It wasn’t much of a fight, and it was my intent to keep it that way. David Bateman sank to his knees and pitched forward. I heard him gagging and wheezing but still did not comprehend that I was strangling him. Just as quickly as the chanting had started, it stopped, and the students scattered as if having heard a silent bell.
Sister Beatrice peered down at me with the same black-eyed, menacing glare of the crow in my nightmare just before its sharp beak pecked at me.
17
Sister Beatrice pinched my ear in a vise grip, and I instantly released my choke hold on David Bateman. She maintained pressure as she dragged me across the playground to her office, so focused on her retribution she did not even bother to check David Bateman’s condition. The last I saw of him, he lay rolling on the ground, gasping.
Sister Beatrice dropped me in a chair outside her office and spoke to one of the women behind the counter. “I believe you know Mrs. Hill’s telephone number. See to it she is here immediately.”
My mother did not work outside the home （I don’t recall any of my fellow students’ mothers having jobs, except Ernie’s mom）。 So my mother was at home to receive the phone call about my “escapade.” It seemed like I sat for hours in that chair, my ear red and throbbing, the side of my face on fire, and my head aching where I’d smacked it against the bench. Finally, my mother entered the office. She was beet red in the face and, for her, unkempt in blue jeans and a blouse. She hadn’t fixed her hair or put on makeup.
“What is all over your face and hair?” she asked upon seeing me.
I had forgotten about the exploding Hostess. I reached up and pulled a slightly hardened glob of cream from a strand of hair. “Twinkie,” I said.
She grabbed me by the chin and turned my head. “Your face is swollen and red, and your ear looks like someone lit it on fire.”
One of the women behind the counter spoke. “Mrs. Hill? Sister Beatrice would like to see you and Samuel now.”
My mother spun and proceeded to the closed door, neither knocking nor waiting for an invitation to enter. I reluctantly followed. Sister Beatrice nodded to the two familiar chairs across from her desk. My mother’s posture was even more erect. She sat on the edge of her seat cushion, legs crossed and folded beneath her chair.
“This is exactly the type of thing I was concerned about,” Sister Beatrice said.
“What exactly happened?” my mother asked, sounding calm.
“Your son,” Sister Beatrice said, “nearly strangled another student. He’s being treated in the health room this very moment.”
My mother looked down at me. “Samuel, is this true?”
I nodded.
“What in heaven possessed you?” she asked.
But before I could speak, Sister Beatrice answered. “I don’t believe heaven had anything to do with this, Mrs. Hill.”
My mother shot her a look. “What does that mean?”
“It means your son is suspended, Mrs. Hill. It means I intend to take this matter up with Father Brogan and the parish board.” Her crooked finger took aim at me. “It means that my judgment about this situation was correct.”
“Did you even bother to ask Samuel what happened?”
“I saw what happened,” she said. “Your son assaulted another student. I watched it with my own eyes.”
“He has Twinkie in his hair and the side of his face has a red welt on it.” She gripped my chin and snapped my head to the side. “How did that happen?”
“Irrelevant to the issue at hand—fighting is grounds for expulsion.”
“I would like to give Samuel a chance to defend himself.”