| Spiritual Fiction posted January 19, 2022 | Chapters: |
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Is he dreaming?
A chapter in the book Carter's Run
The Open Door
by DeboraDyess
| Background When Carter Gibbs shows up at Nick Fowler's door in the middle of the night, against his better instincts, the teacher takes him in. A Christian novel of hope. |
Nick Fowler exhaled slowly and tried to decide whether to count to ten or knock George Wilson flat on his back. The thought of his fist against George's square jaw felt entirely too satisfying, which gave him pause. Still...
The school doors hadn't been open for two minutes yet, and he'd already had to pull the mammoth cretin off a skinny, scared freshman. He looked at the freshman, then back at George, and opted to count since doing otherwise would likely cost him his job and, probably, land him in jail.
"Office," he growled, pointing unnecessarily in that direction. He was sure George met with the principal more often than most of the teachers.
The big senior grinned at him, stupidity nearly oozing. "Won't do you any good, Mr. Fowler," he said. "We got a football game tonight. The principal ain't going to do anything to me. It could cost us District. Even the Balding Wonder is too smart to do that." He laughed again and repeated, "Balding Wonder..." as if he alone made up the insulting nickname.
"Office," Fowler repeated. "If you think you can make it there under your own power, get going. If not, I'd be more than glad to help you along."
The hulking boy looked down at the teacher and smiled, then chuckled. "They told me you have balls," he laughed. He looked around, inciting the students around them to laugh, too. Even the skinny, scared freshman joined in.
Nick became aware of students; more than he thought would fit into the dilapidated hall, surrounding them. A low, murmured "Fight, fight, fight" began in the back. The throng of teenagers raised their arms, waving in hysteria, creating more chaos than usual. Perky cheerleaders appeared, almost from nowhere, shook pompoms, and chanted, "Go, George, go! Kill the English teacher!"
It entered his mind that this was all wrong, that it couldn't be real. He knew George Wilson, or at least, had known him a couple of decades earlier. The football player was no longer a student; he'd gone to high school with Nick. The edges of the scene began to darken and curl, like a photograph exposed to fire and thought returned to Nick. He had been the skinny, scared freshman, all those years ago. Some other teacher, one whose name escaped Nick now, had rescued him from George more than a dozen Thanksgiving breaks before. In the blurring hallway of the dream, students and George all began to dissolve around him.
The sound of the doorbell jolted through the melting dream and jerked Fowler from the restless sleep. He lifted his head, frowned, and groggily focused on the clock above the entertainment center. One-forty, the stoic white face of the wall clock read. And he'd fallen asleep in front of the TV again, which would explain the dream.
The set blazed with what appeared to Fowler to be a riot in the halls of a high school that looked surprisingly more beat up than Lincoln, where he taught. The angry kids could have been students at his school; bottom of the ladder, looking for any way to move up. The movie was olderâ?" the clothes were outdatedâ?" but the look of the school and students, poor, angry, and neglected, was right on the money.
He yawned and rubbed his face, and rose to his feet as the bell chimed a second time. Â With a tap of the remote, he eliminated the noise of the movie from his home and walked across the room to open the door.
As he reached the entryway, he glanced at a large mirror hanging on the living room wall and frowned. It looked like someone had already killed the English guy, he thought. His light brown hair stood up like a poor rendition of Einstein, static electricity and its natural wave giving it life of its own. A day's stubble on his thin face and eyes red from grading too many papers combined to give him the appearance of an ancient, horrible gargoyle. If it were Death itself on his porch, Nick thought, it would probably turn and run in fright.
Instead, a boy from school stood slouching in the semidarkness. Last period, Nick remembered, the only sophomore in his advanced English class. He scowled slightly down, stalling for time, trying to pull a name to his weary, beleaguered brain. "Carter?" Fowler's mouth supplied the name before his mind could pull it to his consciousness. "What are you doing here?"
"Hey, Mr. Fowler," the boy muttered. He glanced at his teacher without raising his head and began to study the doorbell with greater interest than most of his classmates ever showed in school.
"What are you doing here?" Fowler spoke slower this time, in case the boy was still asleep, too.
Carter Gibbs shrugged and glanced up again, his face shadowed. "I'm not sure," he answered in barely a whisper.
A gust of wind made its way into the courtyard of the condo complex, rattling dry leaves, reminding Fowler of the temperature outside. This November had been surprisingly mild, but even with warmish Central Texas days, the nights turned quickly cold. Most nights for the last two weeks dipped to at least freezing, and, Fowler decided, this night was no exception.
Cold air began to creep around his bare feet and legs, raising chill bumps like dead men on Halloween. Shorts were fine in the relative warmth of the condo but now he pulled away from the door and frowned into the night.
The boy, Nick realized, was dressed only in jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt, the heavy denim jacket and toboggan cap he usually wore, missing. He had his gloveless hands shoved deep into his jean pockets in a failed effort to keep them warm. His ears and nose were red with cold. Carter shivered and Fowler could see the tiny cloud of the boy's breath in front of his mouth.
"Come on in," he ordered. "You're letting my heat out."
"Office," he growled, pointing unnecessarily in that direction. He was sure George met with the principal more often than most of the teachers.
The big senior grinned at him, stupidity nearly oozing. "Won't do you any good, Mr. Fowler," he said. "We got a football game tonight. The principal ain't going to do anything to me. It could cost us District. Even the Balding Wonder is too smart to do that." He laughed again and repeated, "Balding Wonder..." as if he alone made up the insulting nickname.
"Office," Fowler repeated. "If you think you can make it there under your own power, get going. If not, I'd be more than glad to help you along."
The hulking boy looked down at the teacher and smiled, then chuckled. "They told me you have balls," he laughed. He looked around, inciting the students around them to laugh, too. Even the skinny, scared freshman joined in.
Nick became aware of students; more than he thought would fit into the dilapidated hall, surrounding them. A low, murmured "Fight, fight, fight" began in the back. The throng of teenagers raised their arms, waving in hysteria, creating more chaos than usual. Perky cheerleaders appeared, almost from nowhere, shook pompoms, and chanted, "Go, George, go! Kill the English teacher!"
It entered his mind that this was all wrong, that it couldn't be real. He knew George Wilson, or at least, had known him a couple of decades earlier. The football player was no longer a student; he'd gone to high school with Nick. The edges of the scene began to darken and curl, like a photograph exposed to fire and thought returned to Nick. He had been the skinny, scared freshman, all those years ago. Some other teacher, one whose name escaped Nick now, had rescued him from George more than a dozen Thanksgiving breaks before. In the blurring hallway of the dream, students and George all began to dissolve around him.
The sound of the doorbell jolted through the melting dream and jerked Fowler from the restless sleep. He lifted his head, frowned, and groggily focused on the clock above the entertainment center. One-forty, the stoic white face of the wall clock read. And he'd fallen asleep in front of the TV again, which would explain the dream.
The set blazed with what appeared to Fowler to be a riot in the halls of a high school that looked surprisingly more beat up than Lincoln, where he taught. The angry kids could have been students at his school; bottom of the ladder, looking for any way to move up. The movie was olderâ?" the clothes were outdatedâ?" but the look of the school and students, poor, angry, and neglected, was right on the money.
He yawned and rubbed his face, and rose to his feet as the bell chimed a second time. Â With a tap of the remote, he eliminated the noise of the movie from his home and walked across the room to open the door.
As he reached the entryway, he glanced at a large mirror hanging on the living room wall and frowned. It looked like someone had already killed the English guy, he thought. His light brown hair stood up like a poor rendition of Einstein, static electricity and its natural wave giving it life of its own. A day's stubble on his thin face and eyes red from grading too many papers combined to give him the appearance of an ancient, horrible gargoyle. If it were Death itself on his porch, Nick thought, it would probably turn and run in fright.
Instead, a boy from school stood slouching in the semidarkness. Last period, Nick remembered, the only sophomore in his advanced English class. He scowled slightly down, stalling for time, trying to pull a name to his weary, beleaguered brain. "Carter?" Fowler's mouth supplied the name before his mind could pull it to his consciousness. "What are you doing here?"
"Hey, Mr. Fowler," the boy muttered. He glanced at his teacher without raising his head and began to study the doorbell with greater interest than most of his classmates ever showed in school.
"What are you doing here?" Fowler spoke slower this time, in case the boy was still asleep, too.
Carter Gibbs shrugged and glanced up again, his face shadowed. "I'm not sure," he answered in barely a whisper.
A gust of wind made its way into the courtyard of the condo complex, rattling dry leaves, reminding Fowler of the temperature outside. This November had been surprisingly mild, but even with warmish Central Texas days, the nights turned quickly cold. Most nights for the last two weeks dipped to at least freezing, and, Fowler decided, this night was no exception.
Cold air began to creep around his bare feet and legs, raising chill bumps like dead men on Halloween. Shorts were fine in the relative warmth of the condo but now he pulled away from the door and frowned into the night.
The boy, Nick realized, was dressed only in jeans and a faded gray sweatshirt, the heavy denim jacket and toboggan cap he usually wore, missing. He had his gloveless hands shoved deep into his jean pockets in a failed effort to keep them warm. His ears and nose were red with cold. Carter shivered and Fowler could see the tiny cloud of the boy's breath in front of his mouth.
"Come on in," he ordered. "You're letting my heat out."
I started this years ago. I decided as Helen said, to blow the digital dust off it and get it finished and published. :)
Blessings and thank you for reading.
D
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and 2 member cents. Blessings and thank you for reading.
D
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