Pee-Wee had freckles sprinkled over his nose and wore his hair in a flat top. He was quick. He was smart.
Dakota, tall and friendly, could sit in a chair and wrap his legs behind his neck. He made the kids in his class laugh.
Pee-Wee and Dakota were chums.
Their seventh-grade teacher, Miss Hatchet, wore horn-rimmed glasses and she had a braid coiled on top of her head.
One day, when Miss Hatchet was writing a sentence, conjugating the verb shoot on the blackboard, Pee-Wee stood at the left side of his desk, lined up his slingshot, and fired.
Miss Hatchet clutched her posterior and turned. Squinting she yelled, "Who did that?"
She grabbed a ruler off her desk. Smacking it onto her palm, looking this way and that, she marched down the middle aisle. Her wide nostrils flared. Miss Hatchet would sniff out the culprit.
Pee-Wee slumped in his seat. Hiding his guilt behind the pages of a book he pretended to read. After all, she gave him an "F" in English, hadn’t she?
Maybe because Pee-Wee was a wealthy farmer's son, Miss Hatchet passed him by. She zeroed in on Dakota, a poor double-jointed Indian boy. "Did you shoot that spit wad?"
"I… I didn't do it." Dakota's dark eyes stared into Miss Hatchet's magnified ones.
What did Dakota do? He faked a grin-full of crooked teeth.
Pee-Wee hated Miss Hatchet, she was mean.
So, he imagined himself as a superhero. He drank a cup of courage. And he grew. But Miss Hatchet, like a ball of wool, washed in hot water, shrunk.
His eyes turned into lasers and cracked her magnified lenses. Miss Hatchet's pupils became specks in the center of a web.
Feathered, in full Indian gear, Dakota flew like an eagle. He landed atop of Miss Hatchet and pecked. The twisted hair pinned on her head made a perfect nest.
As visions of triumph faded, Pee returned the scene in front of him.
He watched Miss Hatchet grab Dakota and jerk him out of his seat.
Dakota's arms went limp at his sides. When Miss Hatchet raised her hand and was about to slap Dakota on the face; Pee-Wee stood, took out the slingshot stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans.
Straight as an arrow, he aimed. He pulled back on the elastic band. "Stop! Let go of my friend.”
Miss Hatchet dropped to the floor. It’s justice.
Dakota, tall and friendly, could sit in a chair and wrap his legs behind his neck. He made the kids in his class laugh.
Pee-Wee and Dakota were chums.
Their seventh-grade teacher, Miss Hatchet, wore horn-rimmed glasses and she had a braid coiled on top of her head.
One day, when Miss Hatchet was writing a sentence, conjugating the verb shoot on the blackboard, Pee-Wee stood at the left side of his desk, lined up his slingshot, and fired.
Miss Hatchet clutched her posterior and turned. Squinting she yelled, "Who did that?"
She grabbed a ruler off her desk. Smacking it onto her palm, looking this way and that, she marched down the middle aisle. Her wide nostrils flared. Miss Hatchet would sniff out the culprit.
Pee-Wee slumped in his seat. Hiding his guilt behind the pages of a book he pretended to read. After all, she gave him an "F" in English, hadn’t she?
Maybe because Pee-Wee was a wealthy farmer's son, Miss Hatchet passed him by. She zeroed in on Dakota, a poor double-jointed Indian boy. "Did you shoot that spit wad?"
"I… I didn't do it." Dakota's dark eyes stared into Miss Hatchet's magnified ones.
What did Dakota do? He faked a grin-full of crooked teeth.
Pee-Wee hated Miss Hatchet, she was mean.
So, he imagined himself as a superhero. He drank a cup of courage. And he grew. But Miss Hatchet, like a ball of wool, washed in hot water, shrunk.
His eyes turned into lasers and cracked her magnified lenses. Miss Hatchet's pupils became specks in the center of a web.
Feathered, in full Indian gear, Dakota flew like an eagle. He landed atop of Miss Hatchet and pecked. The twisted hair pinned on her head made a perfect nest.
As visions of triumph faded, Pee returned the scene in front of him.
He watched Miss Hatchet grab Dakota and jerk him out of his seat.
Dakota's arms went limp at his sides. When Miss Hatchet raised her hand and was about to slap Dakota on the face; Pee-Wee stood, took out the slingshot stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans.
Straight as an arrow, he aimed. He pulled back on the elastic band. "Stop! Let go of my friend.”
Miss Hatchet dropped to the floor. It’s justice.
