“Mr. Brooks didn’t have us discuss.”
“I believe I have already confirmed that I am not Mr. Brooks,” I say, leveling him with a stern eye. Inside my head, I think that should this boy go home and complain to his father, who bought my classroom with a cow, I may be fired. Or worse — he could lead a revolt against me himself, getting the other children to turn on me. There are far more of them than me.
But he just sits.
“Let us, ah, discuss the tale, then,” I say awkwardly, leaning against my desk.
Little Annie’s hand shoots up. I nod at her, and she stands and faces me as she answers. “That rich man was right stupid,” she says, then sits down.
I motion for her to stand again. “Elaborate.”
Her eyes are fierce. “It’s like the story of the possum and the snake my momma tells.”
One of the Cooke boys snickers at her but is silenced the second my gaze swivels to him. “I don’t know this story,” I say.
“Snake asks the possum to tote him across the river in his pouch. Possum says no, can’t trust no snake. Snake begs and begs, and finally the possum totes him ’cross the river. Get to the other side, snake sneaks out and bites the possum. Possum cries out, but the snake says, ‘You knowed I was a snake ’fore you put me in your pouch.’”
The snickering Cooke boy — Jebediah — stands up. “That’s not what it means at all,” he says. “The story means that people are generally good, unless you give ’em a chance to be bad. Can’t blame a man for stealing something you leave unguarded.”
Before I can do anything, Annie spins around to face him. “So it’s all right to hurt someone, long as they can’t fight back?”
“That’s not the same at all!” Jebediah says.
“Why ain’t it?” Annie snarls. “Just cause something’s easy to steal don’t mean God ain’t watching you steal it.”
“You got something worth stealing, it’s your job to protect it. But,” Jebediah adds, his voice lowering, “not like you got anything worth stealing, no need to worry ’bout that.”
“Enough!” I roar. I can feel heat rising in my face. I had picked the story with the intention of talking about theft, perhaps seeing if the students would be interested in reading a translation of Les Misérables, but this conversation has hit far too close to home for me.
“Annie is right; if you know someone’s a snake, you can’t trust him. The only problem is, you can’t always tell who the snakes are.” My gaze settles on Jebediah. “And I confess to being deeply concerned with the way you think theft is to be so easily forgiven. Taking something from someone just because you can is still a sin, Mr. Cooke. Go outside and chop more firewood for the class until you understand that lesson more thoroughly.”
Jebediah starts to protest, but whatever fears I had of the students have been burned away by my rage, and they can all see it. He snaps his mouth shut and stomps outside.
“Annie, would you like to read the next story?” I say.
“Can’t,” Annie says, sitting down.
It takes me a moment to realize she means she can’t read at all.
A week later, Annie brings a gun to school.
Well, that’s not fair. Annie — as well as several of the Cooke boys — always brings a gun to school, but they’ve been revolvers, carried in case they run across snakes or something else dangerous on the way to school or back home. It shocked me the first time I saw the glint of metal at one of the boys’ waists, but I’m becoming accustomed to not showing my shock anymore.
But it seems like everyone is shocked by the rifle Annie brings to school on Monday and sets in the corner near her seat.
“This is way too nice,” Jebediah says, hoisting the gun to his shoulder.
“It’s not; the sight’s broke off,” his brother Joseph says. “And look at the stock.”
“Give it back,” Annie protests.
Jebediah is right — the gun is nice. Even I, who know very little about guns beyond a passing ability to shoot them, can see this, despite the damage to it. The sight’s been replaced with a silver dime sawed in half, and a crack in the stock’s been reinforced with wire, but beyond these flaws, the gun looks nearly brand-new. The octagonal barrel gleams and, aside from one deep scratch, looks perfect.
“Give it back!” Annie demands again.
“How’d your daddy get this?” Jebediah taunts, not bothering to return the rifle. “Steal it? Win it in a poker game?”
“Maybe he killed an Indian for it,” Joseph says.
“Not very likely an Indian would have a gun like this,” Jebediah shoots back.
“Give it here!” Annie shouts.
“Sight’s broke off, like the Indians do,” Joseph points out.
“My daddy was given this gun, and you give it back to me now!” Annie stomps her foot.
“Who’d give your daddy anything?” Jebediah says.