"Elemental"

                                                    Prologue



“Maybe you can’t change the world, but you can change the people you meet, and change them for the better.”  Jerry McNeill



                                                  November 25, 1991

                        St. Michael, the Protector Church, Greenville, Ohio.



The wind tore at Father Walter O’Malley’s jacket while he took his midnight stroll around the church premises.  Father O’Malley was unusually restless this night and he felt that a walk around the churchyard might calm his nerves.  His black jacket clung to him, soaked from the relentless rain that had suddenly begun to fall.  The brim of his black fedora funneled the water so that there was a constant stream flowing from it.  It was unusual weather, Father O’Malley thought to himself as he walked the grounds. 



        He was almost sure that the weatherman had predicted that there was no chance of rain.  The cold autumn air caused the hair on the priest’s neck to stand on end and the dead leaves squeaked under his wet shoes as he made his way around the courtyard of the church towards the front entrance.  O’Malley hardly noticed the terrible weather.  He had a great many things that troubled his weary mind.  For the past two weeks he had been having these unexplainable dreams, which were more like nightmares.  In each dream it was as if he were awake and experiencing the dream vividly.  He would open his eyes and he was enveloped in darkness, feeling as if he were suspended in mid-air.  It was as if there was nothing but a vast darkness, almost reminding him of the beginning of the creation story.  No matter how loudly he shouted, there was no sound except for the echo of his own voice.  Suddenly there was a piercing screech from overhead.  The sound was better described as a shriek from some large carnivorous animal on the hunt, a war cry, a cry of triumph.  The sound pierced Father O’Malley’s mind like a hot iron spike that had been driven into his skull.  In the darkness the creature slowly emerged, giving off only the light emitted from the murderous red eyes.  He could feel the creature’s hot breath on his face.  It reeked of rotten flesh and death.  He could almost imagine the creature’s jaws slowly closing around his helpless body. 



At the point when O’Malley had felt that all hope was lost, beneath him five faint lights appeared, twinkling in the infinite darkness.  As the light glowed, the faint hint of a melody began to play.  Each of the five lights glowed like a gemstone in a brilliant light, but these stones were giving off their own light, each a different stone, emerald, sapphire, ruby, diamond, and opal which seemed to cause pain to the creature as the light intensified.  The light intensified  and the melody grew louder to a point at which O’Malley thought the stones would obliterate the darkness in light and music; and in an instant a direct, focused ray of light, was given off by each stone.  The man spun around in an attempt to follow the rays of light and there before him was the demon with the insatiable blood red eyes.  The creature’s head was the size of a house.  Its mouth gaped open, oozing a vile, sea green sludge.  O’Malley’s jaw dropped in horror as he caught a glimpse of the rows of razor sharp teeth, almost like a shark‘s, stained crimson from what O’Malley could only guess was blood.  The creature shrieked as the emission of light struck it. The sound caused the old man pain.  He felt as if his head were going to explode, and then there was silence.  O’Malley would sit up in his bed drenched in sweat, quivering all over from the terror that gripped him in the dream. 



The thought of the dream now made him shudder just to think about it.  As he rounded the corner toward the church, his thoughts were pulled away from the dream as he caught a glimpse of a cloaked woman crouching over the steps of the church.  She was humming the melody from his dream.  It was a lullaby.  Just the soothing melody was releasing the anguish from his heart, and he felt a wave of relief and relaxation.  She was shrouded in a cloak that appeared to be made of velvet, and it was a cream pink color that reminded the old man of a rose in full bloom.  The cloak was trimmed in a golden thread design that the priest had never seen before.  The golden clasp of the cloak was two opals with a thin gold chain connecting the two.  O’Malley faced the woman in awe, unable to speak, not wanting to speak.  Finally he gained control of his senses and tried to speak to her.  “Are, are, are you okay, Ma’am?”  Father O’Malley finally blurted out in a shaky tone. 



In a smooth, fluid-like motion, the woman stood upright facing the man.  Her face was shrouded in the darkness of the night and shadowed by the cloak.  Father O’Malley stared at her in wonder for what felt like months rather than moments.  She was of average height, but that was the only thing average about her.  The cloak shrouded her entire body, hiding most of her features.  The hood of the cloak was drawn over her face, hiding all but her ivory pale chin and her full rose-red lips.  She did not speak; she just stood there, frozen in time. 



She’s not a part of the congregation, he thought to himself.  He could see out of the corner of his eye that sitting on the steps of the church was a large wicker basket.  The man focused his attention on the basket for what seemed like a moment and then looked back to the shadowed figure in the darkness, and to his amazement the woman had disappeared.  The priest darted down the alley adjacent to the church, hoping to catch a glimpse of the woman; but as he rounded the corner, all trace of the woman had vanished.  Taking a few moments to catch his breath, Father O’Malley walked back around the corner to see what had been the focus of the woman’s attention.  There sitting on the steps of the church, sat the basket containing an infant swaddled in a sun-fire-red blanket that looked to be made of a fine silk.  Father O’Malley stared into the infant’s chocolate brown eyes; he was at a loss for words.  The child was motionless as if he were asleep, but he was wide-awake, staring up into the old pastor’s eyes.  Sitting in the basket with the child was a scroll made of some sort of rough leather, wrapped in a leather cord.  The old priest’s eyes were now drawn to a small talisman securely attached to the cord.  It was a red ruby that radiated a brilliant light.  Father O’Malley was exhausted but as he held the red ruby in his hand, he could have sworn that the strange object was giving off heat. 



“Who are you, little guy?” the old man asked the boy as if he expected to get a response from the child.  It seemed as if the child had understood the question as he looked over to a note attached to the basket.  Father O’Malley, as easily as he possibly could without startling the child, reached in and plucked the note out of the basket. The note read:



This is my son Jacob.  Because of unforeseen circumstances, I am unable to protect him.  Please watch over him and do not inform him of anything that has transpired this night until the day of his eighteenth birthday.  The scroll must not leave the church and cannot be opened by anyone but Jacob on his eighteenth birth date. On this date present him with the scroll, which will provide him with the path to the truth of who he is and why I cannot be with him.  I beg of you to inform no one of the scroll including Jacob.  It is of the utmost importance that you keep all that has transpired a secret for his and your safety.  I want you to let my son know that his mother loves him dearly, and I hope that the day will come when we can be reunited once more.

            Sincerely Clementia.



  Father O’Malley read through the note twice before he realized he was soaked through from the rain pelting around him.  Without thinking, as if it were some instinct, he picked up the basket containing the child and headed into the warmth of the church.  Once there he called the rectory housekeeper, Joan Wadsworth.  Joan had been working for St. Michael’s for the past eighteen years and was well known within the small community.  She was in her late forties and was an intellectual-type person.  Joan arrived less than twenty minutes after receiving the call.  Her slate gray Oldsmobile sputtered in protest as she pulled up to the curb.  As she approached the door, Father O’Malley was already waiting for her.  In his arms she could see the child that her pastor had recently spoken about.



“How is he?” she asked, her voice small and quiet over the torrent of rain outside the rectory. 



“He is still sleeping.  He has not made a sound since I found him,”  Father O’Malley replied, his voice filled with concern and unease. 



“May I see him?” Joan asked.  There was much excitement in her voice as her arms stretched out to grasp the child from the weary man.  Father O’Malley handed the boy over without saying a word.  Joan cuddled the baby in her arm, smiling gently at the peacefully sleeping infant.  “What are you going to do with him?” she asked, in a tone that gave a sense of hope. 



“That’s why I called you here,” Father O’Malley said eagerly.  “I have no idea what to do.  I thought of handing him over to the authorities, but that was against the woman’s wishes.”  He paused for a moment and glanced at the child and then back to Joan.  “I wanted to know if you could think of any family that would be able and willing to take this child in and care for him.”



The room was silent for several minutes; and then Joan spoke up, “Well, you know that my husband, Jerry and I…” she paused, looking away, almost embarrassed,  “…could never have children of our own and I know that he would support the decision to adopt this child.”  She let her voice trail away and looked longingly into the face of the dozing child and then looked into the priest’s face; her aged eyes behind her rectangular wire-framed spectacles gave a look of longing that reminded Fr. O’Malley of the face that a young boy makes when he asks his mother to keep a stray cat or dog. 



“Ohhh…”  muttered O’Malley.  This was a totally unexpected turn of events in an

already strange night.  “Umm, well, if you want to take care of him, I see no reason why you and your husband should not.”  Joan’s face was filled with an expression of excitement. 



“Are you sure?” she said, feebly attempting to hide the excitement in her voice.

“Well, do you need anything to take care of him?” The father asked, thinking of the storage garage next to the rectory that was filled with canned goods and basic childcare items that were donated to the church to assist the needy of the community.

“Well, actually yes…”  It was another hour before Joan had all that she would need to take care of young Jacob.  Father O’Malley waved goodbye  from the rectory as he watched Joan drive away, eager to show her husband the newest member of their little family.



         Father O’Malley slowly staggered to his room, exhausted from all of the night’s occurrences.  As he exchanged his clothes for his pajamas, he looked to the end table beside his bed.  There sat the leather scroll with the strange fire-red ruby talisman.  He walked over to the table and picked up the scroll.  Turning it around in his hands, he looked it over.  The scroll was made of well-worn leather, wrapped several times around a cylinder of wood that looked and smelled like rose wood.  The black leather cord that secured the parchment to the cylinder had a series of metal beads clipped into the leather. “It must be a necklace,” thought the weary man.  Then he looked at the ruby.  It shined as if it were alive.  The intensity was breathtaking.  As he peered into it, it reminded him of the ruby in the darkness.  He shuddered, thinking about the nightmare that hadn’t crossed his mind since the strange encounter with the mysterious woman and the finding of young Jacob.  Taking a deep breath, he sighed with relief as he took the scroll and placed it in the far back of the drawer of his night stand, sure that it would not be disturbed there for the next eighteen years.           

                                                    Chapter 1

                                              “The Musketeers”



“If you don’t

make life fun, then you have nothing to live for.” Lt. Jacob Smith and Lt. Ben Augur



“Jake? Jake, are you awake?” my grandfather called,  his voice filled with annoyance as he opened the door that led to my bedroom and saw me sprawled out on my mattress, still asleep. Clutched in my arms my worn copy of J.R.R Tolkien’s The Hobbit.  There wasn’t much left that would distinguish the book as what it really was.  I had read it so much that the bindings that contained the pages had failed.  I was forced to repair it myself, causing it to look like a wad of duct tape rather than a book.

“You’re still asleep?” his voice more in amazement, rather than questioning.  “If you didn’t stay up so late reading those books, you could have gotten your chores done before you had to leave for school this morning,” he lectured.



“Grandpa,” I groaned.  “Just give me five more minutes.”  I murmured under my breath.  The only thing running through my head was stories of knights and wizards on great quests and eagerly wishing to get back to my latest dream of my saving a fair-haired maiden from a ferocious monster; she was about to repay me for my heroics with a kiss.



“In five more minutes, you will be late for school.  Now get up, get dressed, and get ready for school,”  he ordered in a calm, but urgent voice and then turned and walked down the hall towards the kitchen, his heavy work boots announcing his presence with every step.  I looked at my small analog clock sitting on my dresser and realized that he was right.



“It’s already 7:30,” I groaned aloud to myself.  As I sat up in bed, my joints popped in protest from the awkward position my body was in most of the night.  I reached my arms up toward the ceiling, trying to ease my muscles back into their comfort zones again.  The attempt was in vain.  My whole left shoulder and arm were still fast asleep from the minor lack of circulation from my whole body’s dead weight resting atop them throughout the night.  I tried to shake some feeling back into them, only to get the strange tingling sensation of what felt like hundreds of tiny needles prickling my skin as the blood flow returned full force. 



Ignoring the irritating feeling in my arm, I rubbed my eyes in a feeble attempt to help them adjust to the light pouring in the single window of my room.  My room was no bigger than a walk-in closet.  It could barely support my bed, let alone my small dresser containing my few clothes and my stacks of books resting on top of it.  Rolling onto my opposite shoulder, I grabbed a fresh change of clothes from my dresser.  With the coordination of a zombie I got out of bed and staggered down the hall to my bathroom.  I took a quick shower and then pulled on my favorite old tattered jean painter’s pants, minding the forming holes in the knees and attempting not to rip them any further, forcing Grandma Joan to discard them or add another patch to the half a dozen already holding what was left of the worn material together.  I pulled a worn and slightly faded navy blue t-shirt over my head.  After a quick examination of myself in the mirror and a minor effort to straighten out the mess of my hair, I quickly darted from my bathroom and down the hall to the kitchen.  Grandpa and Grandma were sitting at the small metal folding table in the center of the kitchen, each with a steaming hot cup of coffee, focusing intently on the seven small wooden tiles sitting in a rack in front of them; each tile had a letter on it.  The game of Scrabble had been a pastime for them since before I was born.  Grandma always won.



I had asked my grandfather about this when I had been younger.  With a hearty laugh and a twinkle in his eye, he told me “It’s better to lose to her in a game and let her think she won than to beat her and have her sore at me for the rest of the day.”  That was my grandfather, Mr. Chivalry. 



“Well, good morning, kiddo!” my grandmother sang with her raspy voice, her eyes not even breaking concentration from her game pieces. 

“Good morning,” I replied, trying to hide the sound of exhaustion from her.  I know she saw right through me, but she didn’t say so.



“MAP” Grandpa said, his voice in triumph.  “That’s double word score, which is fourteen points,”  he continued, obviously very pleased with himself. 



“Nice play,” my grandmother commented, not even phased.  “You better get going, kiddo, or you and Ben will be late,” she said to me, smiling.  “Tell Ben we said hello,”  she called, as I made my way towards the door. 



“I will,” I promised as I headed out the door, grabbing both my backpack and my old leather jacket from the pegs, holding them suspended by the door.  As I was slipping on my sneakers, I heard my grandmother shout, “ZIPPER!” I wheeled around in enough time to see my grandfather’s face of victory disappear and contort as if wounded into a face of despair.  “Ha-ha, that’s a triple letter score and a double word score on a Z; that’s a total of 78 points,”  my grandmother exclaimed.  My grandfather just gave me a reassuring look and then winked at me.



“Bye,” I called as I headed out the door. 



“Bye. love you,” they called in unison. 



“I love you, too,” I replied; “I’ll see you tonight.”  As I walked down the gravel driveway, I briefly looked back to my small, pale yellow house. My great grandfather, Albert, had constructed the single story house before World War I.  Its solid oak door had several areas that showed visible signs of wear and weather.  The yellow paint of the house was pealing in several places; the house was in serious need of a makeover, but I didn’t care.  It was my home. 



The high-pitched honking of Ben’s car suddenly broke my concentration on the house. “Hey man, hurry up or we are going to be late,” Ben called from his mustard yellow Ford Mustang.  The car had been a sweet-sixteen birthday present from his parents, and what a birthday gift it had been!  Within the first week of receiving the car,  Ben had been pulled over and ticketed for speeding.  He had been clocked going twenty over in a sixty-five zone.  Of course his parents footed the bill.  Ben and I had been friends since the first grade.  It was a weird friendship when I thought about it.  Ben’s family owned a major corporation that manufactured aircraft parts for military fighter planes.  They were, without a doubt, the wealthiest family in the county, but that didn’t mean that they were snobs about it.  Their factory was only fifteen miles from the outskirts of town and it employed nearly half the populous of Greenville.  Ben was the only child of William and Susan Rovich.  He was easily taller than I by almost half a foot.  His thin, but very muscular, upper body made him a natural athlete, and his shimmering blond hair and ocean blue eyes made him the object of obsession to all the girls of Cavern High School. 



“I don’t think that is possible,” I retorted, “Not the way you drive.”

He throttled the engine in agreement to my statement.  It was only a five-minute drive to the school from my house when Ben was behind the wheel.  I threw my backpack and duffle bag into the back seat of the car and got in.  No more than a second from the moment the door was closed we had taken off down the street.



“So, are you ready for practice today?” Ben asked, his voice filled with anticipation.  Ben and I were members of the Cavern High School fencing team, and as seniors and co captains of the team we had quite a bit of rivalry.



“You don’t have a chance,” I scoffed. 



“I don’t think you will be able to beat me this time,” he said, unable to hide the anticipation in his voice.  “My instructor taught me a new series of moves which should keep you on the defensive, allowing me to obliterate you.”



I wasn’t going to worry about it; Ben was without a doubt one of the best on the team.  His parents had hired a former Olympic trainer to assist him in his technique.  His fighting technique was flawless from countless hours of training, but he couldn’t touch me.  We arrived at school five minutes before the morning bell rang and headed off to our separate classes.  Probability and statistics was my first class of the day, and it was like a trip to the dentist.  Mrs. Craven, the teacher, was a woman of small stature; but she had a voice that could shatter glass.  Her high-pitched voice always reminded me of the cry of terror from a cat. 



“Everyone, take your seats,” she called out in her shrill soprano voice.  I grudgingly moved to my desk.  Mathematics was my Achilles heel.  As a senior I was required to take an elective math course.  When Ben had selected calculus,  I thought he had finally gone over the edge.  I had picked probability and statistics.  Even though it was math, I had to admit that it kept me interested.  For the past week we had been learning about the probability of a high card or a low card to be dealt in the game of blackjack. 



“How are you?” Ellen Marks asked me.  Ellen had moved to Greenville with her father in the fall of our freshman year.  She was naturally pretty, with long brown hair and a complexion that never required much makeup.



“I’m good,” I replied in a whisper so that Mrs. Craven’s attention would not be drawn to us. 



“So you ready for the match?” Ellen asked, her voice barely audible over the shrieking of Mrs. Craven’s voice describing the odds of a spade to be dealt on the river in Texas Hold’em poker. 



“I think so,” I hissed back to her.  In truth I hadn’t given much thought to Friday’s fencing match against the Littleton Knights.

“What do you mean, you think so?” she asked loudly enough that it caught Mrs. Craven’s attention.



“Do I need to separate you two?” Mrs. Craven asked,  her voiced filled with the sound of annoyance from our interrupting her lecture.



“No, Mrs. Craven,” I quickly replied, my mind racing for an excuse for the interruption.  “Ellen had asked me to explain the rules of poker to her.”  Mrs. Craven stared at us for a moment.  She wasn’t buying it. 



“Ms. Marks, there is a diagram on the back of the handout that gives a list of all of the hands in poker,”  she lectured.  I blew a sigh of relief as she turned around and started handing out card decks to each of the students.  For the rest of the class period, Ellen and I sat in silence, listening to the odds of receiving specific hands in poker.  The bell finally sounded, ending the first block of instruction of the day.  Ellen and I quickly rushed out of the room to meet up with Ben by our lockers. 

“I think so?” Ellen questioned in a mockingly sarcastic tone.  “You are undoubtedly the best with the foil on our team. 



“I’m not the best…” I muttered, “and besides you mop me up with the saber every time.”  Her eyes lit up at the compliment.  It was true.  When it came to the curved, dull slashing weapon, I was mincemeat before her.  Ellen was the only girl on the team, but she more than held up her end.  The other members on our team hated it when the coach paired them up to spar with her because it meant that when they lost, they would be the targets of ragging until a new person fell before the tip of her foil.



“Hey, guys,”  Ben called from across the hall over the dull roar of lockers slamming and the rest of the conversations of students at Cavern High.  Ellen and I quickly snaked our way through the crowd to where Ben stood by our lockers.

“You two look cute enough to be a couple,” Ben announced, poking fun at us.  Ellen thrust a sharp jab into Ben’s right shoulder.  “Okay, okay, I was just kidding,” he said, rubbing his shoulder.  Ellen just shot him a wicked look.  The three of us had been friends since freshman year, and oddly enough no other relationship had ever compromised our friendship.  We spent so much time together, both fencing and hanging around at Ben’s “Estate,” as we called it, that the town had dubbed us the three musketeers. 



“So, Ben thinks that he’s going to beat me in practice today,” I told Ellen, trying to change the dating subject.  Ben knew that I had been trying to work up the courage to ask Ellen to our senior homecoming.  When I was sure that Ellen wasn’t looking, I shot Ben a wicked look.



“You have a better chance of sprouting wings and flying,” Ellen managed to choke out in between laughs.  “You haven’t even scored more than eight hits on Jacob in the last twelve bouts,” she snickered.  Ben’s facial expression changed from a look of confidence to a grimace.  She was right, and Ben knew it. 

“Well, I guess it will be a pretty good show then when I beat him,”  Ben snapped, obviously hurt by her last comment.



“I’m just kidding, Ben. I’m sure it will be a good show,” Ellen reassured, trying to help rebuild his confidence.  The four-minute warning bell suddenly sounded over the hysteria. 



“Well, I’ll see you two in lunch,” I said as I grabbed my government book and carelessly tossed it into my bag. 



“Lunch, my favorite class!” Ben remarked. 



“Yeah, we’ll see you later.” Ellen said as she pushed Ben towards their Spanish class.  As I distanced myself from them, I heard her exclaim, “Don’t think I have forgotten about your comment, just you and me with sabers.”  I just chuckled to myself as I imagined Ben’s face after she had mopped the floor with him in front of the rest of the team.



When the bell finally rang announcing the break for lunch, I was relieved.  Government class was normally interesting; but today Mr. Thompson forced the entire class to watch “School House Rock” and sing the “I’m just a Bill song.” The song described the change a bill went through to become law, and it was totally relevant to the class, but it was now seared into my mind, which I believe was the whole idea.  I entered the cafeteria, looking around for Ben and Ellen.  There was no trace of them.  That wasn’t unusual.  Ms. Kensington, the Spanish teacher, often wouldn’t let certain students leave the classroom until they had described a picture or some object in the room entirely in Spanish; and, knowing Ben, I knew that could take a while.  I entered the lunch line, just planning to meet Ben and Ellen at our usual table. 



“Hey, Jake, you ready for the match Friday?” a small voice asked from behind me.  I turned around to see Cory Walker, a freshman of very small stature, both physically and socially.  Cory’s father was a Navy captain who had retired from the service and moved his entire family to Greenville from some naval base in Germany.  The change had been hard on Cory, and he desperately tried to fit in.  His appearance didn’t help him much.  He wore thick, military issue glasses that gave him the appearance of a geek, and his flat top haircut gave his head the appearance of being a square.



Somewhat annoyed with being asked again about the match, I quickly replied “Sure,” hoping that the conversation about the competition would just end there.  It didn’t. 

“There’s going to be, like a dozen teams there, including the Knights.  The Knights are the number one ranked team in the state,” Cory exclaimed, amazed that I was as calm as if I were playing a six year old at a game of checkers.



“It’s no big deal,” I told him as I bought a burger and fries for lunch.  It wasn’t that I was overconfident in myself but that I didn’t see the reasoning in worrying about the match.  “All you have to do is shut out the audience and just focus on your opponent,”  I advised him.  Friday was Cory’s first bout with the team as the rookie, and I’m sure he was nervous about letting us all down.  “You’ll do fine, Squirt.” I said.  His eyes seemed to perk up at the sound of his nickname.  Ben had given Cory the nickname when he had had his first initiation match.  Each time Cory had tried to lunge to strike Ben in practice, Cory had to practically raise his arm over his head to come even close to hitting Ben on the chest. 



By the time I got to the table, Ben and Ellen had already arrived.  Ben’s face showed a real sign of frustration; and by the look of Ellen’s horrendous attempt to contain her laughter, I could tell that Ben had had a really terrible time with Ms. Kensington in Spanish. 



“How can you expect me to know the capital of Mexico?” he grumbled.  “Do I look like I live in Mexico?”  At this point Ellen lost control and started rolling with laughter.

“I even told you the answer,” she said.  At this point she was on the verge of tears.

“No, you just said a city in Mexico,” his face now turning a bright shade of red.  I was now having a hard time keeping myself from laughing.  I knew that if I lost control, though, there would be a chance I would regret it.  Cory was completely lost.  A blank stare of frustration showed on his face.



“What’s so funny?” Cory finally broke down and asked. 



“I had told Ben the answer was Mexico City, but in Spanish when directly translated, it comes out to be the city of Mexico, and it took Ben a whole five minutes to figure it out,”  Ellen managed to stammer in between laughs.



“Yeah, and as I sat there trying to figure it out, Ms Kensington and Ellen just sat there laughing uncontrollably at me,”  Ben said between his clenched teeth.  At that point both Cory and I lost control and started laughing as well.  “We’ll see who’s laughing at practice tonight,” Ben announced. Cory’s face suddenly turned sheet-white and grim, thinking about the last time he had gone toe to toe with the big senior.  It was now Ben who got to enjoy a good laugh. 



Lunch carried on in this fashion until it was ended abruptly by the sound of the bell.  Ben, Ellen, and I said our goodbyes to Cory and headed to our English world masterpieces class.



“See you at practice, Squirt,” Ben called to him.  I watched as Cory turned the pale white color again as he walked off to his next class.



“Hey, Ben, could you let Cory at least get one hit on you today in practice?” I asked. “I think it would really make him feel better about this coming match if he thought that he could get a point on you.”  Ben’s smile vanished.



“Come on, Jake, don’t ask me to do that,” Ben complained.  “Why don’t you do it?” Ben asked, his voice sounding hopeful.



“Because if Cory scored on Jake, everyone would know that Jake did it on purpose,” Ellen said.  Ben, seeing the reasoning in the argument, dropped the subject.  I didn’t have to ask for confirmation if he would do it.  I could see in his eyes that he thought it was a good idea as well.



“Just think, if you do it, Jacob might let you score on him once,” Ellen commented. I could see the seriousness return to Ben’s face.



“You better not do that to me, Jacob!”  he exclaimed.  “If I get a point off you, I want to earn it.” 



“I won’t,” I promised.  So much for that idea; Ben really knew me too well. 

The three of us made it to world masterpieces class with barely a minute to spare. 



“Come on, take your seats,” Mr. Harrison said as he ushered stragglers to their seats.  “Ben, stop making faces or it’s going to stick that way,” Mr. Harrison called over his shoulder as he was writing something on the chalkboard.  Ben froze at the comment, and the entire class burst into laughter.  Ben had been reenacting my tragic downfall at the tip of his sword for Ellen’s and my amusement when Mr. Harrison had brought his strange gestures to the attention of the entire class.  I don’t know how he did it, but I swear if anyone had eyes in the back of his head, it was Mr. Harrison.



Mr. Harrison was my favorite teacher.  I had had him as my English instructor since I was a freshman; and ever since that year, I requested every class I could with him.  Mr. Harrison was possibly the best-dressed teacher in all of Cavern High school.  I don’t think that I could remember a time that I hadn’t seen him in his pressed pants and matching shirt and tie, and very rarely did he take off his sport jacket.  His jet black hair was always neatly combed over to one side, and I swear that he had to shave four times a day because there was never any stubble on his face.  He was definitely overqualified to be a high school teacher.  On the wall behind Mr. Harrison’s desk hung a Masters degree and two Bachelors degree certificates, which he had earned in both the fields of history and English literature.  What was amazing was that he was only twenty-nine.



“All right, class, now if we can avoid any more distractions…” he paused and looked at Ben for a few moments before continuing.  Snickering could be heard lightly throughout the room.  “… we can get started.”  For the rest of the class period Mr. Harrison described Homer’s The Iliad.  He personified me as Achilles, Ben as Hector, and Ellen as a servant girl with whom Achilles falls in love and who later causes his downfall.  When Mr. Harrison mentioned the thought of Ellen’s and my being a couple, Ellen gave me an uneasy glance and then rolled her eyes.



“Great,” I thought to myself, so much for asking her to homecoming.  At the sound of the bell, the school day officially ended for the three of us.  Our fourth block of instruction was a study hall. 



“Let’s get ready to rumble,” Ellen said, grinning from ear to ear as we walked back to

our lockers to get our gear.  Our coach had convinced the school to allow the three of us the extra time during our study hall to warm up for practices.  “I’ll see you two ladies on the strip,” challenged Ellen as she walked of to the girls locker room.

Ben shuddered at the thought.  “I am so dead,” Ben said.



“Yes, you are,” I agreed.