Kevin Rutledge

Professor Hoehne

FIQWS 10105: Composition for WCGI Literature

8 September 2019

Wrongfully Accused

On a cold February day in fifth grade, we were quietly reading “Junebug” while my teacher graded our story assignments. Or rather, the class was reading “Junebug.” I, however, had the book standing upright, preventing anyone from catching me as I drew in my notepad, using my Charmander Pokemon card as a reference. Just as I finished with the details of the creature’s tail, my work was disturbed by an unsettling “Mr. Rutledge!” Everyone’s eyes darted at me as I shot up from my desk. Without even turning his head, Mr. Cover (pronounced “cove-err”, not cover) motioned at me to come to him using his middle and index fingers, the same motion you’d see being used in fighting movies. As I walked over to him, holding my card and notepad behind my back, thoughts ran through my head: Crap. He definitely saw me drawing. I wonder how he’s gonna punish me. Extra reading? No way… For drawing during reading time? Probably something much more… sinister… Study hall? Please, whatever god is listening to me right now, don’t make it study hall. 

When I got to his table, I noticed he had my homework in his right hand. The assignment was to write “a story you’d find in Brooklyn.” I don’t want to brag but, while the other kids in my class had written about their character losing their dog, or going to get Icee’s from Uncle Louie’s, I had written a novel that practically deserved a Pulitzer Prize. In the tale, the two main characters were best friends who knew each other from a very young age. They were the definition of “brothers of other mothers”. However, one moved at the end of high school, and they slowly stopped seeing each other. Until ten years later. They meet at a bank robbery where one of the friends is the leader of the gang committing the crime, and the other being the chief of the Police Department in that area. Intriguing, I know. 

Anyway, back to reality. When I got to his desk, Mr. Cover wasted no time. He asked me, “Do you have anything to do after school? Clubs, Tutoring?” “No… ” I responded softly, unaware of what he was planning, and therefore, was concerned.  He continued, “And when does your mother get out from work?” I paused for a second. What does my mom have to do with my silly drawing? Not wanting a worse punishment, I made sure I wasn’t quiet for too long, and replied, “My aunt picks me up for most of the week. My mom usually works too late to get Steven and I.”. (Steven is my twin brother, who was also in my class, but he’s not an essential part of this story.) I was still confused, but it didn’t matter. Even if I knew the real reason I was being punished, nothing could prepare me for what he’d say next. I kid you not, he said, “That’s fine. Because the three of us are going to figure out who you copied from to get this story and discuss the problems that come with copying someone else’s work, just as soon as your aunt gets here.” 

I probably would’ve fainted if my body wasn’t completely stiff from the shock. Staying after school is already a nightmare for a ten-year-old addicted to video games, but knowing I was staying there because I was in trouble? He might as well have started a fire and put on devil horns because only Hell would match the feeling that room had now given me. I walked back to my seat, broken; feeling like only half the man I used to be ten minutes before. I was so distraught, I couldn’t even express my sadness. I wore a completely emotionless face; empty. As I sat down, I nearly started to cry, but just then, my tiny ten-year-old brain had realized something. I hadn’t copied anything at all. That story was totally, unconditionally, 100% me. Which meant, my teacher, someone who had gotten a Ph.D. in English, had thought my work was so good it had to have been plagiarized. The thought of it cheered me up; even made me chuckle a little. I was so smug I didn’t even bother telling him. I was going to let him realize his hubris on his own. It was payback for interrupting my drawing focus. 

Finally, the end of the day had come. My Aunt Lynn came upstairs to pick us up, but Mr.Cover intercepted her. He explained his accusation, and with a burning fire in her eyes she looked down at me and said, “I see.” They were the scariest two words anyone has ever said to me. Despite my fear and now slightly wet khakis, I stood my ground and smiled right in her face before I turned my head and glared at Mr. Cover. Steven was there too, knowing I had written the story wholeheartedly. However, I told him my plan, and he, reluctantly, agreed to go along. For an hour, Aunt Lynn and Mr.Cover looked through multiple databases. All the while, I sat back on his spinny-chair, going around and around, while Steven played with the Gameboy he had packed in his bag for the day. 

After a while, I heard the desperate fool say, “I just know he had to have plagiarized it!” Tired of this nonsense, Aunt Lynn commented, “I’m sorry, but this is ridiculous. What exactly led you to believe my nephew had copied someone’s work, anyway?” Worryingly, he responded, “Well his assignment was so elaborate that I just-” “Wait. Are you telling me you accused a child of a crime, not only without the proper evidence, but your only reasoning behind it was because the piece had exceeded your expectations?” Hearing this, I couldn’t help but smirk. I’m pretty sure Steven did too. She continued, “You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I would think that a person of knowledge such as yourself would think before doing such a thing, but I think you’ve proven today that using your brain is something you are apparently incapable of.” Yes, I know, my aunt is badass. To top off her amazing display, she said, “I ought to tell your employer.” “No, please! I’m sorry for-” She cuts him off (FOR THE SECOND TIME), by saying, “Don’t apologize to me.” She pointed to me. “Him.” I could see the shame and defeat in his eyes as he walked over to me and said, “Kevin, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accused you of something you didn’t do.” AND LIKE THE LITTLE RENEGADE I WAS, I SAID, “I know.” 

At least I wish I had said that. In reality, I responded, “It’s okay.” My aunt got my backpack, and we started walking out the door, but now without being interrupted by him one last time. He crouched down to be on eye-level with me and said words that have stuck with me to this day. “You truly do have a talent for this, Mr. Rutledge. I want you to do me a favor. Keep writing. No matter what anyone says about you, you write. Prove them wrong. Write. Write so that you can show big people around the world just what you can do, just like you showed me. You understand?” I was speechless. All I could do was nod my head. And with nothing left to say, we walked out of the building and went home. 

Today I am home, on my bed, at 9:41 PM on Wednesday, September 11th, and I can proudly say I’m doing what he asked of me. So I guess being wrongfully accused isn’t so bad.

This entry is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International license.