There is a Fine Line Between Escape and Punishment

One lone beam of sunlight curled through the barred window, defying physics to bounce off a mirror and hit me straight in the eyes. The few streams of light that weren't overwhelming my corneas were falling on the dusty cover of a book that hadn't seen this much action – being moved from one shelf to another – in years. A testament to its yawn-effect, in my opinion. 1

I shuffled further down the long narrow rows of bookshelves in the English department, collecting long-forgotten titles by no-name authors to organise them into a system that resembled a normal library. As I passed another small window I looked longingly out at the boys playing soccer, watching them joke around and spend more time laughing than playing, for a few moments before I turned back to the task at hand. 2

How the hell had I gotten myself into this position?3

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Well, the answer to that is fairly simple. 5

I knew more chemistry than Tommy and Jack. Not a particularly incriminating charge in anybody's book, and certainly not enough to merit the punishment I was earning the accolade of that name for, under usual circumstances, but this was a slightly different situation. 6

Let me explain.7

I had been lugging three textbooks over to the science lab, conveniently built about three kilometers (or at least so we all swear) from the rest of the school, at a half jog so I wasn't late for Mr. Hemley's chemistry class. 8

Hemley is an interesting guy. Flab outweighs muscle by about six to one on the short frame, and close shifty eyes are housed under a continually sweaty brow and behind inch thick glasses. A series of tropical shirts worn with khaki pants are in constant contradiction to the mans incredibly dry, boring and pedantic personality. 9

As you may have guessed, Mr. Hemley wasn't our favourite teacher. 10

His adherence to the insane uniform policy that dictated the 24/7 wearing of hats, tucked in shirts and ties so tight they actually chocked you, when normal boredom only threatened such an act, was our main aggravation. Juggling my books in one hand, still at a fast jog, I hurriedly and awkwardly tucked in my shirt. 11

Arriving at Room H just as the period bell went, I dumped my pile of brick-weight books on the desk and tried to catch my breath. Mr Hemley sauntered through his connecting office door with his usual slow pace and yelled at the seven of us – the only grade eleven students in chemistry – to calm down and open our textbooks. 12

“Today,” he had warned us with utmost excitement, yes his excitement was the main warning, “we will be studying reactive metals in water reactions.”13

I was tempted to tell him that name could do with an update, seeing as now days we opted for short, simple and sweet, but I held my tongue and adopted the best chemistry class techniques. Namely, passing notes around the class, getting braver each time, to see how quickly Hemley would notice; playing with the taps on the chemistry benches; scribbling art in my notebook and seeing if I could make him drop the pen he was using to demonstrate some equation balancing by sheer mental power. In two years it hadn't yet worked, but I lived in hope. 14

Halfway through the hour and a half long double, the phone began a tinny ring, and Hemley abandoned whichever reaction he was explaining to a snoring class to answer it, dryly, with his typical “Dr. Earnest Hemley speaking, how may I help you?”15

Apparently, he informed us when we had suitably woken up and rubbed the sleep out of our eyes, he was needed at the office and might not be back before the end of class. We were to work on problems 1-12 on page 75 of the textbook and complete the unfinished work for homework. We all studiously opened our books and scribbled down answers. 16

Until, that is, he left thirty seconds later. Then we straightened up, slammed closed the books and began a rowdy conversation. 17

With about twenty minutes until the end of class, I found myself in deep debate with Tommy and Jack, two jocks who had no business attempting to murder chemistry, about exactly how reactive sodium is. 18

They were adamant it was as stable as neon or another of the eighth valence electron group members. I was patiently explaining that since it was toward the left, and bottom, of the Periodic Table it would be very reactive. Then I not quite so patiently argued that it would react in anything, even the moisture in our fingertips!19

Jack and Tommy reverted back to primary school: “Prove it.”20

I looked at them defiantly, and in a show of courage and rebellion I didn't know I possessed, I entered Hemley's office and unlocked the storeroom, venturing inside to quickly find the right cabinet and grab a good sized amount of sodium – thankfully still in a jar. 21

I rethought my decision and after a moment replaced the glass jar on the shelf, walking out and telling the two jocks to, and I quote, “get a life”. 22

Or at least that's what I should have done.23

Instead I hid the jar underneath my jacket and walked out the unalarmed emergency exit to find Tommy and Jack waiting. 24

With technique worthy of a bunch of sugar-high kindergartners, we snuck down to the creek winding its way around the border of the property and paused. 25

“So...do we just like...throw it in or something?” That particular wit was Jack, who was, in fact, the smartest of the two.26

I nodded. A moment of hesitation later, I thrust the jar in their direction.27

“You do it.”28

“What, you scared?”29

“Are you?”30

They just grinned arrogantly in response.31

With due dread and nervousness I unscrewed the top, thrusting my hand inside and grabbing the large lump. It tingled against my hand, reacting with the minute amount of moisture. I revelled in the small proof of my argument.32

I swung back my arm and in a perfect throw, the lump arced through the air. Then everything went to hell. 33

The lump literally exploded when it hit the water, nearly pushing the three of us back with its force. The heat almost seemed to char our eyebrows, and the log which had been near the impact was now floating downstream in a number of significantly smaller pieces. 34

We looked at each other, one word echoing through our collective stunned minds: crap.35

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As it turns out, the area had been student-free, and we thought we had gotten away with it. Until, that is, Mr Potuwark, the English department head, yelled at the top of his cigarette-smoke-riddled lungs to stop exactly where we were and get over to him right now.37

I was half tempted to point out that we couldn't stop and walk the hundred meters toward civilisation at the same time, but judging by the thunderclouds gathering on the tall gangly man's thin and drawn pale face, I thought it might not be the best time. 38

Needless to say, we were questioned, tried, found guilty and sentenced in one statement. 39

“Get to the principals office!”40

He marched us there, the three boys with their heads hung low, to the beat of some unknown rhythm placed in his head by one smoke too many and by the time we had been chewed out, our parents were there. 41

Not good. 42

To cut quite a long story of anger and yelling short, I ended up with three weeks in-school suspension from the principal and my parents sentenced me, with the help of Mr. Hemley and Mr. Potuwark, to the demeaning job of cleaning the English Department Library and reorganising the ancient filing system as well as the frustrating task of learning, by heart, the reaction of every single element and 50 other common compounds to water. 43

A little overboard, if you ask me.44

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So that was why I was stuck in Mr Potuwak's filthy excuse for a library, cataloging and filing books for an hour of every afternoon for the next three weeks. 46

That was why I needed new loose leaf paper for my folders.47

That was why I was ready to shoot the next person who mentioned in-school suspension.48

One thing was for sure, I thought as I saw yet another copy of Oscar Wilde's 'A Picture of Dorian Gray': next time, I wasn't going to get caught.