The Detention

The following is a work of fiction:

I was perched cross-legged upon a massive boulder that rested in the middle of a clear, shallow mountain stream. The sunlight poured down, penetrating the thick growth of branches that belonged to the surrounding ancient evergreen trees, bathing my body in its warmth. The steady flow of the crystalline water created a soft, white noise, lulling me into perfect contentment. I closed my eyes and drew in a deep breath. Just as I released it, a rush of wind brushed harshly across my body with a loud whistle and then disappeared as suddenly as it came. I felt Goosebumps form on my arms, and at the same time an all too familiar apprehension overcame me. I opened my eyes to see nothing but inky blackness. The sound of that gently flowing water was gone, replaced by a petrifying, motionless silence. No, please, not again, I thought fearfully. I was pulled suddenly and violently into a kind of black hole. My body was being flung in every direction within the whirling vortex, but there was no air brushing my skin or flowing through my locks. I couldn’t breathe and I couldn‘t feel. I was smothered and scared; all alone, empty, falling deeper and deeper into a never-ending vacuum.

“…mma….Emma!” I heard Mr. Haskel say loudly, a twinge of irritation in his voice. I lifted my head groggily from my desk and pushed my long, recently dyed-black hair out of my face. I must have fallen asleep during one of his boring lectures again. I looked around at the class, all of whom were staring at me, feigning an annoyed and defiant scowl and trying to forget the overwhelming emptiness that so suddenly consumed my dream.

The teacher crouched down so his unusually light, brown eyes were level with mine and said, “I want you to come see me after school.” He looked meaningfully at me for a moment and then stood up and strode to his desk in the back of the room. “I want you all to right a five-paragraph essay on the topic we discussed today, it will be due at the beginning of class tomorrow.” The bell rang, and I quickly grabbed my things and headed out, turning just before the doorway to throw Mr. Haskel a dirty look.

Jon Haskel was the eleventh and twelfth grade English teacher at Jefferson High School. He was about 40 years-old, with an average build, and short black hair that had just begun showing his age with a few gray hairs. Aside from these physical features, students would say Mr. Haskel was most recognizable by the fact that he always insisted upon wearing a tie, though it was never tied correctly, looking too loose, terribly uneven, or both. He also had an odd reputation among the other teachers, often being perceived as a recluse, rarely leaving his classroom, and never partaking in staff gossip. In the previous couple of months, Mr. Haskel was just another faceless teacher to me. Lately, however, he had become someone I felt a distinct dislike for. Haskel always singled me out in class these days; he had a knack for asking me in-depth literature questions when I was in the worst of moods and I often caught him looking at me during study time as though he expected me to be causing trouble. Now, he had really done it by giving me an undeserved detention.

Through most of my last period of the day, which was Art, I had Haskel on my mind. In fact I was bitterly creating a dark and abstract painting, depicting how I loathed him. Why do teachers think they own students? I thought as I mixed a dark blue hue with my brush. Haskel can’t tell me what to do! Filled with spite, I resolved that I would conveniently forget the pointless detention, and began formulating plans for what kind of trouble I could get into on this Friday evening. My Fridays had become increasingly exciting since my discovery of the wonders of alcohol a few months back. Alcohol meant I was an adult now--not the pathetic little girl that cared so much about grades and what other people think that I was at the beginning of the school year. It became apparent, however, that ditching wouldn’t be an option once the end of the day announcements hit the speakers.

“…and Emma Russo, report to Mr. Haskel’s room directly after the bell,” echoed the dull female voice over the intercom.

Awesome, I thought. Just announce to everyone that I have a detention with that jerk. I knew now I’d never get away with telling Haskel that our appointment slipped my mind.

The electronic bell sounded three times, signifying the school‘s dismissal. I took my time putting away my painting supplies, I may have accidentally-on-purpose spilled my water cup, thus elongating the cleanup, and once in the halls, chatted up every friend I encountered, and even stopped for a bathroom break. Then, unable to come up with more ways to stall, I reluctantly made my way to Mr. Haskel’s isolated room at the end of a narrow, carpeted hallway. By now the school was quite empty of students, which I took advantage of by lazily weaving down the abandoned corridor toward my impending destination.

Finally I was standing in front of Mr. Haskel’s closed classroom door. I stood facing the opaque glass that formed a window in the worn oak, making the inside of the room look like nothing but warped splotches of color, and took in a sharp breath. Resentment overcame me and I begrudgingly decided to make this detention a difficult one for Haskel. Perhaps then I’d get out sooner. I placed my hand on the scuffed brass knob, turned, and slowly cracked the door open.

“’Sorry’ is the last thing you’re ever gonna say,” croaked a desperate, uneven voice within the room.

I peaked around the corner and saw a wiry boy about my age in a black tee shirt and ripped jeans, sporting messy platinum blonde hair standing tensely in front of Haskel’s desk. He was holding a shot gun--pointing it directly at the teacher who stood on the other side.

“If an apology is what you’re looking for, Michael, you’ll have to find it elsewhere. I’m not sorry for asking the best of you,” answered Mr. Haskel clearly and quite calmly, his eyes fixed intently upon the boy.

I carefully stepped backward into the hall, my heart was racing. The bitterness that just a few seconds ago engulfed me, was replaced by adrenaline, fear, and a concern for Mr. Haskel that I never thought I could feel. For a moment I was frozen, holding my breath. What should I do? I thought. Should I go tell someone? What if it’s too late by then?

I heard the muffled voices of the student and Mr. Haskel within the room. I could see no one else around and I knew someone must get help. So, I carefully slipped off my tattered black canvas backpack and leaned it silently against a locker, stepped out of my dirty white flip flops, hoping to make as little noise as possible, and set off at a jog down the hall toward the office. I rounded the corner into the main hallway, the one I left just moments before, and collided with another student. She appeared to be a freshman from her small stature and the way she stared at the floor while hastily apologizing for running into me. I didn’t respond and girl was about to go on her way, but as though out of reflex, I quickly grabbed her by the arm and pulled her toward me.

“I need you to go to the office and call 911. Somebody has a gun,” I whispered darkly. To my surprise the girl did not protest. She simply nodded and took off in my place toward the main office.

I must have made the decision when I bumped into that freshman, but I don’t remember coming to any definite conclusion as to exactly how I was going to proceed. I just know that I turned around and ran back to Mr. Haskel’s room with the idea that something had to be done before anyone got hurt. Voices still emitted from the room when I retuned. I hesitated for a moment and nearly backed out, but a sudden and frightening pause in the dialogue on the other side of the door made me act. I turned the knob quickly this time, pushed open the door and stepped inside. I still had no idea what I was going to do. Everything felt so surreal.

I could see Mr. Haskel still standing behind his desk. The boy called Michael had his back to me, his gun still aimed at the teacher. He apparently hadn’t heard me enter but the flicker of Haskel’s gaze in my direction was all he needed to know they were no longer alone. Michael whipped around and the weapon was now pointed at me. I was shocked to see that “Michael” was the boy I knew as Mickey. He was a senior, a grade ahead of me. I had partied with him just a week before, only then his hair was dyed purple. The boy’s face looked enraged yet terrified. He was gripping the gun so tightly that his knuckles were white, but it was still noticeably shaking.

“Mickey, what are you--” I began to say softly, taking a careful step in Michael’s direction.

“Emma, no!” Mr. Haskel interrupted desperately, thrusting his arm forward, with his palm out in a stopping motion. His eyes were shifting tensely between myself and the boy. “Michael, please let her go, she has nothing to do with this.”

“YOU SHUT UP!” Michael shouted as he turned back to the teacher. “You can’t tell me what to do anymore!”

Somehow keeping my voice steady I said, “Mickey? What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“I’m teaching him a lesson, Emma! He has to learn that he can’t treat people like this!”

I looked at Mr. Haskel who was already watching me. He was pale and his face was shining with sweat. The teacher shook his head very slightly as if to tell me not to try anything, but I ignored the warning and shifted my eyes back to Michael. “Like what, Mickey?” I asked tentatively. I had to keep him distracted. I had to keep him talking.

Michael turned his head back in my direction. “You--you know what?” He said, his voice cracking. “It doesn’t matter now, because I’m gonna end it!” He turned back and adjusted his grip on the gun.

“NO! Mickey, wait!” I shrieked somehow knowing that if I hadn‘t, Michael would have pulled the trigger. “Is he worth it? Is this jerk worth throwing your life away?”

The boy let out a sob, shifted his weight and looked at the floor, allowing the barrel of the weapon to lower slightly. Mr. Haskel seized the moment of weakness and lunged across his desk for the boy’s gun. The two struggled silently and fell to the floor. The gun was being forced in all directions. I just stood there, transfixed on the struggle, with no idea what to do. I couldn’t move anymore.

The gun went off abruptly. I think I screamed, but I don‘t remember hearing the sound of my voice, only quick bang that came from the weapon . The bullet barely missed Mr. Haskel who was attempting to pin Michael to the floor, and lodged itself in the ceiling, causing a small shower of white dust. I think the discharge even caught Michael off guard because he willingly let go of the weapon. Panting, Mr. Haskel held the gun out of the boy’s reach and scrambled to his feet. Michael still lay on the floor, now freely sobbing and trembling. I could feel my legs growing weak as I stared at the fresh hole in the ceiling. Haskel must have laid the gun on a desk or something because both his hands were now gripping my shoulders.

“Are you alright?” he asked worriedly. “Emma?”

I took my gaze off of the ceiling and met Mr. Haskel’s eyes. “I…yeah,” I answered in a shaky voice. The teacher helped me into a nearby chair.

“That was very stupid,” Haskel said as he and dropped into a chair across from mine. He was breathing hard and I could see the beads of sweat on his forehead. “…thank you.”

I looked over at Michael. He was still on the floor, no longer a threat. “The police should be here by now,” I said quietly.



Three months later, Michael was convicted of attempted murder and was sentenced to a mandatory eight years in prison, a lenient punishment thanks greatly to the sympathetic testimony of Mr. Haskel himself. The teacher and I went on to become good friends, bonded forever by our experience. We often had long conversations in his classroom after school during my senior year and in one of those visits, Mr. Haskel told me that my detention that day wasn’t one at all. He had requested my presence with the intention of asking if I needed someone to talk to; he noticed my dramatic change in behavior over the preceding months and was worried. I often wonder if I even would have listened to him if our meeting had gone as planned and Michael wasn‘t there.

Reflecting on the incident now, I still don‘t know if my actions then were the right ones. I could have easily found another teacher for help or gone to the office instead of the freshman and left Mr. Haskel and Michael alone in the classroom. I do know, however, that if I had not done what I did, I may have never become the person I am today, and Mr. Haskel may not even be here. I worked hard to clean up my act in the wake of that day, realizing that I didn‘t want to risk becoming as lost as Michael, and fought my way to the top of the class in my senior year. I even graduated with honors. It has been two months since my last day of high school and fifteen since the incident with Michael. My appreciation for life now is immeasurable. I have a full scholarship to attend college in the fall, and I’m really looking forward to my studies. I hope to become a teacher.