17
Fear of the Unknown
Dylan walked into the classroom looking bedraggled and disheveled.
“How was your weekend, Dylan?” Mr. Peters asked from his desk.
“Okay, I guess.”
“I was thinking of you this weekend. How was your visit with the family in the country?”
“Mmm…not so good.”
“Why? What happened?”
“They didn’t like me.”
“Why do you say that?”
Dylan did not answer. He stared at the ground and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“What happened, Dylan?”
“They think…I’m dangerous, and they’re worried about me being around their kids.”
“What happened, Dylan?”
“I started a fire.” He quickly added, “But it was a small one.”
“Oh, Dylan! Why did you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Peters shook his head. “So you chose to be the villain—again.”
Dylan’s brow furrowed and he lowered his head.
“Remember the other option.”
Dylan spun around and sprinted out of the classroom. Mr. Peters leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling. He inhaled deeply and let out a heavy sigh before he shook his head and went back to his work.
Mrs. Carter, the resource teacher, stepped into the room. “Do you want me to take Dylan for the first period this morning and work on some math with him? I really enjoyed working with him last week.”
“That would be good. Thank-you so much.”
“I should be able to take him for an hour, three out of five days, if that works for you.”
“That sounds great. It will be such a relief. Oh, I’ll warn you that he may be a little off this morning—more than usual. He didn’t have a very good weekend.”
“Why? What happened?”
“His social worker is trying to find another placement for him, and he met the family considering it. It sounded like a great place and a nice match for him.”
“What happened?”
“He started a fire.”
“Oh my God!” Mrs. Carter blurted out.
“Why do you think he would jeopardize his placement like that?” Mr. Peters asked. “It’s got to be better than where he is now.”
“Fear of the unknown,” Mrs. Carter said bluntly. “He may not have it great where he is, but it’s what he knows.”
“Yeah, I guess. His foster mother doesn’t give him any privacy. The poor kid is followed from room to room. He’s not even allowed to go to the bathroom in privacy. He has to leave the door open.”
Mrs. Carter nodded with a look of understanding. “It’s not as easy as you think, Mr. Peters. I took in a foster child a few years ago, and I did things that I thought I’d never do. I also followed him everywhere. He wasn’t as difficult as Dylan, but many of his behaviors were very similar.”
“How old was he?” Mr. Peters asked.
“Uh…nine or ten. He used to do such strange things. I caught him playing with matches many times. I became very neurotic. It got to the point where I didn’t allow him out of my sight. I once caught him putting turpentine in a shampoo bottle. I wanted to help him, but my kids were small at the time, and I was worried about them. I know Dylan’s foster mother isn’t an ideal caregiver, but I can relate.”
Mr. Peters did not say anything for a moment. “Wow, you’ve really opened my eyes. I can’t imagine what it’s like to deal with him all day. I only have him five hours a day.”
The bell rang, and the students started streaming into the classroom. Mrs. Carter waited for Dylan by his desk. When he saw her, he cringed and ran straight over to the meeting area. He could feel her watching him, but he resisted looking directly at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her finger move. She was smiling at him and beckoning for him to follow her.
“Aah, I hate math,” he whined as he stood up and proceeded over to the door.
He was leaving the room when Mrs. Carter said, “You’ll need your math scribbler, Dylan.”
“Oh!” he moaned. He stomped over to his desk, lifted up the desktop, and searched for his book.
“Your desk is out of control,” Mrs. Carter said with a smile.
“I just cleaned it,” he said angrily. “I can’t find it. Someone must have stolen it.”
“Here, take this one.” Mrs. Carter reached into his desk.
“I can do it!” he screamed. “You’re ruining my day, you know!”
Mrs. Carter did not say anything. She walked out of the room, and Dylan followed her with his head down.
Mr. Peters greeted his students and got them started on their math. Brandon, Peter, Charlie, and Albert went to the library to work with Mrs. Giles. The students had been working quietly for forty-five minutes when Dylan flew into the classroom. His papers ruffled as he ran, and he was out of breath when he collapsed into his seat. He looked over at Mr. Peters, who was smiling at the flurry of activity.
“When’s gym?” Dylan asked between gasps.
“It looks like you had your exercise for the day.”
“I want to play badminton.”
Mr. Peters walked over to him and leaned on his desk.
“Please, Dylan,” he said quietly. “Look around you. Your classmates are trying to get their work done. You need—”
“Yeah, but when’s gym?”
Mr. Peters smiled and gave up. “Soon,” he said.
“I know what soon means,” Dylan said, “but teachers don’t.”
Again, Mr. Peters smiled. “We’ll be in the gym by 10:30.”
“Are we playing badminton today?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Can I play you?”
“We’ll see.”
“Oh, that’s another one I hate. We’ll see always means no.”
“I have to supervise the class, so I won’t be able to play with you the whole time. I will try to fit in a game once everyone gets going. There are twenty-eight badminton players in this class who’d like to play you.”
“They all suck.”
“That’s not true, Dylan. There are some very good players in this class.”
Before Dylan could say another word, Mr. Peters called out, “Put your books away and sit quietly at your desks.”
Within seconds, the room was silent. All the students had their arms on their desks and their heads rested upon their forearms. A few students could be heard hushing others.
“Why is it that everyone can be ready for gym instantly but it takes you ten minutes for other subjects?” Mr. Peters asked.
“Because gym is fun!” someone shouted out.
Mr. Peters turned. “Oh, and math isn’t?”
Several students shouted, “Noooo!”
“I like math, Mr. Peters,” Michelle blurted out cheerfully.
“You would!” laughed a student on the other side of the room.
Jennifer hit Michelle over the head with a teen magazine. Michelle stuck out her tongue and crinkled her nose at Jennifer.
“Okay, Albert’s group line up.”
Albert stood up. As he walked over to the door, he swung his hips and stuck out his tongue at his classmates.
“Okay, Albert’s group, sit down.”
Everyone not in Albert’s group laughed, and Albert ran back to his seat with a red face. “Thanks a lot, Albert,” someone hissed through clenched teeth. “Now we’re going to get the crummy racquets.”
Mr. Peters called one group at a time to line up. The students were very well behaved after seeing what had happened to the first group. No one wanted a racquet with missing strings. Then Mr. Peters walked to the front of the line and waited for the students to be still.
“Okay, when we get to the gym, grab a racquet and a partner and start hitting the birdie back and forth.”
Mr. Peters proceeded down the hall with his students in close pursuit. As each student passed through the gym doors, he or she raced to the badminton racquets, which were in buckets along one wall. Jennifer grabbed a racquet an instant before Dylan, but he ripped it out of her hands. He smiled and ran off. She was about to say something but realized that she didn’t have time to complain because all of the best racquets were being scooped up.
It took a few minutes but finally everyone had a partner—except for Dylan and Albert. Albert was hitting his birdie as high as he could, trying to get it stuck in the rafters. For every hit, he missed three or four times. Mr. Peters laughed quietly to himself.
Dylan started running all over the gym screaming, “WATCH OUT!” Even though he appeared out of control, he never missed the birdie. Mr. Peters was just about to warn him to stop running when he ran into Janna.
“Hey!” Janna screamed. “Watch where you’re going.”
Dylan screamed back, “Stay out of my way!”
He was about to scream an obscenity but noticed his teacher observing him. Dylan sped to another part of the gym and continued like nothing had happened.
The only two without partners could not play together; Mr. Peters knew it would be unsafe for Albert. The teacher walked over to Dylan, and Dylan knocked the birdie in his direction. Mr. Peters picked it up.
“Why don’t you have a partner, Dylan?”
“Because everyone is lousy.”
“I’ll play with you for a few minutes, and then I’ll find you a partner.”
The two of them hit the birdie back and forth. Dylan never missed a shot. Mr. Peters started to challenge him with more difficult shots, and he was able to retrieve all of them.
While they rallied, Jake disrupted his classmates’ games by hitting their birdies across the gym. Mr. Peters heard the complaints, so he caught the next wayward birdie and glared in Jake’s direction. Jake stopped immediately and went back to playing with his partner.
Without taking his eyes off Jake, Mr. Peters spoke to Dylan. “You’re very good, Dylan. Where did you learn to play like that?”
“I don’t know,” Dylan responded. “Serve, Mr. P.”
“I have to get around to everyone. I’ll find you a partner though.”
Dylan continued playing by himself while Mr. Peters circled the gym, praising the students. Every once in a while, he would stop a game to give a tip or demonstrate a skill to a pair of students.
When he got to Sam and Tony, Mr. Peters jumped in and caught Sam’s serve behind his back. “Hey, Tony! I want you to play Dylan.”
“Oh…he’s mean,” Tony replied.
“You’re a very good player, and he needs someone who can challenge him.”
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Sam whined.
“No. You’re also very good, Sam,” Mr. Peters responded.
“Yeah, right,” Sam said sarcastically. “Who am I going to play?”
“You can play Albert.”
“He can’t even hit the birdie.”
“So teach him.”
Sam started complaining again but stopped when he saw Mr. Peters’s expression.
While Mr. Peters talked to Tony and Sam, Jake began interrupting others’ games again. He was about to hit Dylan’s birdie when Dylan spun around and faced him with fire in his eyes. His sudden movement caught Jake off guard. Jake’s head snapped back, and the birdie bounced off his head and fell to the ground.
“Touch my birdie,” Dylan seethed, “and you. Will bathe. In a pool of blood.”
Jake froze, eyes wide open. He laughed uncomfortably and smiled without joy. Slowly, he turned and went back to join his partner, who was also speechless.
Mr. Peters led Tony over to his new partner. He put his hand on Dylan’s shoulder, unaware of what had just happened. “I have a partner for you. I want you to be nice and play fairly.”
“Who is it?” Dylan looked in the direction Mr. Peters was looking. “That kid? He’s a geek.”
“I will not have this, Dylan. If you’re going to insult the other students, you won’t be playing at all.”
“Okay. I’ll play him,” he said grudgingly. “What’s the kid’s name?”
“You don’t know his name?” Mr. Peters asked. “After all this time, you haven’t learned his name?”
Dylan did not respond. He looked at the ground.
“His name is Tony. Now have fun.”
Dylan hit the birdie to Tony, and he returned it. Mr. Peters watched them for several minutes. Then he continued circling the gym.
Sam and Albert attracted his attention. Sam stood straight up and hit the birdie to Albert, without enthusiasm. Albert swung at it two, three, four times and looked to the direction it should have gone. He was surprised to see it lying on the ground by his feet. He picked it up and swung; it fell to the ground. Again, he picked it up and swung; it fell to the ground. After the fourth attempt, the birdie flew over to Sam who hit it, again without enthusiasm. It was a perfect shot for Albert, but he missed it, and it fell to the ground. Again, Albert picked it up and swung. He missed, and continued to try to hit it. Mr. Peters was about to help Albert when he heard Dylan.
“You no good bum—you’ll never amount to anything!” Dylan screamed at Tony. “You’ll always be a bum!”
“Go to the office!” Mr. Peters yelled.
Dylan bounced his racquet off the floor. He stamped his feet violently as he marched toward the door. Just before he exited the gym, he turned; his face was bright red.
“YOU ALL SUCK!” he screamed.
Some of the students stopped and laughed, but most of them just continued playing. Dylan stormed back to the hallway outside his classroom. He knocked several jackets to the ground as he grabbed his coat. Then he lunged at the door and left the building.
In the upper tower of the creative playground, Dylan curled up into a tight ball. The flimsy tin walls helped shield him from the frigid wind, but a mighty blast whistled through the cracks. A black fly successfully challenged the powerful gust by gripping onto a red, metal bar just above his head. Its wings vibrated rapidly.
Dylan felt the heat of the medallion and reached into his shirt. He placed the object into one of his palms and pressed his other hand over it. A dull glow emanated from between his fingers and warmed his hands. He brought his hands toward his face until one knuckle touched his nose. He closed his eyes and squeezed his palms together. A delicate burning smell wafted into the air.