A Thread, Not a Blanket: Part 2

By Rowenna Broadhead
Grade 7

PART 2

When I went to school the next day, William was very kind—not boastful like I had expected. I ignored him entirely.

When we went to class, the teacher who had decided to talk about threads and blankets decided to review the topic from yesterday's lesson. The new kid was very attentive. I, on the other hand, ignored the review entirely, still enraged by my punishment and the new kid's smugness.

After class, I called my subjects. I could tell they were eager for more mischief.

"I have decided to hit the girls' dance studio!"

Everyone was pumped—everyone but that annoying new kid.

"The dance studio? That's not a great idea—"

"Did I ask?" I retorted.

There was silence, and then William finally stopped pestering us and walked away.

"Anyways, the dance teacher only comes to the studio to practice with her students, namely those girls who aren't in this group!"

"We'll show them!" someone shouted. "You bet!" shouted another.

"Simmer down, simmer down!" I commanded. Within a few seconds, the crowd was under my control. "Since I'm grounded, I will have to find a reasonable excuse for my absence. Any ideas?"

"Oh, oh, I know!" piped up a little boy. "You tell her you got an after-school detention on the telephone!"

"What if she calls my teachers?" I snarked.

"She won't!" he piped up.

"How do you know?" I scoffed.

"You will just tell your teachers that you got an after-school detention. They won't double-check. After your last scheme, they won't be shocked at all," he responded.

Well, he had a point, but it was still risky.

"You sure?" I queried.

"Yes," he insisted.

I had no choice but to agree. Time was running out, and the girls' dance studio would be packed in less than half an hour. I bolted into the nearest classroom, dialed my mom's phone number, and waited while the ringing echoed ominously.

"Hello?" a voice asked.

"Mom, I got an after-school detention," I responded, trying my best to sound depressed.

"I figured as much. How long will the detention be?" she asked.

"I'll get back to you on that," I answered.

"Okay, Deral, come home right after. No going to your friend's house," she ordered.

"Okay, sure," I lied. I felt awful. I had lied to my mom. I was starting to doubt if this was actually going to be worthwhile, but there was no turning back. I had a group to lead, and a general doesn't desert his troop in a time of need.

I sighed, then turned to my eager followers.

"Soap—make sure it's stuff that doesn't bubble. Go!" I commanded.

Everyone got to work while I sat there pondering. Suddenly, William was beside me.

"Hey, you know it's not too late to stop. Why don't we call it off?" he asked.

I glared at him, my eyes latched onto his.

"No, it is too late, and you aren't the boss. I am!" I argued.

William didn't flinch; he just continued to sit beside me in silence. It was quite awkward.

Soon, my subjects came with the most slippery, non-bubbly soap they had stolen from an abandoned janitor cart. I looked at them with approval. William just sighed and went away. I was glad; he had really been getting on my nerves. I just hoped he wouldn't come back, ever again.

My subjects were starting to get impatient, and time mattered more than puzzling over William. I quickly gathered my group and led them to the dance studio. It was locked, of course, but one of the windows was open. I guess luck was on our side today.

We slipped in one by one and spread the soap across the floor, then slipped back out. You couldn't tell anything was wrong, except that the floor looked a tad bit shinier. The dancers were already arriving by the time we hit the sidewalk.

"Break a leg!" we jeered.

It was so ironic. We all crowded around one of the windows, pushing and shoving for the best view. The dancers filtered in, getting ready to do warm-ups before the teacher arrived. Right as the first dancer stepped on the floor, she let out a scream. She slid across the floor with her leg twisted awkwardly behind her. Ouch!

We ran for it. I was feeling sick—it wasn't funny. It hadn't been like I thought it would be. I could tell a few others felt the same way. If that girl went into the hospital, it would be my fault. It would be all my fault.

I escaped punishment, but that made it all the worse. When I got home, my mom treated me like normal. No one knew. I was safe—or was I? It felt worse than being caught ruining the choir. I sighed. I wasn't even sure if I was a good guy trying to have fun now. I may have never been a good guy.

School the next day was boring. We had a quiz on threads and blankets, and I flunked it. The rest of the classes were all painfully boring lessons. At lunch, I learned that the girl had broken her leg and was now hobbling around with a large cast. My group teased and taunted, saying, "Broke a leg! Isn't that the goal in dance?" Stuff like that—it was all rubbish. Knowing what I had done and gotten away with made my stomach squirm. I knew I had to confess.

"I'm sorry. You see, my gang poured soap all over the dance floor, and... I'm so sorry."

I couldn't even look her in the face.

"I forgive you," she replied.

I felt sick, so I turned and walked away. William was at my side within seconds.

"You were right, okay? Now leave me alone!" I shouted.

William looked deep into my eyes.

"I know. Remember the first day? That thread and blanket lesson?"

I nodded, my eyes beginning to water. I knew what he was trying to get at, but I was still the blanket. My group, many threads, made me their leader—more important than the single threads they were. I was the blanket, but now, knowing what I did, I wasn't so sure. Was I more important?

William's face became serious.

"Did you learn your lesson?" he asked.

A sudden rage filled me—he wasn't my mom! Then I remembered the poor girl with her leg in the cast.

"Yeah, I guess," I muttered.

"Then what are you, a thread or a blanket?" he inquired.

"I'm a thread, not a blanket," I responded, and for the first time in my life, I meant it.

The End