The ruler to my head nearly gave me a concussion; I was seeing stars. The teacher towered over me with it, but I didn’t show him I was fazed.
“Anyone else have any questions?” Mr. Krupnik asked.
“Yeah… why did you do that?” Richard said, outraged. I appreciated his effort but was scared for him.
“Why are you so fat, Mr. Krupnik?” Barry asked.
“Why do you have a bald spot on your head, Mr. Krupnik?” Evelyne asked.
“Mr. Krupnik, why do you wear those ugly shoes?” Keena asked.
It’s hard to say whose fault it was; ours or his. I was just the final straw in Mr. Krupnik’s lousy day, when I had asked him why he scraped the chalkboard with his ruler. But I honestly couldn’t stand the sound.
But he had thought I was just making fun of him, so he had hit me. And now I was mad.
“Can you do that again, Mr. Krupnik?” I asked, half sarcastically and half daring him to.
But Mr. Krupnik said nothing. I saw his hands shaking as he opened his drawer for something. I thought it might be a more painful weapon. Maybe even a gun. But no; he took out papers. Rats; extra homework. Well, it was better than being hit or shot.
But Mr. Krupnik put the papers in an envelope and walked out of the classroom.
“He’s resigning. We finally got rid of him,” Angelina said.
“We finally scared him off,” Evelyne said.
But he came back in five minutes later, slamming the door behind him with such force that it cracked down the middle.
He came back to a right mess: we were certainly not doing our work. Anything but. Kids were hollering, screaming, running, playing cards, talking, laughing, making holes in their desks, scratching their names into their desks, sleeping, and playing on their phones.
We all looked up when Mr. Krupnik slammed the door. Some of the girls screamed.
We waited. But Mr. Krupnik said nothing. Then he reached into the drawer again. And I knew enough this time to duck under my desk.
Sure enough, he produced a gun.
The next time I saw Mr. Krupnik was at the camp run by the mentally ill commune.
I didn’t believe it was him. I did a double take. How could it be? He was in prison.
But clearly he wasn’t.
He didn’t even open his mouth. But he didn’t have to. His eyes locked into mine and said to me, telepathcially, “Hi, Jesse.”
“Hi, Mr. Krupnik,” I said, not knowing if I said it with my eyes or with my mouth or what.
“Don’t be afraid. I’m cured,” he said. “Prison was good for me, then when I got out on parole I joined this group. Don’t worry, I get regular therapy.”
Regardless, I didn’t want anything to do with Mr. Krupnik. I took the next bus out to town and got the hell out of there.
I was the one that got away. The next day the police raided the camp and shot half its occupants dead.
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