Impressionable

It happened again. This time, the Booker boy had done something heinous, so his parents had to be called in.

Mr. Booker glanced at his cell phone with a scowl. Twenty minutes.

Principal Whitmire hurried in. She was a large woman with too much makeup and a permed bob of black curls in a gray-and-white striped dress.

“I do apologize.” She shook the man’s limp hand. “Please, right this way.”

 He and his ten-year-old son James followed behind and piled into the tiny office.

What a toilet, he thought, gawking at the stacks of books, paper, and thousands of magazines lining the walls. It screamed: this was once a storeroom.

Mr. Booker, slender and bony with piercing eyes and a crooked smile, sat in the leather bucket seat. He was nervous yet relaxed, face weather-beaten, sideburns salt and peppered. To Mrs. Whitmire, he looked more like James’s great-uncle than his father. Something about the unkempt flannel shirt and dirty farmhand jeans put the principal on edge. He wasn’t what she expected. She’d met Mrs. Booker at the open house, who was just as scrawny as her husband but neater in dress and demeanor. Not fancy. Just pressed.

“All right, thank you for coming, Mr. Booker,” she squealed. “I’m sure this won’t take too much of your time.”

“Not at all, ma’am. I’m sure it isn’t too serious?”

This better be important, you gargantuan zebra, he wanted to say, staring at her striped clothes.

The principal adjusted her circular eyeglasses and opened a folder from her desk tray, labeled Disciplinary.

“Well, frankly, it is. I spoke to your wife last week about the same concerns. I’m surprised it’s come around again. Did you know—”

“Oh her. My wife has always been a little off, Mrs. Whitmire. She’s a stubborn woman, hard of hearing, talks out of turn.”

Mrs. Whitmire wriggled her nose and looked up from her folder. James sat motionless beside his father, pale and stony. His school bag was tucked under his arm, raven hair combed to one side.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe this explains why your son did what he did today.”

“I’m afraid my wife didn’t mention any issues you were having with Jimmy. As I said, she can be forgetful, clumsy, you know? Why don’t you tell me what you discussed first?”

Mrs. Whitmire drew some reports from the folder and thumbed through them. “Well, as you know, we pride ourselves here at Holly Grove Elementary on our zero-tolerance program and the outstanding track record we’ve kept since.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Although technically our school has only been open four years…”

“Okay.”

“We’ve never had an incident involving children fighting. Oh, there may be a squabble here and there, but nothing like this.”

“So I’m here because Jimmy did what exactly?”

He glanced dismissively towards James, then towards the round woman. Terror filled her heart. “Well, I, uh, I mean, he did something that went against that policy. And we must alert the parents so we may remedy the issue, asap. These things tend to originate from home. Not implying anything.”

Mr. Booker cracked his knuckles. James remained focused straight ahead, neither smiling nor frowning. He listened. None of it interested him.

“Uh-huh. I’m sure. So tell me what happened, specifically.”

The principal’s voice cracked and slowed. “Last week James sparked a quarrel among three kids in the cafeteria, which escalated into a food fight. Some kids got caught in the crossfire. Understandably, they were upset. Didn’t Mrs. Booker discuss this with you?”

Mr. Booker sighed. “You called my wife to the school because Jimmy started a food fight? That’s your big issue, Mrs. Whitmire?”

He lunged forward and smashed a bony palm on her desk. Not once did he look toward his son for a response.

The large woman cringed. She drew her hands back from the folder. Her fingers brushed an alert button under the desk drawer.

“Well?”

“Mr. Booker, he admitted to starting the food fight.”

“And what exactly did he say?”

“We asked him who was responsible—”

“You told him or you asked him?”

She licked her fat rouged lips. “We asked him who was responsible, and the other boys pointed him out as the culprit. He took the blame without argument. We asked him why he would do such a thing and—"

She pointed to James, hoping he’d chime in and calm the man. “Go on, Jimmy. Tell your father what you told us.”

The boy raised his head as if triggered by a button. “I saw it on a cartoon.”

“There, you see?” Mrs. Whitmire responded disarmingly. “He saw something at home and acted it out here, thinking it would be okay.”

“What do you want me to do? Cut off his cartoons? He’s a kid. All kids watch cartoons. I bet even you did when you were a little girl.” Mr. Booker choked with laughter into his fist.

Mrs. Whitmire squinted with hidden animosity. “We didn’t see it that way at first, but you have to understand: Jimmy is quite impressionable. He copies everything he sees.”

“Is that right?” Mr. Booker beamed with a sense of pride.

“I understand that cartoons are cartoons, and boys will be boys. But what happened today goes further.”

The father leaned closer to the desk. “Go on then. What’d he do this time?”

Mrs. Whitmire swallowed and stacked her reports together with trembling hands. “He attacked a classmate with a pencil.”

“Why would he do that? Doesn’t seem like him. Certainly doesn’t act that way at home.”

 She detected a disturbing element underneath the words: he was amused by the whole situation.  

“He missed the first attempt and tried to strike again. Fortunately, Mrs. Paulson intervened, or he would’ve kept on trying.”

“More assumptions. Anything else?”

“Sir! Your son tried to stab his classmate through the hand.”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!” Mr. Booker spat and slammed his fist on the desk. Her chair rolled backwards.

“James admitted doing it on purpose, Mr. Booker. He may not finish the job, but he admits to starting it. Doesn’t that concern you at all?”

“He’s never done things like that at home, and I doubt he’s doing it at your school. It makes no sense. You’re obviously targeting him.”

“That’s not correct, sir. And this is quite serious. Why would he do this?”

“Did ya ask him, Mrs. Whitmire?”

“Yes!”

 “And what was his reasoning?”

“Go on, Jimmy. Tell him where you got the idea of stabbing someone with a pencil.”

Once again, his head twitched toward them and he muttered, “I saw it on a movie.”

She crossed her arms. “You see? Television. That’s the catalyst here, Mr. Booker. He’s mimicking violence seen on television. You must monitor his viewing, because if this continues—and he’s on shaky ground now—he will have no place in this school. Possibly no other ones either.”

Her foot tapped the carpeted floor. She wanted the meeting over. The Booker men possessed vacant expressions that terrified her. Her fingertips settled on the alert button.

“I’d like to speak to your wife soon, if that’s possible.”

He leaped up, shaking his head. “I think we’re finished here,” and snatched James by the arm. “Come on, son. She’s the crazy one.”

But it was far from finished.

Three days later, Mrs. Whitmire called Officer Johnston at the Jackson County 1st Precinct. A young male student had strangled a female classmate on the playground. She was found unconscious on her back, tongue sticking out to one side.

Mrs. Whitmire was horrified (but not surprised) to find James sprawled across the girl, her face twisted in horror. He’d used her pink taffeta scarf and his own hands. When discovered, James was confused his classmate’s screams, by the way she “stopped squirming, all of a sudden.”

But the parade of policemen and paramedics was exciting. It was just like in the movies! He enjoyed riding in the cop car down Hanley Street to the large peach building with sky-high Roman columns and the silver badge on the double doors. He’d also seen this on television. Now he was the lucky guy cruising down the avenue with the red and blue lights swirling above him. He was the star! Maybe if he strangled again, he’d get another awesome escort.

Officer Johnston sent the press away, along with his assistants and secretary. He wanted to sit alone with the boy who had killed his classmate with cool calm. How could this quiet child commit such an act? Where did the rage come from? And how the hell did he hide it so effortlessly? Where were the signs? None showed on his face or in his silent demeanor.

The policeman called the Booker residence. After three tries with no answer, he gave up. He offered James a cup of hot chocolate, but the boy only stared at the mug.

“Why did you attack your classmate, Jimmy? Did you see that on TV? On the cartoons? Your principal says you are quite impressionable. That means you copy what you see. Is that true?”

James sat still with the hot chocolate cooling in his hands.

“Well, you don’t want to talk to me. Maybe if we call Mom and Dad down here…” Officer Johnston picked up the receiver, certain this would scare him into talking.

The phone rang. Again, no answer. The policeman was flustered. He rubbed his temples and set the phone back on the receiver, though it was obvious he wanted to slam it down.

Officer Johnston moved back to where the boy sat and perched on the edge of his desk. He smiled, but aggravation burned behind his eyes.

“Okay, then. I’ll ask one last time then stop asking questions. But you must answer this one last question. It’s very important.”

“Okay,” James whispered. He finally took a sip of his hot chocolate.

The officer leaned in and placed his palms on the knees of his black uniform pants.

“Now, Jimmy, tell me: why did you strangle Madeline Bilter? Hm? Do you know?”

Bemused, he said, “Strangle? No, no. It was a hug. I liked Maddie. I hugged her.”

The officer’s hands felt slippery. “You hugged her? No, Jimmy. That’s not how you hug someone. You put your hands around her neck and squeezed really hard. The other kids said she told you to stop, but you didn’t. She died. People die that way. Do you understand?”

“I only wanted to hug her.”

Anger now. His voice shook. “Who told you that was a hug?”

“Daddy.”

Officer Johnston scratched his head. “Your father?”

“Yes.”

“Your daddy hugs you that way?”

Little James Booker glanced up with complete sincerity, his eyes wide with apprehension.

Then he said, “No, not to me. I saw Daddy do it to Mommy.”