The Composition

    The boy was devastated when Sister Claudia called him up to her desk and said, in a tone which was more declaratory than interrogatory: "Where did you copy this?"

    He had labored over the composition all one Sunday evening and he was expecting praise, not condemnation. The composition's title was "Making Gumbo," and he had described the ingredients and the procedures with such care and detail that he knew that it was prize-winning, praise-winning work. But now Sister Claudia thought that he had copied from a book.

    "It's mine," he said, but he knew that his statement was lame and only constituted additional incriminating evidence. He could see in the smooth face occupying the space below the white headpiece and the white breast piece that the highest court in the realm had adjudged him guilty. Through the impeccably clean glasses, the gray eyes communicated sorrow and dismay. Copying! Plagiarism! Cheating! Lying! Injustice! The rush of sentiment clouded his vision.

    "Sister," he began again, "I didn't copy this composition. I wrote it myself last Sunday night. I promise you, it's my very own work." The eyes softened, but the accusation remained in their fine gray depths. "If you don't believe me," said the boy in a too-loud voice, "shut me up in the storeroom or the music room and I'll write you another composition on any subject you want!" The eyes appeared to soften somewhat and she said: "All right. I still think that this is copied from a magazine or from some book. But I'll give you until after big recess for you to write me a composition on this subject." She paused as she appeared to consult her databank of topics. "On riding the school bus," she said without much conviction. "In the music room."

    "All right," said the boy quietly. "I'll show you."

    He collected his tablet and his ball-point pen from his desk and, looking back to verify that Sister Claudia meant for him to leave now, he made his way to the music room. This room smelled of varnish and resin, and he knew it well as the room in which he had his violin lessons. Unfortunately, the room's only furniture, aside from the upright piano, was a china closet which served as a repository for assorted pieces of music, the piano bench, and a straight back chair. He dragged the chair before the piano bench, but the chair was higher than the bench and, moving the chair back, he knelt before the bench, placed his tablet on the bench, and began to write.