Our high school transgression - 2

When worn upon a man, there is something about the beard, which can be both your best friend and your worst enemy. On the one hand they conjure up the happy countenances of grey grandfathers and fireside fables and hard candy. Yet, on the other, they enable even the sternest of men to sore even higher- with seeming ease I might add - in the upper stratospheres of effective childhood punishment.

Why do I speak of these matters, you ask?

It was upon the face of our head teacher, a most fierce and frothy beard resided. It was the most oppressive of beards a school boy could lay his not so innocent eyes upon, and it was from behind this lion’s mane, our judge recounted detail for detail the pitiable story of our transgression Timings he knew; details he knew; exact whereabouts, all of these with teacher-like precision he knew. I would not be surprised if he had known the color of the clothes on our backs, or the number of freckles on our faces, or, the exact planetary positioning of the moon in the sky that night. The judge , the sole decider of our young adolescent fate sentenced us to the most cruel and fitting of punishments.

A letter.

A simple letter of apology was all that was required of our guilty hands. For a crime so personal however, a crime so mischievous, a crime which tells the story of every young boy, nothing could be more appropriate.

Our high school transgression

His voice snatched my conscience in mid air. Out of a group of two hundred, six remained. We lined up like suspects against the prison wall. Except we weren’t suspects. Not one who was amongst was innocent. We were guilty. All of us…very guilty.

We took our seats upon the school bench. It was hard. At least it felt hard, like we’d been sat there for hour already. It had been thirty seconds…maybe a minute. Time meant nothing anymore. Until our sentence was over, here we would remain. Our adolescent knees thrust high up in our faces. The ends of our pants far beyond our ankles. We were tall, and the bench was low to the ground.

My fingers were firmly fastened against the underside of the bench. My knuckles white, unlike my conscience. That was far from white now, it was more black. Or maybe a dark. Grey, like the storm that was about to ensue.

The judge approached the bench, letting us marinade in our own guilt and shame. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to speak, but we knew he would. He just watched, not uttering a sound.

His words etched themselves into my very bones. Through my skin and through my flesh. “You boy’s know why you are here, don’t you?” We didn’t reply. We didn’t say even a word. He spoke again, and no reply we gave him. The tension had stolen our tongues, like the moment of our transgression had stolen our consciences.