An Eye in a Fist

An eye in a fist is the storm the school must deal with today.

An angry father storms into the headmaster’s office.

“Where is my boy? Bring me the murderer who stabbed him! Now!”

From behind her desk, the headmaster jumps out of her chair. She tries to explain that she has only just heard the news over the phone and is still investigating.

“They’re coming up here,” she says, trying to calm him.

“I’m going to kill that kid!” the man shouts, boiling more by the minute.

“It must have been a mistake, sir. They’re only children.”

“They wanted to kill my kid! They hate him because he’s white! It’s your fault for teaching anti-white sentiment at this school!”

“They may have just been playing.”

“My kid was attacked. I demand my pound of flesh! I’m calling my brother - he’s a policeman.”

“The other child may not have meant it.”

“He must have meant it! I’m calling the police!”

As the voices rise, a boy with a bandaged eye walks into the room from the school clinic, appearing behind the angry man.

The boy is Black.

A second boy follows him, white and visibly guilty.

The headmaster’s eyes widen as she looks from one child to the other.

The father turns. He looks at the boys. Then he turns back to the headmaster.

Suddenly composed, he cannot quite hide the relaxed smile creeping across his face.

“It must have been a mistake, then,” he says with calm, entitled certainty of innocence. “They were playing. My kid didn’t mean it.”