A Champion for our Youth

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire.

I had smelled the smoke through my open first floor window, but since my classroom was only two doors away from the exit, I was certain I’d have time to disperse the offending pile and stomp out the embers, but the dancing orange flame and the thirty-odd sixth graders frozen in awe (not including the three running away screaming) provided a startling tableau to my overconfidence. Had I been a younger man, more full of wind and vigor, the chaotic half hour-long investigation would not have taken place. Had it, as predicted on the local weather, rained heavily yesterday, robbing the leaves of their crispy-crunchiness, Cecil would not have been suspended - after all, there would have been no reason to search the student, and his dad’s lighter would have remained hidden in his left pocket under a bite-worn pencil, a stick of flavorless gum, and a tangle of earbuds.

On the other hand, it could have gone way worse.

In that moment, as the nobility drained from my organs and pooled in the soles of my shoes, Sydney, a damn fool insufferable brat, sainted herself in my eyes forever. 

“I SAW him do it! Cecil put the leaves on fire!”

This drew the attention of the recess monitors - Mrs. Aplett and Ms. Frye - who had, until that point, committed themselves to saving the building against which the pile of leaves rested instead of the children just a few feet away from the open flame.

“I’ve got this. You talk to the kid,” said Mrs. Applet as she reached for her gas-station sized beverage mug. Frankly, I was surprised that the fire didn’t erupt further when that lush poured her drink over the burning leaves, but I guess a drunk old bat can be a hero too - and judging by the three children either politely or sarcastically clapping, she had acted with unwavering gallantry.

Once I realized that the scene unraveling before me was not moving in terrifying slow motion, I attempted to slink back from whence I came, desperately craving the invisibility cloak of the foyer. But Ms. Frye caught me - ID card in hand, ready to swipe - and motioned for me to walk her direction. “What are you doing? You have to come help!”

She was standing between Sydney and Cecil as the boy had just thrown a punch at the girl and her bogus accusation. Ever action-oriented Mrs. Aplett was already shepherding the bystanding children away from the fracas, corralling them in the adjacent parking lot monitored by a crack security guard.

“Get him away from me!” the brat girl shrieked through tears and bubbles of snot.

I ambled toward the altercation unhurriedly as I am neither a fighter nor a lover of phlegmatic emotion. Taking my cue from Ms. Frye, I attempted to corner Cecil, which was challenging as he had begun swinging his arms like a windmill aimlessly attempting to fell a false giant.

“She’s lying! I didn’t start the fire!” he yelled breathlessly. I had to stay silent and patient, lest the child notice some hint of his truth in my affect. “Nobody started the fire. The leaves just started burning on their own!”

Yes, I suppose that is what it would have looked like to an imaginative observer, I thought. The burning bush, a test of one’s faith in the implausible.

“I can’t get in trouble, I didn’t do anything wrong!” He pedaled backward, slowly gaining control over his wayward limbs in the process. I realized that my strategy had unconsciously shifted from passive containment to the hope that Cecil would soon exhaust himself. But I knew these children well, and did not fall for his gamesmanship - I knew that he would find the energy for a second, and perhaps a third, volcanic outburst.

Thankfully, my knight in shining armor, in the form of Mrs. Aplett appeared to take control of the situation.

“What are you doing?” she asked. “You have to get out of here. You’re making him worse!” I froze for a second to process this directive. “Just go get Principal McTierney. She’s in her office.”

Finally! I thought, and took this opportunity to exit, pursued by no one. I had no intention of becoming further involved in this combustible affair by notifying the principal. She’d find out soon enough. I had precious few minutes remaining to avoid grading “book reports” while reorienting myself in the vibrant, lengthy history of Thomas Cromwell that I had been devouring over the past several days. What relief!

But fate intervened yet again, just as I could almost sense the thin paper besotted with ink against my fingers. Principal McTierney burst through the doors as I had nearly completed my escape. Beside her was an even more severe woman who I recognized as her boss - Superintendent Yelton.

“What are you doing?” Principal McTierney said, barely avoiding a collision with my stealthy self. “Wasn’t there a fire? Then a fight? You need to come with us and sort this out.” She rocketed forward, but Superintendent Yelton lingered for a moment, staring with stone eyes deep into my soul, or perhaps even through it. In that instant, I was entirely exposed. What courage I had left to pursue my self-liberation became jelly. I turned and followed the two impressive women back into Hell.

Principal McTierney wordlessly pointed toward Ms. Frye and Sydney, who had mostly calmed in the interim. Her direction was clear - I was to assist in drawing the story from the accuser, that holy terror I had beatified just a short while ago. Lean into the lie, I told myself, and this will be over very soon.

Sydney was clearly struggling to fabricate her account - no sixth grader is an expert at improvisation. Her first attempt to describe the scene preceding the fire placed the pseudoculprit Cecil at least 30 feet away from the leaves next to the big yellow slide. She must have noticed me then, because, as she quickly glanced at my face, she clarified her statement. “Wait, no, he was actually over by the basketball hoop.” A mere 10 feet away - good. I nodded. “Yes, he was definitely by the basketball hoop,” she restated confidently.

“What was he doing?” asked Ms. Frye.

Sydney looked my direction a little too conspicuously, asking for help that I could not provide yet. It was her story, I was just the editor. Ms. Frye turned to look at me and smiled weakly, having clearly just realized I was present. “What was he doing, Sydney?” she repeated, giving her attention back to the girl.

“Well, he had turned on his lighter thing and was walking toward the leaves…” I shook my head slightly and she backtracked, “No, wait, he walked over to the leaves first then turned on the lighter thing.” I rewarded her with a nod and she received it with a grin.

“And then he put the leaves on fire. That’s pretty much it.”

That was it, indeed. Cecil’s destiny was mostly determined. He would be suspended. I later attributed the fact that the boy actually had a lighter to sheer luck, but he probably showed it off with pride earlier in the day - that’s what these sixth grade gremlins tend to do. Anyway, who was I to question the whims of the gods? I was saved.

Well, almost, I thought. I should probably put away that pack of Parliaments I was enjoying earlier.