Chapter One

  I hate history!

  Hate, hate, hate history lessons!

  It isn't that I dislike school — not at all. School has always been fun for me. Everybody always tells me I'm one of the "brainy" kids in the class.

  You know the type.

  I guess it's true. I almost always get As on tests and I'm often the first kid to answer the teacher's questions about literature and math and science.

  I especially love science — chemistry is my favorite.

  Learning new things is pretty awesome, you know?

  But something about history lessons always makes me want to run from our class and throw up all over the bathroom. The funniest thing about it is, I can never explain exactly why I feel this way.

  All I know is that it seems to have some strange connection with our teacher, Mr. Wicker.

  He's a nice teacher — most of the time, anyway. Maybe a little odd-looking, sure. But who am I to criticize anyone for that?

  I'm not exactly going to win any prizes for being the most handsome boy in school, that's for sure!

  Mr. Wicker is very tall and very skinny, with thin black hair greased straight back. He has a tiny mustache and a stubby, crooked nose, and his pants are too short.

  And his clothes are always black. Entirely black.

  Pretty weird for a teacher!

  But the oddest thing about Mr. Wicker is that he seems to like me fine all day long — until our history lessons begin.

  "Very good, Benjamin! You'll be a famous chemist someday," he often says when I answer a science problem correctly.

  He says this in front of the whole class, too. I like that, though it's kind of embarrassing, too.

  But somehow whenever we start to talk about history, Mr. Wicker's attitude suddenly changes. His dark eyes get a funny look in them, as if he's angry.

  Very angry — at me!

  He never smiles at me during history. And he says strange things to me. Only to me, as though I've done

  something wrong.

  That's just what things were like on this one afternoon in November — the same afternoon when all the miserable troubles started for my family.

  Mr. Wicker began giving our class a history lesson at the end of the day, as usual. He had been smiling and laughing and cracking jokes with the other kids and me all afternoon.

  You know how it is with teachers sometimes — he seemed in a really good mood.

  Then he said those awful words I dreaded every day.

  "OK, let's all open our history books now," Mr. Wicker said, suddenly glaring at me. "And I hope you've all done your homework!"

  Only, I hadn't done my homework. Like I explained before, I hate history!

  And I could tell that Mr. Wicker knew I hadn't done my homework.

  "Let's start with — oh, why don't we begin with Benjamin," he said, emphasizing my name. "Benjamin, will you tell us what great evil in this country was a major cause of our Civil War? I'm sure you read your homework assignment last night, hmmmm?"

  Mr. Wicker had been looking down at the book in his hands until he came to that last word. Then he had looked up at me with an expression that I found frightening when he said that one word: "hmmmm?"

  It was creepy, though I had seen that look many times before. There was something in his eyes. But no one else in my class ever seemed to notice this.

  Not even my best pal, Taylor, who sat right next to me.

  I noticed it, though. Mr. Wicker's eyes looked far away, as though he was remembering something horrible and painful. At the same time his eyes seemed furious — almost red with hatred and disgust!

  To me, they looked like the eyes of some killer maniac!

  Whyl Why did he hate me during every history class?

  That look in his eyes made my stomach ache and my blood run cold. I prayed each night never to see that look again.

  It always made me feel as if Mr. Wicker actually wanted to hurt me! My own teacher looked as if he wanted to wrap something tight around my throat and strangle me!

  "Uh, well... sure, yeah, I read my homework, of course," I lied.

  "Then be good enough to tell the class what you read about last night in your history book, Benjamin," he replied with a nasty smile.

  "OK, sure. Well, uh . .. uh, well there was this thing. Uh, and it was, well... it was pretty bad and the North and the South decided they had to get rid of it except..." I stammered.

  "Enough!" Mr. Wicker interrupted angrily, slamming his book on a desk. "I think we can all see that you haven't read your homework! If you had, you would know about this major reason for the War Between the States. Maybe someone else can tell Benjamin. Yes, Patty?"

  "It was slavery, Mr. Wicker," Patty answered smugly, turning around in her seat to sneer at me —

  me, the smart kid who had given the dumb answer. "I did my homework assignment last night, just like you told us."

  "Very good, Patty! Yes, you're right. Slavery is the correct answer," Mr. Wicker said, scowling at me.

  "Slavery has been a terrible, terrible problem around the world for many centuries. Once it was a problem in our own country. Wealthy farmers in the South actually owned other people! Can you believe that? Owned black people as if they were cattle or horses or sheep. And the farmers sometimes kept these slaves in chains and sometimes whipped them until they bled."

  Mr. Wicker was still looking right at me as he talked.

  "Oh, and sometimes they killed the slaves too, right?" Patty added.

  "Yes, Patty. You're right. That's what they did to slaves who didn't obey the rules, and to slaves who didn't do what they were told," Mr. Wicker said. He walked over to my side and glared down at me with the expression of a cold-hearted murderer. "Punishment! Severe, brutal punishment! Swift, cruel punishment! That's what slavery was like. Do you understand me, Benjamin?"

  "Uh, y-y-yes," I said, even though I didn't understand why he was saying this to me.

  "And punishment is also what happens to children who don't read their homework lessons, isn't it?" he continued, his eyes wide and crazy. "You will stay after history class when the rest of your schoolmates are through, Benjamin. Yes, just you and me here in our little room. Alone! Hmmm? And we will learn about punishment together! Do you understand me, young man? You will learn more about brutal punishment than you ever wanted to know!"

  Chapter Two

  School was over.

  I was in the classroom. Alone with Mr. Wicker.

  After the other kids had gone, my teacher had flicked off the lights in the room. Then he had started to slowly walk around my desk, circling me like a hungry shark.

  It was really, really weird! Spooky!

  I couldn't understand why he seemed so angry. What was it about the history lessons that always turned him against me?

  "Mr. Wackerman, sit up straight!" he suddenly barked at me.

  Wackerman is my last name, by the way. Benjamin Wackerman, that's me. I always knew I was in real trouble when Mr. Wicker used my last name like that.

  "Fat people such as yourself should know better, Mr. Wackerman!" my teacher went on. "You look like a lumpy potato on a grocery shelf when you slouch in your chair! It's most disgusting!"

  I was really surprised he called me fat. And disgusting, too!

  My teacher had never insulted my appearance before. Like I told you, he wasn't exactly God's gift to beauty himself.

  When he said those things, I understood that he must really be extra mad!

  True, I may look kind of geeky, I guess.

  And OK, maybe I'm a little pudgy. Some of the meaner kids call me fatso. I have wiry black hair that sticks up in the back of my head, like a tuft of burned grass.

  But so what? There's nothing wrong with that, you know?

  Only the stupid, nasty kids at school make fun of me for the way I look. And I don't want them for friends anyway.

  I have one true friend — Taylor.

  He's a great guy, tall and strong and loyal. He doesn't care what anyone says about me. He stays my friend, no matter what.

  As I sat in the classroom with my teacher, I sure wished Taylor was by my side!

  Things were getting weirder every second. Mr. Wicker continued talking.

  "You seem surprised that I kept you here after class, Benjamin," he said, speaking each word slowly.

  "But I'm your teacher and it's my right. It's my right as your custodian, the keeper of your mind during each school day."

  "Y-yes, sir," I replied, not wanting to make him any angrier.

  "So you shouldn't be surprised. No, not at all! Because you're mine for several hours every day. You and all the others in my class," Mr. Wicker intoned, his eyes growing wild again. "You are my responsibility, don't you see? I control you during that time. I own you!"

  "Uh, o-own us, s- sir?" I stammered.

  "Yes, of course! Your mind, boy! I own your mind! And it makes me very angry — very angry indeed

  — when one of you fails to do what I tell you to do! There must be penalties for that! Punishment, Mr.Wackerman! Hmmmm?"

  "P-p-punishment?"

  Mr. Wicker was behind me, standing so near my back that I couldn't even see him by turning my head.

  But I could feel his warm, bad-smelling breath all over me. And I knew that his eyes were glaring down in a red rage.

  "Yes, because this can't be allowed to continue," he said. "It simply can't be allowed becaus e some day you'll be a fine scientist and so I must stop you from doing this now. Now, Benjamin!"

  I didn't have any clue what he meant. It all sounded so strange.

  Stop me? From doing what?

  I didn't know what he meant — not for another instant, anyway.

  Not until I felt his fingers very slowly starting to circle my throat from behind! That's when everything was clear to me in a terrifying flash!

  Mr. Wicker really did want to hurt me, after all! He was going to do it right here, in this dark classroom!

  My teacher was going to choke me to death!

  Chanter Three

  I tried to leap out of my chair.

  But Mr. Wicker had a tight grip on my throat!

  I tried to scream, but I couldn't. He was squeezing my windpipe too tightly for that!

  This was insane! Completely crazy!

  A skinny, nerdy-looking teacher was going to murder me right in the middle of the school! For no reason at all!

  And there was nothing I could do about it!

  "Heughlph!" I said.

  I was trying to scream the word "help," of course, but it came out all twisted. And it was too soft for anyone to hear, sounding like a squeak from a rusty door.

  "I must end this now! Now, Mr. Wackerman, don't you see?" Mr. Wicker said furiously. "Now! Finally end all of this! You are too dangerous for me to let you live!"

  "Heughlph!" I gurgled again.

  "I'm sorry! I'm very sorry but it's necessary! You've been a terrible threat for too long!" he rambled insanely. "I'm sorry, so sorry but I must do this! I must!"

  I could hardly breathe and I was growing faint from lack of oxygen. As any good scientist knows, the

  cells in the human body need oxygen to live. Soon I wouldn't have the strength to get away.

  I was dying!

  That's when I remembered that Mr. Wicker had a trick left knee. He had hurt it in a car accident years earlier and sometimes it made him limp a little.

  He always joked that he could tell when rainstorms were coming because his knee ached from the humidity.

  It seemed my only chance. I had to strike at his weakness! Somehow, I had to hit Mr. Wicker's bad knee!

  But he was still in back of my chair, choking me from behind. What could I do?

  Quickly, I swung my left leg to the side of my desk. Then with all my might, I flung my foot backwards and up, hoping to hit his knee.

  I used all my force, every ounce of muscle and fat in my body.

  But I missed! My foot whiffed harmlessly through the air.

  Now I was in even worse trouble.

  Mr. Wicker went nutso! He howled like a wild animal and lifted me out of my chair by the throat!

  It was almost like I was being executed by hanging — except the rope was my teacher's hands! Who would have imagined that such a skinny man could be so strong?

  "You disgustin' monster!" Mr. Wicker shouted at me. "You will die for that, sir!"

  My neck hurt worse than ever. I couldn't take even the smallest breath.

  I struggled and wiggled against him with my last ounce of fight. It was no use.

  But somehow I still noticed that Mr. Wicker's voice sounded strange. It sounded as if he had said, "You will dah for that, sir!"

  I realized that he was talking with a Southern accent. You know, like some guy from Alabama or Georgia or someplace like that.

  As I inched closer to death one final thought flitted through my head: "This guy's totally, absolutely wacko! Mr. Wicker isn't from the South! He's from Maine!"

  Chapter Four

  The world was going gray.

  I felt my eyes closing and my body going limp!

  I was about to die!

  Then without warning, I felt my body drop onto the floor like a rock. Mr. Wicker had released me.

  Then I heard him scream in pain.

  I was dazed from lack of C>2 — that's the chemical symbol for oxygen, of course. Oxygen is necessary to think clearly. Without it, you get all strange and wacky in the head, you know?

  That's how I felt right then. Really fuzzy upstairs.

  But as I came to, I could see Mr. Wicker lying on the floor, holding his bad left knee.

  Slowly it started to make sense: I had accidentally kicked him when I was in my death throes. Just as I was ready to pass out for good, I had flailed my arms and legs around one last time.

  And somehow I had nailed him, giving him a good knock on the knee!

  Wow, talk about luck!

  My head was just barely getting clearer. But it was clear enough to see that Mr. Wicker was staring at me in horror. My teacher looked as if he had just awakened from a nightmare.

  "Benjamin! Benjamin, forgive me!" he pleaded, still sprawled on the floor. "I swear to you, I didn't mean you any harm! I was just trying to teach you a lesson. Please, Benjamin!"

  "Mr. Wicker, I think you're totally nuts!" I shouted, struggling to my feet. "You just tried to kill me! You were talking with a Southern accent and strangling me!"

  I hurried towards the door. I just wanted to get away from him.

  "But Benjamin, you don't understand! Please believe me, I didn't want to cause you any harm!" Mr.

  Wicker said in a pitiful voice. "Please, I beg you, son! Don't turn me into the police! It's just that I ... I couldn't help myself! I'm sorry, Benjamin!"

  But I was already outside the classroom door. I started running home as fast as my chubby legs would carry me.

  I couldn't wait to tell my parents. I knew they would call the police and then Mr. Wicker would go to jail, maybe for the rest of his life.

  A crazy man like that shouldn't be allowed to teach kids, I thought as I ran. I hope they lock him up in prison and throw away the key!

  I was puffing so hard from running that I almost felt like Mr. Wicker was choking me again. I could hardly draw a breath.

  Somehow, I made it to my house and ran inside, praying that either Mom or Dad was home from work.

  They needed to hear about the attack as soon as possible.

  They had to make sure Mr. Wicker didn't hurt any of my classmates, especially Taylor.

  I was really lucky again, because both my parents were sitting in the living room with the TV news on.

  "D-Dad, uh, M-Mom, uh, listen ..." I panted. "Can you turn off the news? I have to talk to you guys!"

  Dad turned to look at me. He was smiling.

  "Hi there, Benny!" he said cheerfully.

  Yeah, my parents call me Benny. Pretty goofy, huh?

  "You're all out of breath, son. Sit down and watch TV with us," Dad suggested.

  "Yes, we'll have dinner soon. Pizza, your favorite!" Mom added with a grin.

  Didn't they hear me? Couldn't they see I was upset? What was wrong with them?

  "No, no, no. Listen, you guys! You don't get it!" I spit out. "My teacher, Mr. Wicker — he tried to kill me! Honest he did! He almost choked me to death!"

  They were looking at the TV screen, still smiling.

  "Oh, really? Well, that's nice, dear," Mom answered sweetly.

  I couldn't understand this. My parents always listened to me when I talked to them. But they weren't listening now.

  "Mom! Dad!" I shouted. "Stop and pay attention to me! I almost bought the farm! My teacher tried to squeeze the life right out of me! Look at the marks on my neck! We need to call the police!"

  My parents turned in their seats, with odd expressions on their faces. They seemed to stare at the red marks Mr. Wicker's hands had left on my neck.

  They looked vaguely troubled but not shocked or angry. Didn't they understand me yet?

  Couldn't they tell that someone had tried to strangle me?

  "Why that's — well, that's just terrible," Mom replied without feeling. She said this in the same tone she would use to ask for the salt shaker during dinner. "We'll have to speak to him about that sometime."

  "Yes, Benny. You go wash your hands and come join us, son. We'll talk to Mr. Wicker about this," Dad agreed. "I can't understand why he'd do such a thing to you."

  Then they turned back to watch the TV news as if nothing at all had happened to me.

  And both of them were smiling again.

  Chapter Five

  Things were no better the next morning.

  In fact, they were worse. A lot worse!

  Mom and Dad both said they understood what I'd been telling them over and over since the night before: that my teacher tried to kill me. But they still weren't at all upset about it.

 

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