“That’s just it,” Allison said, thumping the paper. “You wrote about a guy and a girl.”

“What?” Ben grabbed the paper from her, hands clenching as he read the final lines:

She looks into my eyes, mine mirrored in hers,

and we each see a soulmate, lost in pauper’s bliss.

“The bitch changed it,” Ben snarled. “This isn’t what I wrote!”

“Who?”

“Mrs. Jones,” he explained. “My version was gay, but she changed it to this.” He shoved the paper away from him, not wanting to look at it any longer.

“And she didn’t even talk to you about it first?”

“No! I would rather it was never published than for her to ruin it like this.” He thought of Tim, the source of his inspiration. Had he read it? Would he think that Ben was more closeted than he had previously claimed? Or did it make him think of Krista Norman and miss what they had together?

“You have to go talk to her,” Allison said. “Tell her that she just can’t change what other people write. That’s worse than censorship! She owes you an apology.”

“There’s no point!” Ben complained. “The stupid thing is published already.”

Allison was right, though. He wasn’t going to stand aside and silently take it. After school he would confront Mrs. Jones and tell her exactly how he felt.

* * * * *

After sixth period, Ben stood in front of the journalism door, trying to compose himself. To freak out or not freak out, that was the question. He would try to stay calm during the confrontation, but he didn’t know if he could maintain his cool or even if he should. He opened the door; the room inside dark and empty. After a moment’s hesitation, he flipped on the light switch and stepped inside.

Of course journalism wasn’t taught six times a day like other courses were. He had never considered it before, but it was obvious now. He wondered what other classes Mrs. Jones taught. Perhaps history, drawing from her own childhood memories from hundreds of years ago, changing truths as she pleased like she had done with his poem.

Ben went to her desk and began riffling through the papers on it. He wanted the original copy of his poem back. He wanted to see it. Had she dared to cross out his words with red ink and replace them with her own? Ten minutes later and his search was fruitless. He would simply have to ask for it back tomorrow when he saw her again.

He returned to the now-abandoned hallway and spotted another student passing by. He began to duck guiltily back inside the classroom room when he realized it was Tim.

“Hey!” he whispered.

Tim saw him and looked around nervously.

Ben beckoned him silently as he stepped back through the doorway. Tim followed, eyes searching the room for anyone else as he entered.

“There’s no one else here, you dork!” Ben said once the door was closed.

“What are you doing here?” Tim laughed.

“Did you see the paper today?”

“Yeah, nice poem. You lost me with ‘pauper’s love’ though.”

Ben sighed. “When two people are so poor that they have nothing, they still have love. That’s their happiness.”

“Ah, but neither of us are poor,” Tim winked.

“We aren’t a guy and a girl either!”

A knowing look spread across Tim’s face. “Someone screwed with your poem, huh?”

“Yeah, my douche bag of a teacher changed it.” Ben shook his head irritably. “I came here to tell her off, but there’s nobody home.”

“Why don’t you leave a message?” Tim glanced around, spotted the hat rack Mrs. Jones kept by the door, and kicked it over with a faux roundhouse. It landed noisily on the floor with a crack that suggested it was no longer in one piece.

“Don’t!” Ben scolded before smiling with satisfaction.

“You should try it,” Tim suggested. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“She does deserve it,” Ben conceded. He looked around for inspiration. He grabbed the nearest desk and tipped it over. Considering that the desk surface had been empty, this wasn’t very impressive.

“C’mon, you can do better than that. How about her desk?”

Ben matched Tim’s wicked grin, his anger at his mistreatment rising in him. He marched over to Mrs. Jones’s desk and with one hefty heave, sent all of the desktop contents flying onto the floor.

“Yeah!” Tim laughed manically as he grabbed the drawers and pulled, papers flying everywhere. “What’s next?”

“Wanna see the dark room?” Ben asked with sudden inspiration.

“Sure.” Tim followed him through the strange spinning corridor into a small cramped room glowing with red light.

“What’d you have in mind here?” Tim asked, pressing up against Ben from behind and breathing on his neck.

Ben didn’t answer. He was distracted by the developed photos that had been pinned up to dry. Some of them were of sports scenes or of the grinning faces in drama club, but a handful were of couples hugging or leaning on each other. These photos would never be censored. They would be put in the paper without anyone ever questioning them or insisting they be altered. The people in those photos would always have their relationships instantly accepted and would never consider how it would feel to have something as simple as holding hands be ridiculed in public.

Ben’s eyes flickered over to a small fire extinguisher clamped to the wall. He shrugged Tim off and took it down, struggling to pull the safety pin free before aiming the nozzle at the photos.

“I hate this fucking school,” Ben swore before white foam exploded over the photos, soaked the hanging strings of negatives, and seeped into the delicate developing equipment.

Soon it became difficult to breathe, so they fled through the spinning doorway and back into the main room where Ben began spraying everything he saw with artificial snow.

“Let me try,” Tim said.

He walked around the room, spraying a bookshelf until it dripped with foam. Tim’s jaw clenched. There was a rage in his eyes that Ben found fascinating. What did Tim have to feel so angry about? Was it his parents? His inability to openly be who he really was? Did he hate the very society that he fit into so perfectly?

The fire extinguisher began to sputter. Having exhausted its supply, Tim threw it at the marker board on the far wall, putting a nasty dent in its center. They left the room stealthily. For the first time, they walked side by side down the school corridors. Once they were out of the building, they broke into a run, laughter making their sides ache as they tried to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the school.

They reached the bike paths and followed them into the sanctuary of the woods. There they fell onto the pine needle carpet, laughing and gasping for breath until they were exhausted.

“Hey,” Ben said seriously as something occurred to him. “Did you like it?”

“Like what?”

“My poem.”

“Well, I don’t know,” Tim said soberly. “I haven’t heard the proper ending.”

Ben recited the censored lines for him, his face flushing with embarrassment.

Tim grinned, knowing all along who the poem had been written for.

“Come look into my eyes, my sweet pauper,” he said as he pulled Ben close for a kiss.

* * * * *

The adrenaline rush that had followed the afternoon’s destruction had worn off by night, leaving Ben tossing and turning in his bed. He was certain that they would be caught, that someone had seen him standing outside the journalism room while he had gathered his thoughts. By the time he awoke from a meager three hours sleep, he had already accepted that he would be in the principal’s office, possibly even in police custody before lunchtime.

He considered attending P.E. for the first time in the year, worried that someone would be there looking for him. In the end, he decided that trouble was trouble. It was much too late to play the angel now. Ben arrived in second period English, his nerves on edge the entire time as he waited for some sign of his impending doom. He snapped at Daniel Wigmore for glancing over at his notes, which were pitifully sparse as he watched the door.