20

 

“PLEASE NOT THE Hatchet please not The Hatchet please please please please please not The Hatchet . . .”

Sparrow shut her eyes tight and crossed both fingers for luck as she muttered her plea to whatever merciful gods might be listening. We sat side by side in the last row of the auditorium with the rest of grade six, waiting to be assigned to our classes. I was one of a large crop of new kids this year, and I think they wanted to get a look at us, kind of size us up before they put us with one teacher or the other. Each of us wore a large yellow paper cutout of a maple leaf pinned to our chests, with our names writ large in black magic marker. The strong smell of indelible ink flooded my nostrils. 

After we’d been labeled and herded into the auditorium, Sparrow made a beeline for the back as if she were heading for the fire escape. The other girls were congregating in the middle rows and filling in the seats toward the front, but I followed hot on her heels, anxious to stick by the only soul I knew in the building. I was already full of the first day in a new school jitters, and she wasn’t helping any.

Some big boys had beaten us to the last row, and we took the only two seats left, mine on the end by the aisle. Back at Nelson Dewy Elementary, I’d always sat toward the front at school assemblies, surrounded by well-behaved young ladies. I was mortified to find myself amidst a pack of loud, unruly boys, squirming and poking each other as they made faces at us.

Sparrow suddenly ducked low, using me as a human shield while she tore off her nametag and stuffed it into her schoolbag. I did not think that was a good idea at all. She must’ve known I saw her do it but didn’t look at me, so I said nothing. 

There were three women up front. The eldest was the principal, Mrs. Moore. I’d never seen such an old principal; she was slight and frail, with fuzzy gray hair curled so tight from a permanent wave that she looked like a toy poodle. She stood quietly by while a pretty young teacher fairly hid behind her. They hadn’t introduced themselves yet, but of the two sixth grade teachers, one had to be Miss Summers; there was no doubt about which one was Miss Hatchet. She was as tall as any man and built like a brick outhouse, but her charm didn’t end there. In the face, she resembled Grandpa Wind, only heavier in the jowls and thicker though the neck.

The principal raised her right hand to command our attention. It was a small, fragile hand with skin like wrinkled parchment and looked as though a stiff breeze might blow it off her arm. Nonetheless, a respectful hush fell over the room like a gentle wave, beginning at the front and washing about two-thirds down the rows. Sparrow ceased her desperate incantation. Her face grew stolid as a cigar store Indian.

Mrs. Moore may have been the principal, but it was clear who was in charge of operations. She made a brief introductory speech, welcoming new and returning students—then The Hatchet took over.  She began to strut down the center aisle with a clipboard and pen like she owned the place, a veritable sergeant major inspecting the troops. Ol’ Hatchet Face eyed each hapless child the way a farmer appraises his livestock, deciding if they were worthy of breeding or ripe for the slaughter. Her legacy of fear preceded her; timorous children quaked in her shadow.

But what the hell was she up to? The Hatchet was checking off names, and as she paused at each row, a pattern began to emerge. I realized with horror that she was handpicking her students, and when she was done, she’d own them too, body and soul . . . until June 1963.

The Hatchet was belligerent by nature and eager to take on a challenge. She chose the biggest, surliest boys, anyone who dared to sport a sassy look, or was foolish enough to smirk or utter an audible word. With hardly a glance, she passed by the quiet little gentlemen wearing pressed trousers and bow ties, and girls in starched dresses and shiny new shoes. Everybody knew that the town kids were for the most part well-behaved; like me, they were easily cowed if they stepped an inch out of line. It was the wild ones of the backwoods that she wanted to cage, to train up like a lion tamer with his whip. The scruffy-looking kids from the tarpaper shacks didn’t stand a chance; their clothes gave them away, and their fate was sealed. 

Sparrow wore the forest green sweater I’d picked out from Baker’s and her two heavy braids were neat and tight, but the washed-out cotton skirt and scuffed oxfords screamed Second Hand Rose. She slouched in her seat and stared straight ahead. Her careless demeanor and sullen expression didn’t enhance her overall presentation. I was afraid she didn’t have a prayer.

As The Hatchet drew closer I felt a pathetic, simpering smile flicker across my lips. When she fixed her hard eyes upon me, my head seemed to tilt of its own accord in a pleasing gesture of acquiescence. I sat up straighter, smoothed the skirt of my new gray wool dress and adjusted the exquisite little cape collar. That morning I’d pestered my mother to do my hair in banana curls; as a finishing touch, I let a few drape just so across my shoulder. I knew I was a coward, and I hated myself for it.

“You,” she seemed to point straight at me, “stand up.”

“M-m-me?”

“Not you, Miss Curlicue. I’m talking to Pocahontas.”

There was an audible gasp. I felt my jaw go slack. Every head swiveled and all eyes were upon us as girls twittered like birds. I stole a glance at Sparrow. The little gold safety pin was still stuck in her green sweater. The yellow paper maple leaf nametag was glaringly conspicuous by its absence.

I had a close-up view of the wattles on her throat as The Hatchet leaned over me to poke her fat sausage finger into Sparrow’s chest. “And she knows it. I said, stand up,” she barked, drawing to her full height.

The room fell silent. I hadn’t been this scared since my father’s drunken rampage on the road trip two months ago, and the rush of adrenaline suddenly brought it all vividly to mind. My face went hot and my hands went cold. My mouth went dry and tears stung my eyes as they tried to escape, but I fought them back.

Sparrow stood. She stood straight and tall but refused to look at The Hatchet.

“Where is your name tag?” The Hatchet demanded.

“The name written on it was wrong,” Sparrow said evenly. There were gasps all around.

“I didn’t ask you about the name on it!” she thundered. “I said, where is it?”

Sparrow stooped down, collected her drawstring schoolbag, and withdrew the crumpled paper. I didn’t think The Hatchet could look any meaner, but the scowl on her face deepened and her eyes bugged out until she looked like an evil gargoyle.

“Read it.” The whip cracked once.

Sparrow held her head high and gazed snake-eyed across the auditorium with her lips sealed tight as a clam.

“Smooth out that paper right this minute and read your name out loud, so we can all hear it.” The whip cracked again, but Sparrow did not answer. I shut my eyes.

“You listen to me,” she growled. “I don’t know what hole in the woods you crawled out of, but you’re in my class now. I’m warning you: I’ll set you straight—or I’ll send you straight to the girls’ reform school. This is your last chance. Read. Your. Name. Now.” The whip cracked for the third time.

I could tell that Sparrow struggled to keep her hand steady as she held the withered leaf at arm’s length like it carried leprosy. “It says Lisa . . . Lisa Schimschack.”

You could have heard a pin drop. My eyes snapped open and I stared at her in stunned silence. The smug smile on Miss Hatchet’s mug was reminiscent of a giant bullfrog. She turned to resume her duties.

“But it ain’t my name,” Sparrow declared hotly to her broad backside.

The Hatchet whirled on her heel. “What did you say to me?”

“I said: my name is not Lisa Schimschack—Miz Hatchet.”

I wouldn’t have thought anything could faze Ol’ Hatchet Face, but I was wrong. Her eyes darkened as she went blood red from the wattles on her neck to her scalp, until she looked like the devil’s own half-sister. I thought she was about to spit fire.

“I’ve had enough of you!” The Hatchet lunged as if to grab Sparrow’s extended arm, but she snatched it back in time. The crumpled paper fell to the floor. Hot tears spilled over and I brushed them away but now it wasn’t from fear. I was boiling mad. The woman was nothing but a common bully.

I was suddenly standing. I didn’t recall telling my legs to stand, but there I was, standing between my good friend and the monster determined to strip away her dignity, to scourge her with racist derision. I wasn’t sure what was going on with that nametag or what I was going to do next, but I knew one thing: I’d had enough ofThe Hatchet!

“This is my friend . . . her name is Sparrow Wind,” I heard myself say, loud enough to carry to the front row and with only a slight tremor. My brazenness worked like a stun gun. The Hatchet was momentarily caught off guard by such impertinence . . . from Miss Curlicue. I had no time to lose. “My cousin Timothy Schimschack is her half-brother, but she is not a Schimschack. Her father is Chief John Wind.”

That’s as far as I got when she roused from her stupor like a bear from hibernation and trained her wrath upon me. I knew I was no match; but before she could attack there was a clatter of shoes on wood beside me.

Sparrow had jumped up onto the seat of her folding chair and stood towering over us all. Ol’ Hatchet Face was dumbstruck for the second time in less than half a minute; her maw hung open as if it got stuck.

“I am Sparrow Flies-in-the-Wind!” She gestured gracefully with both hands, making the little bird fly boldly while balancing effortlessly on the chair. “My father is Chief Soaring-Eagle.” Her voice rang out over the heads of the assembly. My heart was pounding with pride, so hard I thought it might burst. Then she wrenched up the right sleeve of her new green sweater to display a muscular bronze arm in a fist of defiance. “Ha! Do I look white to you?”

Sparrow shouted a wild Indian war cry as she leapt over the seatback and dashed out the rear door with her braids swinging behind her.

Someone in the back of the auditorium started clapping. It was a lone, hollow sound, but enough to shatter the silence. A few brave souls joined in until it swelled like a rising river into a resounding applause. Having shed the mantle of oppression they began to cheer, banging on the wooden chairs and stomping their feet in jubilation. Boys who knew how whistled shrilly through their fingers. I started clapping too, even though I was the only one standing, standing with no one beside me and nothing between me and The Hatchet.

Suddenly I had a following. One by one they rose up, first the hardscrabble backwoods boys and girls, then the young gentlemen in bowties followed by the girls in starched skirts and polished shoes. That’s when I noticed that the little old principal with the poodle hair didn’t raise a hand, didn’t even try to stop them. I’ll be damned if a sly smile didn’t flicker across her lips. I clapped boldly, leading them on in a standing ovation.

The wounded bear turned and stalked away.

They say there are few things more dangerous than a wounded bear.