Boys Life

Dad and Mom came in to talk to me. “Why didn’t you tell us?” Dad asked. “We didn’t know that teacher was raggin’ the kids so hard.” He was, as I’ve said before, familiar with being ragged.
    One of the callers had been Sally Meachum’s mother. Another had been the Demon’s mustachioed mater. Ladd Devine’s dad had called, and Joe Peterson’s mother. They had told my parents what their kids had told them, and suddenly it appeared that though I was certainly wrong for flying off the handle and whacking Leatherlungs’ glasses off, Leatherlungs herself was responsible for some of this.
    “It’s not right for a teacher to call anybody’s child a blockhead. Everybody deserves respect, no matter how old or young they are,” Dad told me. “Tomorrow I believe I’ll have a little talk with Mr. Cardinale and straighten this thing out.” He gave me a puzzled look. “But why in the world didn’t you tell us to begin with, Cory?”
    I shrugged. “I guess I didn’t think you’d take my side of it.”
    “Well,” Dad said, “it seems to me we didn’t have enough faith in you, did we, partner?”
    He ruffled my hair.
    It sure was nice, being back.

XXVII – Snippets of the Quilt
    DAD DID GO TO MR. CARDINALE. THE PRINCIPAL, WHO HAD already heard rumors from the other teachers that Leatherlungs was a burnt-out case two bricks shy of a load, decided that the time I’d spent away from school was enough. No apology was necessary.
    I returned to find I was a conquering hero. In years to come, no astronaut home from the moon would feel as welcome as I did. Leatherlungs was cowed but surly, Mr. Cardinale’s shrill admonitions ringing in her brain like Noel bells. But I had done my share of wrong, too, and I realized I ought to admit it. So, on that day I returned, which was also the last day of school before Christmas vacation, I raised my hand right after roll call and Leatherlungs snapped, “What is it?”
    I stood up. All eyes were on me, expecting another heroic gesture in this grand campaign against injustice, inequality, and the banning of grape bubble gum. “Mrs. Harper?” I said. I hesitated, my grandeur in the balance.
    “Spit it out!” she said. “I can’t read your mind, you blockhead!”
    Whatever Mr. Cardinale had told her, it obviously wasn’t enough to persuade her to hang up her guns. But I went ahead anyway, because it was right. “I shouldn’t have hit you,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    Oh, fallen heroes! Idols with feet of miserable clay! Mighty warriors, laid low by flea bites between the cracks in their suits of armor! I knew how they felt, in the groans and stunned gasps that rose around me like bitter flowers. I had stepped from my pedestal and pooted as I hit a mudhole.
    “You’re sorry?” Leatherlungs might have been the most stunned of the lot. She took off her glasses and put them back on. “You’re apologizing to me?”
    “Yes ma’am.”
    “Well, I… I…” Words had fled from her. She was treading the unknown waters of forgiveness, trying to find the bottom of it. “I don’t… know what to…”
    Grace beckoned her. Grace, with all its magic and wonder. The grace of a moment, and I saw her face start to soften.
    “…say, but…” She swallowed. Maybe there was a lump in her throat.
    “…but… It’s high time you showed some common sense, you blockhead!” she roared.
    It had been a lump of nails, obviously. She was spitting them out.
    “Sit down and get that math book open!”
    Her face had not softened, I thought as I sighed and sat down. It had just been luffing like a sail before its second wind.
    In the hollering madhouse that was called lunch period, I noticed the Demon sneaking out of the lunchroom as Leatherlungs was blasting some poor boy about spending his lunch money on baseball cards. She returned about five minutes later, sliding into her chair near the door before Leatherlungs knew she was gone. I saw the Demon and the other girls at her table giggle and grin. A plot was afoot.
    When we were herded back to our room, Leatherlungs sat down at her desk like a lioness curling around a meatbone. “Get those Alabama history books open!” she said. “Chapter Ten! Reconstruction! Hurry it up!” She reached for her own history book, and I heard her grunt.
    Leatherlungs couldn’t lift the book up off the desktop. As everybody watched, she wrenched at the book with both hands, her elbows planted against the desk’s edge, but it