. His unacceptable behavior, his poor attitude, and his lack of concern for his school work were all discussed in detail.

“Don't you understand, Russell?” Miss Bigelow said. “Don't you see we just want the best for you? All of us—Mrs. Collins, Miss Findlay, myself?”

“Yes ma'am, I understand, I see,” Russell said, wishing he could sit down. His ankle was really hurting now.

“We do care, Russell. But you have to care, too, or it doesn't make any difference,” Miss Bigelow said. Miss Findlay nodded her head in agreement. Russell wondered how the hot, hard air had felt when it hit her and he wondered how to do it again. He had felt
something
when he had
pushed—
he had felt strong. Really strong. And when the fire had started—