"Silence"

Franklin D. Heintz, Jr.

It was red. It was round. It was made of paper, the hard sort of construction paper that looks flimsy, but watch out. If you're not careful with it, you can give yourself a pretty nasty cut from it. Wallace held it in his small, stubby fingers. A slow painful cramping worked its way down from his stomach to his groin while the warm, rhythmic, pumping of adrenaline began to pound inside his skull. Although it was only his first year of high school and his second week at Tonty-Whitehead, Wallace knew very well the message behind the red piece of paper.

He looked to his left. Next to him at the adjacent locker, the dumb, fat kid in his second period algebra class was talking to himself as he collected his books for the next class. His name was Greene, but he had not only the misfortune of looking like Porky Pig but also the stuttering voice of Porky Pig. One could easily guess what the less plump and more muscular kids called him whenever their paths crossed during the school day.

At this moment in time, Porky was complaining about how others made fun of his socks, ". . .a-a-and the n-n-next t-t-t-time I hear someone put down my s-s-socks, I-I-I'll . . ." Words to that effect sputtered from his lips.

Wallace had seen Porky staring at him in class; the look on Porky's face was the kind of expression that one might find on the face of the dumbest barnyard creature. He wondered why Porky wouldn't talking to him, why he was always holding a conversation with himself, but Wallace decided that he wasn't going to pursue that issue. For the present Wallace had problems that required immediate attention.

It was 1967, Johnson was President. Vietnam had long since become more than just a strange little country on a map. Both John Lennon and Elvis were still alive. David Wallace had moved to Minneapolis following the death of his older sister. His parents had decided that Jackson, Mississippi had lost its antebellum charm after Shelley's rape and murder. Wallace agreed that the move was a good decision, but he wish that his parents had moved to someplace warmer. Wallace was a student at Tonty-Whitehead because it was close to home, Catholic, and exclusively white in terms of its student body. Yet, in spite of these recommendations, here he was holding what just might be his one way ticket to meeting the invisible choir.

He shut his locker, crumpling the red piece of paper and slipping it into his pockets, hoping that no one had noticed. Too late. He was certain that everyone had seen his action. Quentin, a jock type in his science class, elbowed the other jock, standing next to him, and nodded towards Wallace. They both watched him in silence. Even Porky noticed and quit talking to himself. It seemed as if three hundred eyes had just grabbed him and refused to let go. He nervously looked at his watch. He had to get to fourth period history class. He tried to remember the classroom's location, but his panic would not allow him to recollect even the most simple information.

He suddenly remembered that Quentin was in the history class, and he followed him as soon as the other began to walk down the hall. The meaning of the red piece of paper kept hitting him in the head; he just could not push it out of his mind. He continually though about his short time at Tonty-Whitehead and what he had possibly done to deserve this. Except to watch Quentin's progress, Wallace walked towards his next class, looking down.

When Quentin reached a classroom, that Wallace recognized, he grabbed hold of Wallace's shoulder and brought him aside,
"Your name's Wallace, huh?"
"Yes."
"You do know what that little piece of paper means, right?"

-1-

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