At the start of every third period Walker Johns would head immediately into the disorderly little office behind the journalism classroom and quietly lock himself in. Thus enclosed, he would collapse warily into the little red spinning office chair and drop his backpack unceremoniously on the floor, his wallet chain jangling along with all the novelty key rings he kept attached to his backpack. Although he seldom smiled, once alone in the little office he was finally happy. He had access to the outside world only through an ancient and decaying telephone, which he used constantly, and through the plate glass window that separated Mrs. Little's classroom from the office. He had to keep separate from the people on the other side of the window, from the simpering morons.

Once inside, he set immediately to work on whatever story he had picked out to cover for their upcoming issue. He had been on the staff already for one semester, but something changed the first month of his junior year, when he was assigned to write a column for the first edition of the Armoryville High Tribune. At the time, he hadn't thought much about it, but it changed everything. It made him famous.

The column had been scathing, hilariously sarcastic, a vicious and well-deserved attack on the high school's new ridiculous security measures. His fluid and intelligent writing shone in a vast void of mediocrity and poor spelling. For the first time in years, Armoryville High students had read a story in the school newspaper for its own virtue, rather than for the amusement of tallying grammar mistakes. With the column, Walker had been given a quick rush of power. Through his writing, people were discovering things, getting mad about things, coming close to changing things. All around him, Walker saw idiocy and foolishness. The newspaper was a means to correct all that. For the second edition that semester, he already had an idea of what he would do.

The first person he called was the superintendent.

"Superintendent's office," said the voice on the other end of the phone.

"Yes, is Dr. Jamison in? This is Walker Johns from the Armoryville High Tribune. She said she would be available for an interview today." He spoke fast and confidently.

"I'm sorry, she's not in right now."

"Oh, she isn't?"

"She's at Pine Ridge Elementary, communicating with the student population."

"I'm sure she is. Listen, just have her call me if she gets in before 1:35 , ok? She should have my number. Bye."

He hung up and, for a brief moment, glanced through the window at his journalism classmates. They were chasing each other around with the remnants of their sack lunches and laughing, using the copy editor's computer to play Christina Aguilera at impressive volumes. Come deadline, he knew the editor-in-chief would receive twenty feature stories or columns in her basket, filled with interviews with the journalism staff's immediate family members, written in thirty minutes the previous night and without the assistance of a spellchecker. The copy editor would ask for his help, naturally, but not even Walker Johns could find all the mistakes that he knew would be there.

He was about to pick up the phone to dial the principal's office when Mrs. Little came in, carrying an impressive, toppling stack of files for yearbook, and the class calmed down a bit, many retreating guiltily to their computers, undoubtedly to play Microsoft Hearts, Walker thought. She should have chastised them, but Mrs. Little apparently had her mind on other things.

Although Mrs. Little was often mocked by the students, she was Walker 's favorite. She was relatively young, her hair was wonderfully frizzy, and her dress was often covered in chalk handprints. She spoke in a sing-song voice that irritated some people, but she knew what she was talking about. And, best of all, she supported Walker and his less orthodox stories. She had a great deal of faith in him, so much that she had given him a certain measure of independence. He no longer had to submit his interview questions to her for approval, nor did she ever demand that he relinquish the office to her when she wanted it. She knew that he was a hard worker and she trusted him. Walker trusted her back, and did what she told him to. She was a smart lady.

She disappeared behind the piles of papers on her desk, reemerging after a moment and heading for Walker Johns's office. Walker hastily and stealthily unlatched the door before she came in.

"So, how's yearbook going?" he asked her.

"Oh, it's just awful," she said as she came in, opening one of the many dilapidated file cabinets from the 1960's and rifling through it. "I even gave them an extension. I really shouldn't have, but I was in one of those moods, and now, of course, deadline's coming up and I have no captions." She looked at him for a moment, and smiled. "How's your story coming?"

Walker bit his lip. "I think it's going to be awesome... if I can ever get a hold of any of these people. Apparently school officials are never actually in their offices. That tends to happen when you have newspaper during people's lunch hour."

"Well, I asked for third period so that students could interview other students in the cafeteria... it's not often that a reporter like you comes along." She beamed. "You know, I don't want to get hopes up or anything, but I think we could have a shot at getting All-State this year... if we can get it out by deadline. I swear I'm just about ready to crack... yearbook makes me so mad." She stopped and gathered herself, the smile returning. "But everything is under control, everything is fine."

"It's all good," said Walker . "I really hope the superintendent will call before 1:30 . It's really frustrating..."

Mrs. Little stopped. "The superintendent? What were you going to ask her?"

"Oh, well, I assume you know all about the scandal and everything... I was just going to ask her what she knew about it. See what she could confirm."

"Oh, Walker , I'm not sure that's a good idea. People get mad..."

"I know," said Walker , reading her sudden appearance of concern with surprise and confusion. "But if people don't get mad, nothing will change." There was more than a hint of condescension in his voice.

"Walker , just..." She looked anxiously out the window at two students roughhousing near the computers. "We're going to talk about this, ok?" With that, she gave a little smile and left.

Walker returned to his worn little legal pad. Whatever rare spirit of gaiety had been in him was now driven completely away. He had never faced opposition from Mrs. Little before, and it was disconcerting. She had been very supportive of his criticism of the security measures, and the principal, who had never once censored a story, had let it pass, even writing a polite letter to the editor in response to the column explaining that the security measures were commands from on high, from the state school board in Montgomery . Now that he thought about it, that may have been why the story had slipped by so easily. It had been harmless.

This story, however, would not be. Walker Johns had planned it that way. He hadn't told anybody the true intention behind the story at the time he volunteered to write it - a simple story about the hiring of a new band director. Predictably, though, scandal had followed soon enough. And Walker Johns intended to take advantage of it.

It was all mostly rumors. There had been two candidates for the position - the first was a band director from out of town with an impressive resume and countless awards, but who had the misfortune of being white. The second was James Washington from the middle school, who was rumored to be tone-deaf and utterly incompetent, and was going to get the position because he was black, and because a majority of the committee hired to pick him was black, and because the principal that had appointed the committee was black. At least, that was the rumor.

Nothing would be seen about it in the Armoryville News, though. They might have been seen as racist, after all. Walker Johns was not in the least bit scared of being labeled racist. In his journalist's fantasy, he would bring down the corrupt establishment whatever the risk. And the risks were actually quite high.

Race was a sensitive issue in Armoryville. Desegregation had come in the fifties, but many of the white families had fled to the county system or private schools anyway, and everybody was touchy about it. There were still white people in Armoryville High, huddling in the advanced classes, cheerleading, soccer and journalism. But most of the students were black, and most of the people in power were black. The blacks who were in power were allowed to get away with all sorts of terrible things because anyone who spoke up might be called a racist - have their reputations ruined, might even lose their jobs. Walker Johns had seen it happen, and he was going to fight it.

He continued work on the story that day in class, keeping himself occupied with the phone and the legal pad, pestering different officials until he got the answers he wanted. The rumors had been essentially confirmed, more or less unwittingly. He underlined the best quotes - the contradictions, the outright lies. He had quotes from committee members and the principal, most of them defending Mr. Washington against all evidence. They called him "highly qualified" and a "great teacher." One of them even mentioned a history of awards that never happened.

The few white committee members were less than forthcoming with their opinion, although they were perfectly willing to say all kinds of great things off the record. It occurred to Walker one day how best to poke holes in the committee's lies, to reveal Mr. Washington 's total ineptitude. He snuck out of class one day to interview his middle school band students. These were the best quotes of all.

"I don't know... there are times when I don't think Mr. Washington knows what he's talking about."

"At this year's band competition we got mostly 'good's. I think maybe one or two 'excellent's. It's been that way for years."

"We watch movies in band a lot. We saw Ghost Dad today."

The job would be a simple matter of putting the lies next to the truth and letting the reader sort through for himself. It would almost be too easy. When he wrote it, though, he would be as sensitive as he knew how to be. No sense in making people mad over side issues. Unfortunately, Walker had very little experience in being sensitive.

The next day, Mrs. Little found him in the office rapidly scrawling on his pad.

"Walker, can I have a word with you?" she said, still sweetly, but with more firmness than he was accustomed to hearing from her.

"Yeah, sure. What's up?"

"Can I see what you've got there?"

"Sure..." He handed the pad to her, which she flipped through, her brow furrowed. "Basically the rumors are all confirmed, and I've caught some people in all kinds of lies. I managed to get copies of the resumes of both candidates-don't ask me how I did it, but trust me... this is going to be sweet."

"Walker, I'm not sure that this is such a good idea..."

"What? Why?"

"People are going to get upset... and if any of this isn't true, we could actually get sued."

"But it's all true. Every word. I have sources."

"You have several anonymous sources..."

"But Mrs. Little..." He was rapidly growing annoyed. "Mrs. Little, you have to let me print this story. I've worked hard on it, and it's better than anything you'll get out of the rest of the class in a million years." He gestured to the window. "It's all mediocre crap, out there, Mrs. Little. That's all you're gonna get. Unless you let me shake things up a bit. You can't get the good stuff without shaking things up."

"I know, Walker, you're the best writer I've had in a long time, maybe in all my career. You don't understand what a joy it is to teach students like you."

"Look, how about this? I won't print the lies or anything. I won't make anybody look bad at all. I promise. I'll just lay out the case, show why this guy from Bibb County is the best. Once it's all out in the open, like it should be, they won't have a choice but to pick him."

Mrs. Little seemed to soften a little at this, which relieved Walker, who had given up far more than he had wanted to in that gesture of conciliation.

"Please, Mrs. Little... I've worked hard on this."

She frowned, considered for a painful moment. At length, she spoke. "All right. You can write the story. But I want to look at it first. Make sure..."

Walker smiled suddenly. He didn't smile often. "Thank you, Mrs. Little," he said. "I promise it'll be good."

"Okay... but I want to see it first." And with that, she left.

"All right... I can do that."

He stayed up that night until 2:00 AM writing the story, sitting in front of his iMac in his black-painted bedroom, trying desperately to weave an article on the one hand sensitive enough to get past the censors, but on the other revealing enough to get something accomplished. The monitor glare began to strain his eyes, and as he reread the weak sentences he had rewritten the frustration began to build. He was certain nobody would notice it now. The story would be scanned quickly and discarded, like so much of the rest of the paper.

He had tacked up a copy of the last school paper over his desk, so that the headline "Armoryville High to Rinovate Cafeteria" was clearly visible. Beneath it was a picture of some cheerleaders at a pep rally, taken by Mrs. Little. It was embarrassing. He stared at the great, bold letters, particularly the "i," and shook his head. Better to be censored than to write mindless, mediocre drivel. And with that, he strategically inserted several of the committee member's most heinous lies in key positions throughout the article.

It was 3:34 AM when he finished and read over it. It wasn't even as caustic as he wanted it to be, but he didn't care. He was happy with it. With that, he told the computer to print, and promptly fell asleep on his wrist pad.

He delivered the paper to Mrs. Little as soon as she arrived with her usual monstrous pile of yearbook materials. She smiled a little warily as she took it from him, and promised to read it as soon as she could. Walker waited tensely in the office until the end of the period, watching Mrs. Little through the window.

She came into the office shortly before the bell rang, Walker 's story in her hand. She was not smiling. Walker looked up at her expectantly as she came in, but could think of nothing to say.

"Well, I read it," she said.

"...And?"

"I think you did a very good job of remaining evenhanded... I think."

"Ok..." he said. "So we're going to run it, do you think?"

"You did the best job you could with the material you had..."

"We're going to run it?"

She looked at him, her eyes slowly crushing him. "Walker, do you remember Mr. Dixon?"

"Mr. Dixon, the guy who got fired because they thought he said the n-word?"

"Yes, that Mr. Dixon."

"But he never said it. There was never proof. None."

"He lost his job, Walker. Probably couldn't get a job in the public schools again. I just don't think... I really just don't think..." She tried to meet his eyes as she said this, but she couldn't. "Walker, I just can't..."

"Mrs. Little, are we-are we just going to let Mr. Washington get the job? He'll destroy the band program! The school already lost AP Physics and Calculus. Is the band next?"

"Walker , have you even considered what kind of trouble we could get in for printing this? Who could get hurt?"

"If you don't take the risk, nothing's gonna change."

"I don't think it's your place to decide whether I take that risk."

"All right, then. You look me in the eye, then. Look me in the eye and tell me that you're not going to run it. That all my work is wasted."

She did look him in the eye, and Walker tried not to falter, and he didn't. The bell rang outside, but nobody moved. Finally, she spoke. "If the principal approves it... I'll run it."

Walker 's mouth fell open. He had won. Somehow, he had won. Without thinking, he flew upwards, out of his chair. "Thank you, Mrs. Little... this is gonna be sweet!"

He took up his backpack, clanging key chains and all, and ran from the office through the classroom. The editor-in-chief and features editor were busy doing layout, and as he glanced at them on his way out, for the first time in a long time they didn't seem quite like simpering morons. For just a brief moment.

The next day Mrs. Little informed him that the principal, against all odds, hadn't seemed to have a problem with it, and the paper was sent off to the printers. He spent the next week happier than he had ever been, at least since his opinion piece had come out. His eyes were less brooding, and his steps were less direct. He even seemed to walk a little taller, looking easily over the heads of the other students through strands of long hair.

When the copies arrived from the printer, Walker was the first out of the classroom to help unload them, a task he traditionally left to the rabble. After the boxes had been stacked in the room, he eagerly tore open the first one and read the headline out loud--the headline for his story that he had fought hard for, that he expended so much of himself into, that might even serve a good purpose.

"Columbus Day festivities a great sucess," it read.

He looked to Mrs. Little, who shook her head quickly and began to babble, "I'm sorry, Walker ... the principal didn't... I didn't want for you to... I'm so sorry!" She looked to him, saw his anger, and he saw that he was hurting her, and turned his eyes from her.

"The principal?" he said, his eyes dark and burning. Without so much as a hall pass or an ID, he burst out of the classroom and tromped off down the hall to the main office, right past the dean of students and his ever-crackling walky-talky. He stomped into the office as rudely as he knew how, and from there headed to the principal's door. He rapped on it a few times, heard her obnoxious, "In a minute," and burst in anyway.

She was on the phone in front of her computer, and she looked up at him with wide eyes. "Excuse me-- is there something I can do for you, sir?" she said, with all kinds of malice.

"You can explain to me why you did this ." He indicated the paper. "You can explain to me why you think you can bully us around and-and censor us and deny us our First Amendment rights-"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

He looked at her, fuming. "My story! My story on the band director! The front page! The one you removed!"

"I didn't remove anything," she said. "And I suggest you remove yourself from my office before I have you suspended!"

"What you mean you didn't-you mean you didn't take off my-"

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about. Now get out of my office."

"I'm... you really?" He looked at her joyless, wrinkled face, and saw no indication of duplicity. She was telling the truth. She hadn't removed it. It had never been there in the first place. The realization stung him worse than the embarrassment of his situation. "I'm really sorry. I'm terribly sorry. I'm... I'm getting out... I'm really sorry."

With that, he excused himself from the office and made his way quickly back to the journalism classroom, nearly crying. It hadn't been there. The story had never crossed her desk. Mrs. Little had lied to him. Anger rushed through him, but when he got into the classroom, and he saw Mrs. Little futilely attempting to organize her desk, he couldn't make himself yell at her. He didn't understand why. Was she afraid? Had he hurt her somehow? He didn't know what to say. She was the only teacher he had ever really respected. Seeing her, watching her ignore him made his stomach lurch nauseatingly. He just couldn't pretend like nothing had happened. Steeling himself and choking back his hurt and anger, he spoke to her.

"Why didn't you run my story, Mrs. Little? You told me you'd run it..."

"I'm not having this discussion right now, Walker."

He winced. "Mrs. Little..."

"I said I'm not having this discussion." She stopped, and looked at him, her eye harsh and sure. "I want you to sit down at your computer, and I want you to work on your stories, and I don't want to hear about this from you. According to Amanda, you still have 75 dollars worth of ads to sell. So I suggest you get to work."

He looked at her, his eyes red and watery, trying to find something of the old Mrs. Little that he loved looking back at him, but there was none.

"Ok."

"Yes, ma'am," she corrected him.

He looked back at her for a long moment, before finally turning away. "Yes, ma'am," he said at last, trying to keep the bitterness out of his voice, probably failing.

He sat at his computer and played solitaire for a while, and listened to the Janet Jackson the different girls were playing. Some girls were playing with the phone in his office, pretending to make ad calls. He was hungry; he hadn't eaten lunch.

Mrs. Little went about her business, trying to get the yearbook ready, and Walker stared at the blank computer screen. The story was gone, completely destroyed, his trust betrayed, his work tossed away like so much garbage. He might have thought of other things to write about. He might have tried again, but it all seemed futile to him. There wasn't any point anymore. He looked at the room, and all the people in it, and hated it.

Walker Johns didn't give Mrs. Little the opportunity to talk with him later. He transferred to Music Theory class the next week, because he wasn't about to waste his time writing feature stories on cafeteria food and teen pregnancy. He still wrote, though. He wrote little stories to himself underneath his notes about the five lines of the staff, a concept which the class had apparently not been able to pick up since August. But eventually, after a long time, he stopped doing that, too.

The class was taught by substitutes for several weeks, before Mr. Washington became teacher, and immediately began to show movies in class.

The pace of the class was unbearably slow, even when they bothered to cover material, but as time went on, he accustomed himself to it. He scribbled a little on the paper, and looked out the window, gave a wrong answer when the teacher called on him, stared numbly at Ghost Dad. There was something appealing about being a moron, something peaceful, something secure. He watched the morons around him, sank back in his chair, and said a little prayer of thanks, for mediocrity, and for silence, and for Mrs. Little.