Page 1 of Iggy

CHAPTER ONE

Ignatius Michael Victors stared up at the teacher, a ruler gently slapping against the palm of her own hand. The boys behind him were not snickering, not laughing, not saying or doing anything. They were terrified, just like he was.

Their teacher at the orphan’s school for boys was a terrible, horrible human being. Even at nine, Iggy knew that. But what choice did he have? He was left on their doorstep at just three days old and had no clue who his real parents were. He cleared is throat, looking up at the teacher.

“The answer is the Bering Sea,” said Iggy looking directly at the teacher. It was the rule. When you answer, you look her in the eyes respectfully.

The teacher chewed at the inside of her mouth as if she were angry that he got it right. Her hand rose slowly, the ruler held with a grip so tight her knuckles were turning white. Just as she was about to deliver the blow, the classroom door flew open. Principal Marks stood in the doorway, a horrified look on his face.

“Mrs. Crittendon!” he yelled.

“Sir,” she gasped, bringing the rule to her side. “I was just going over a lesson with the boy.”

“A lesson?” he frowned. “Do all your lessons include corporal punishment? Beatings? Humiliation?”

“I-I don’t know what you mean, sir,” she stammered.

“Face the chalkboard, Mrs. Crittendon.”

“What?” she said in shock.

“I said face the damn chalkboard!” The boys all gasped staring at their principal. Mrs. Crittendon turned, facing the chalkboard. He tried to calm his anger. Tried to take a few breaths so as not to frighten the boys. “Boys, she cannot see you. I want you to answer me honestly by raising hands. How many of you have been struck, hit, by Mrs. Crittendon?”

Every boy raised their hands warily at first, then with confidence.

“How many of you have been forced to do something embarrassing? Say, drop your trousers and stand in the corner,” he said clenching his own fists. Half of the boys raised their hands.

“They’re lying!” yelled Mrs. Crittendon.

“And how would you know if they were lying or not? You can’t see their hands raised. You don’t know if anyone raised their hand.”

Her breath was coming rapidly, her face turning gray, her eyes wide with terror. She wasn’t ancient. She wasn’t even old, not even to the nine-year-old boys in the room. She was just forty-seven.

“I-I heard their clothing,” she stammered.

Behind the principal four more people appeared. One was a man she recognized from child protective services. Another was one of the staff nurses. And the other two were easy. They were uniformed police officers.

“Arrest her,” said the principal.

“No! No, you can’t do this! They’re terrible. Terrible, terrible boys!” she yelled.

John Marks wasn’t a man prone to violence or sudden bursts of emotion but he couldn’t control it. He stepped forward and slapped the woman so hard, she fell backward against the chalkboard, sliding down to the floor.

“They are children. Children who act like children. Sometimes their behavior is exceptional, sometimes it’s mischievous, sometimes it’s filled with confusion, and others it’s all energy. But they are children under our protection and responsibility. You will never teach again. Never.”

The adults left the room and the boys sat quietly for a long moment, some with tears threatening to spill. They were too afraid to speak. Even with the teacher gone, they were still worried that if they spoke, they would be struck with the dreaded ruler or something else.

A few moments later, Principal Marks appeared in front of them again. His face was flushed, his hands still shaking. He cleared his throat, taking a seat on the desk to be closer to the boys.

“Boys, Mrs. Crittendon will no longer teach here. I’m so, so sorry that you endured her punishments. It was not okay. May I ask why you didn’t come and tell me?” he said softly.

“Sir,” said Iggy, “she said you would beat us harder.” Marks closed his eyes, shaking his head.

“Oh, Iggy. I’m so sorry she lied to you. My job, all of the teachers’ jobs, is to protect you and help you develop as young men. Striking you is not a part of that. Ever.”

“So, we won’t get hit anymore?” asked another boy.

“No, Will. No one in this school will ever hit you again,” he said calmly.