Billy’s Bunter
by Walter F. Cuirle
Illustration by Darryl Elliott
It was warm in the back of the third-grade classroom, hot in the glare of the Sun through the windows and starting to get muggy and smell like bored kids.
Miss Barstow kept droning on about something or other up at the front of the room. Billy’s attention wandered with his gaze, through the windows and out to the playing fields, crisp and green in the afternoon Sun. He could feel its warmth on his back, there at the plate.
“William! How would you arrive at the answer?”
Billy’s attention snapped back to the front of the room. Maybe she meant Billy Farlini?
No such luck. She was looking right at him. All that was on the board was “3 Apples” and “2 Boys” and a question mark. Stall.
“The question was, Master Phillips, how can we fairly divide three apples among two boys?”
Oops. She’s using last names and “we.” Trouble. Why is it that she gets to use my first name when she’s feeling good about us and last names when she’s not? We only ever get to use her last name. I guess that says what she wants us to think about her. Never mind. If it’s three equal apples and two friendly boys, I just split one in half but she didn’t say that. Split ’em all in half—but that’s only three cuts so who does the cuts? One guy has the advantage. Split ’em all in quarters and that’s six cuts—that’s it! Like Farlini in the lunchroom.
He stood up at his desk. “Miss Barstow, I would let the first boy cut the first apple, then the second boy cut the second apple, then the first boy cut the third apple, then the second boy gets to cut the first apple again...”
“No, Master Phillips, that is wrong.”
Snickers in the front row. Somebody made a fart noise, probably Farlini, and then a lot of kids laughed out loud. Bigger trouble; she hated it when the class got out of control. Billy felt himself blush.
She ignored the outburst. “We simply divide three apples by two boys to get one and one-half apples per boy. We give each boy one whole apple, then split the third apple in half and give one half to each. That is the correct way.”
Maybe you, thought Billy, but not we. That’s the simplest way, but it’s not ‘fairly.’
Billy swallowed his protest but not before it showed on his face. Miss Barstow’s eyes narrowed for just an instant. She used her best neutral tone and said, “William, please see me after class. You may be seated.”
Billy sank back down into his seat, bright red now and angry. He half heard more snickers from around the room and as Miss Barstow turned back to the board to set up another problem, he felt something splat land on the back of his head. Spitball. He quietly ripped a little piece of paper out of his notebook so he could wipe it off. As he did so, Farlini hissed “Yo, stoo-pid! Geek face!” from his spot in the last row, two seats back and one over.
The rest of the class was mercifully short. Billy was lost in his slowly cooling anger, oblivious to everything outside the top of his desk. He drew a square, then an off-center line through the square, then another line at right angles to the first. He did the same thing with a circle. He drew the pair of figures again, then again, each time varying the position of the first line and the angle of the second. “Sure this will work,” he thought. When he had a page full of marked-up circles and squares, he went back and started coloring in every other segment. Before he had finished, the bell rang. The classroom emptied quickly; Billy walked slowly to the front and presented himself at his teacher’s desk.
“William, do you understand what happened today?
No, not really. “Yes, Miss Barstow. I got the wrong answer.”
“No, William, that is not really the problem. The problem is that your answer was not just wrong, it was,” she tsked, “provocative. You tried to be different so that the other students would pay attention to you. That disrupts the class. That wastes my time and the time of all of the other students and that is not fair. Do you understand?”
Not really, Miss Barstow. “I’m sorry, Miss Barstow.”
“William, please take this note to your father. I expect you to go home directly and to deliver it to him now.” She tore a bright yellow form off a pad on her desk, filled it in and handed it to him. He glanced at it and recognized the standard read-your-mail form:
To: Mr. Phillips. Please check your e-mail after 6:00 p.m. today for a message from Miss Barstow. There is a matter of some concern about your child’s educational progress.
He carefully folded it, pushed it in his shirt pocket, and turned to leave.
“William,” she said, more softly than before.
He turned back. “Yes, Miss Barstow?”
“William, I want you to know that I am not angry with you. Really. I am a little worried. Since your mother’s passing…” she stopped.
Billy stiffened a little. “You mean since my Mom was killed.” Dad didn’t like what he called beating around the bush. “She didn’t pass away or pass on,” he would say. “She didn’t even properly die. She was killed. We can’t let people pretend otherwise.”
Barstow was familiar with the family’s attitude but still uncomfortable with it. “Yes,” she said, “since your mother was,” she forced the word, “killed. I know it must be hard. I know you must feel different from the other children. But it’s better to be like all of the others. Your parents picked this school for you, a traditional school, so that you could learn traditional values and discipline. Our country’s most important traditional value is equality. That means everyone tries to be the same. When you try to be different, that’s not equality. Do you see?”
Billy stood unmoving as she spoke, watching her as only an eight-year-old can. “Funny,” he thought, “she looks a lot like Mom but doesn’t talk like her at all.” Knowing that some kind of response was expected, he simply nodded and said, “I’ll try, Miss Barstow.”
Home was only six blocks from school—four over, two to the left, turn right and up to the front door. Navigation was automatic and as he came to the last half-block, Billy’s spirits were back to normal. The day was still bright and crisp, the Sun still well up so he might be able to deliver the note and get back to the ball field. As he came to the last half-block, he started to play one his favorite private games with the frost-heaved paving squares.
The flood waters were up and the ice floes were jammed precariously between his boat and the base camp. One floe tilted this way, the next another way. They’re all smooth on top, but different sizes underneath and packed together oh so delicately. Step too far to the high side or too far to the low side and the whole pack will break apart. Got to step on just the right spot so the floe goes straight down, no twisting, and I can get safe to the base camp.
Feeling perfectly balanced, effortless, Billy put one foot on just the right place on this floe, then jumped with just enough force to land at just the right place on the next. He worked his way down to the end of the block and landed on the flat new paving block at the corner. “Yaay! Base camp! Made it!” he cheered to himself and turned right on the last stretch to his home.
Up ahead he saw his brother Jim’s car in the driveway. All thoughts of Arctic perils vanished in a big grin at the unexpected visit. A rocket now, he zoomed past the neighbor’s house at the corner, banked tight up his own front walk, and boomed through the front door.
Dad and Jim sat in the wingbacks in the front room, deep in conversation when Billy made his entrance. They both looked up and Jim crouched just in time to catch the impact of rocket Billy in a big hug.