Short Story: The Laptop And Affairs Of…

Short Story: The Laptop And Affairs Of Heart

This piece has not been edited by the ShortbreadStories team.

On February Thirteenth, Oswald, in Art Class, faced a disgusting situation. He always avoided things that annoyed him, but this was not to be overlooked. "I’m fifteen. I cannot believe she would do this to us. We aren’t in kindergarten,for crap sake," he muttered to himself. Deciding he was going to have to make the most of this hour, he looked around

If only he had his laptop, but it was safely hidden at home. Against his parents directions to stay away from the City Dump, he’d bought it there one day, and found amazing things about it. So far he had been very careful about whom he photographed with it. It had some sort of magic . . .

Mrs. Holder, their teacher, had arranged craft tables in the room, and Oswald nearly gagged to see a white box on her desk, decorated with red hearts. Fifteen tables, he counted. There were thirty in his class so that meant one at a time at each table. She would have them create a valentine and place it in the box on her desk . . . Oh, if only he had the laptop he could take care of it all; he was now convinced that it had something to do with what happened with his math teacher, the policeman and four boys who tormented him. They had disappeared — after he had aimed the Laptop’s bright, blank desktop at them much as one would a camera. Maybe it would clear this room of little-kid crafts, he thought.

He sighed as the last bell rang, and Mrs. Holder closed the door. Latecomers were doomed. He was trapped inside.

She turned to the milling students and said, "Get settled, please. We’ve a project to get completed today."

Oswald groaned as he squeezed into the narrow space in his desk and settled his rump. Next year, he would not be in this class, and it wouldn’t matter to anyone how fat or skinny a kid was. He was so tired of people treating him . . . he glanced at Kitty Cole, seated to his right. She was smiling at him, knowingly. He frowned. Dumb girl. She was not his idea of a girlfriend. She was tall and — yes — fat. Her hair was almost white, and her eyes were a strange mixture of gold and green that drove him to want to push her when she crowded him in the lunch queue and pressed against him. Of course, she couldn’t hear his father’s voice saying, "Real men do not push or hit women, ever, Oswald. Remember that." So, being a real man, Oswald ignored her and gave his attention to Mrs. Holder.

He put aside thoughts of the Laptop, and concentrated on her directions: "Be creative with your valentines, and then include a little verse."

He was one of the first fifteen to be called. Eager to get it over with, he tried to write something. Finally, thinking of his Laptop, he wrote ‘I love having a secret with you. Be my Valentine.’ He took a huge red construction-paper heart from the ready-cut pile, a slightly smaller one and then another, stuck them together with a small blob of paste in the center. That made layers, plain, undecorated. He shrugged, ignored the beads, laces, confetti, braid and stuff. He copied his message on a small white one and stuck it in the center.

The instructions on the table said to make an envelope to fit. He folded, glued the seams, then before anyone could see it he inserted the valentine and stuck it shut. He looked up. Mrs. Holder was standing in front of him watching. He felt himself flush, but he held it out to her. She motioned him to the box on her desk and said, "They will be addressed tomorrow when we have a drawing." Oswald shrugged: Whatever.

The entry door flew open and Principal Jones breathlessly said, "So sorry to interrupt, but we have good news. Turn on the TV, Mrs. Holder, so the class can see." He dashed over and tuned to Channel 10, where a news special was on. He left as quickly as he had arrived.

On the screen, the reporter was in a foreign country, there were strange buildings that reminded Oswald of Buddha Temples. It was the great wall in China! Was there a war? What was happening in that mysterious place?

"Today," said the reporter, with the wind ruffling his hair and carrying his words away, "Here in the — province of China, it was discovered that a missing teacher of Mathematics from Wyndham Middle School in the U— States, Mrs. M —onkle, who got on a city bus and disappeared, is now living and teaching right here in — ina. She is heal— thy . . . content, she says, and told this reporter she — done it sooner. But it was unexpected, she just list–n to her mind in that bus and made — decision." The flags stopped waving in the wind, and he clearly finished, "She didn’t look back, had no one to consult about it since she is a widow and has no family. She flew here that week, and does not plan to return to her country anytime soon."

Oswald let out a sigh. This ‘Devine Power’ thing his mother was so stubborn about hadn’t a thing to do with anything. Heads turned to look at him. Freddy Falk grinned at him. He knew Oswald’s miserable time in Mrs. McConckle’s math class. No one, though, really knew the depth of Oswald’s relief that Mrs. McConckle was not harmed. Knowing his name meant Devine power was not easy to live with. And now this laptop — acting funny, or was it?

That evening at home, after dinner and homework, the family gathered as usual for games, news on the Television and sharing. It was Dad’s rule; they were family, and they would spend time together. It was imperative to their future. Oswald watched his little sister, now nine, with her tongue stuck out the side of her mouth and wondered that she might bite it off. Hadn’t happened, yet. She was laboriously creating something for school, using paper bags from the supermarket, huge crayons and little scissors that had a woeful dog face. Oswald grunted. He noticed his dad searching the newspaper for some bit of interest to share with the family. Oh, if he could only share the laptop with them, Oswald pined.

"Well, here’s news," his father drawled. "First the Tele gives us the whereabouts of that teacher who disappeared, and now in the back pages we find that the four little boys who left behind only their basketball had gone into the woods to smoke some cigarettes which they had lifted from the candy shop – in addition to candy—and had become lost for several days. They’ve been returned to their parents, after a month’s detention. How about that!"

"Crime does not pay, Darling," said Oswald’s mother as she bit off the thread from her sewing task. "Perhaps they will learn from that. It must have been very scary for them. The woods are deep, and dangerous for anyone lost in them. But stealing from the confectionery is reprehensible. I wonder, do they get an allowance?" She gazed up at Oswald and said, "I am proud that you have never had such inclinations. We do not tolerate that in our family." Did she know about his scrape at the candy shop?

Oswald gulped. He was so relieved that nothing really bad had happened to his four nemeses that he said goodnight and went to his room. He had to think: When he had seen Mrs. McConckle that day, he had thought it would be great if she was in China or somewhere! He had also thought at one point during the torment from the four boys, that it would be great if they got lost. It had all happened. He felt sick suddenly. Did he have such power? Oh, no, he groaned.

It was imperative that he go to his grandmother who always listened, always understood. Maybe she would know . . . he opened the window, unlatched the screen and made his way out onto the grass and headed for her house on his faithful bike. They skimmed over the streets until they reached her house, her light was still on, so he parked by the front porch and went up, knocked gently three times (their signal) and in moments she opened the door. She seemed very tiny to him. He loved the way her white hair waved, and her eyes sparkled at him over her little half glasses. She smelled of cinnamon and he loved that even more.

"I have been expecting you, love. Come on in. I’ve made some hot chocolate . . . and we must have a talk."

Oswald bowed his neck, "Woah," he said. "How do you know — "

"Let’s just say I have my ways. Now sit down here on the sofa. I won’t be a moment getting our drinks, and a couple of cookies, fresh-baked today."

It was a sensible talk they had. She had known Oswald felt bad about the disappearance of those people. He had told her. Her reply was that boys were bound to like, or dislike, some people, and then feel guilty if they wished something bad about them that actually happened. But he was not to worry. He was aptly named she told him, yet, God was THE Devine Power, not Oswald . She assured him that his laptop may have played a little part, but not a great one. And she informed him that he would loose the baby fat, as she called it, and one day be as trim as his father. He would be even more handsome than his father. Oswald grinned. Sure, he thought. In a pig’s eye. So, he left on that note and went home to bed, undetected.

Wednesday was Teacher’s Planning Day, there was no school. Oswald did his chores, which included hoeing the garden for his mother. When done, he hung the laptop out the window of his room then left the house through the kitchen where his mother was baking cookies. He grabbed a couple of hot ones, and raced out. Laptop in the basket, he headed for school munching Oatmeal-Date cookies.

Taking his laptop to the art class building, he checked the grounds out. He was going to try out a theory about his powers, and the laptop. He dared to sneak a peak in the window. Mrs. Holder was writing in her planner. The Valentine Box was on one of the tables left behind. He opened the laptop and focused it, but the glass gave him a back-flash and he lowered it. Inside, the classroom door opened, and she looked up with a smile. Some man in a suit and tie was walking over to her. He bent down and kissed her and pulled her up into his arms. Her husband?

"Yucky," whispered Oswald. "Mush." He backed away a bit, and the laptop had the valentine box in plain view. He stared, "I don’t want Kitty Cole to get my valentine," he thought, "so it ought to be in the wastebasket."

Nothing happened. Mrs. Holder freed herself and headed for the window, to close it he thought, so he crouched down and slipped away to his bicycle. He peddled down main street whistling.

Today he would visit Gus Porskopolus at the farmer’s market and get an apple. They were Golden Delicious, Oswald’s favorite. Gus always saved him a big one, charged him a flat quarter instead of by the pound, and threw in a square of baklava. It was sticky with honey, had nuts in it, and might have been made of Shredded Wheat Cereal if Gus hadn’t explained that it was made with Philo Dough. He would never give up that snack.

Oswald signaled, made a left turn to the market in the Library Square, heard the squeal of tires and wobbled as he looked back. Two vehicles were colliding in the intersection. One, turning left, was sideswiped by the other trying to pass on the left side — sheesh, he thought. He stopped at the curb, got off, opened his laptop and focused on the drivers, shouting at each other. There was glass all over the street, and cars lined up from all directions. The lady making the left turn was beginning to cry. The man was beginning to look frustrated. Finally he gathered her into his arms and held her and soothed her, and waved to the policeman who was arriving on the scene. Oswald closed the laptop, put it back, got on his bicycle, and went on to Gus’s stall for his treats, thinking that there had to be something weird going on. He had only thought they should not fight. People were meant to love one another. Had they heard his thoughts? What had really happened.

In class the next day, Oswald noticed Kitty Cole. She was beautiful! She had on black jeans, little boots, and a top that had red hearts on it. It made her look like a movie star. It made him feel something he had never felt before in his stomach. He wanted to look down, but didn’t dare. So he looked for the Valentine Box. It was still in place on the table. No way was he going to move his heart out of it to the wastebasket . . . At least they weren’t signed.

Class settled, his feelings under control as long as he didn’t look at Kitty, Oswald endured until time for the drawing. Mrs. Holder gave instructions which he wasn’t interested in until she told them, "With the drawing, you will each take out one envelope. If it is your own, return it and take another. I have a list on the blackboard with a name matching yours. You will address it to the person opposite your name, accurately spelling the name, and neatly. We will be leaving at noon for lunch at the St. Mary’s Convalescent Center. They will be so excited to get our cards, and have us visiting them. There will be music and singing. It will be special for them, and for us, Class. So get busy."

The queue went quickly, but, last, Joel Parker said, "There isn’t one in there for me. I don’t have one, Mrs. Holder. Somebody didn’t put one in!"

Oswald looked up, felt cold chills go up his spine. What had he done? Joel was about to cry. Mrs. Holder went down the aisles, looking at each student. She came to Oswald. "Oswald?" she asked.

"I put it in the box, Mrs. Holder," he choked.

She stared at him. "You didn’t like this project, Oswald. I know what it looks like. I will find it, or you will make another one right now."

"Maybe it’s on the floor," he began, but she was going to her desk. She looked down at the waste basket, hesitated, but took her seat. In a few moments she held up an envelope and said, "Here Joel. This was on the floor. Can’t imagine how it got there. We’re okay. Ready to go, class? The school bus is waiting."

Oswald sighed, took up his envelope and hoped that whoever got that ugly valentine would appreciate the message. Why did these things always happen to him, he wondered.

At St. Mary’s, Oswald sat beside Kitty Cole at the long table. She was careful not to press against him, so he moved his leg a bit to rest against her thigh. She smiled at him, and he could hardly eat. He kept his mind clear of the valentines, and was properly chastised when he saw the tears of the patients who opened the valentines, and read their messages.

Kitty sat beside him on the way back to school, but Oswald was silent. Why hadn’t they named him Hal? He would have been different with a different name.

Later, on the way home, Laptop and books in the basket, his bike responding readily to his pedaling, Oswald caught a glimpse of a huge dog racing after him, ears back, teeth bared and slobbers enough to compete with the St Bernard in the movie Beethoven. He was able to open the laptop, point it and hope it would work. He wasn’t in the mood for a bite to his leg. The dog yelped, and stopped, stood shaking, then turned and loped away. Oswald dropped one foot to the pavement, and came to a halt. He closed the laptop, took a couple of deep breaths, and very carefully resumed his trek home, his mind blank.

All he had thought was, "Stop! Go away, bad dog!"