
The Best of Times Short Story Competition
Spring 2020 Results
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Han Solo in a Jar
Copyright © Pauline Yates 2020The embarrassing loudness of the click-clack-click of my heels makes me wonder if Principal Roy tiled this section of the corridor to better announce a walk of shame. I escort my latest chemistry experiment victim, Jimmy Sanders, to the school nurse’s office, but Principal Roy’s office is right next door and I’m sure he’d love to use today’s disaster as an excuse to terminate my employment. If he doesn’t hear me, he’ll certainly hear Jimmy. The boy’s whimpers fill the gaps between the clacks. I wish he’d quiet down. He’ll be all right once his eyebrows grow back.
Reaching the nurse’s office, I deposit Jimmy into her capable hands and retreat before she can remark that it’s my third incident this month. I know that. So does Principal Roy. He’s already hinted my job is on the line. This latest accident couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Today is probationary observation day, the day Principal Roy sits in on one of my lessons and determines the permanency of my teaching position. Since my latest experiment was an epic failure, I have less than an hour to plan something new.
As I hurry back to my classroom, Principal Roy pokes his head out of his office.
“A minute, Miss Stevens,” he calls.
I stop, wondering if he heard the fire alarm. He couldn’t have. It only blared for two seconds before I cut the wire. Pasting on a smile, I turn around.
“Principal Roy. I was just on my way to see you,” I say, all excuses to explain why I’m not in class vanishing like a dead rabbit in a magician’s hat.
“There’s a clash in my schedule and I need to shift my observation of your teaching to the fourth period,” he says. “I trust that won’t be a problem.”
“No problem,” I squeak because Principal Roy stares at me as a cat stares at a mouse before the kill. “Fourth period will be perfect.”
“Excellent,” Principal Roy says. “Now, what is it you need?”
Sound-absorbing carpet instead of tiles? “To remind you to wear safety glasses,” I babble, wishing I could think of a better excuse instead of turning into an incompetent pile of mush in his presence.
“I have my own,” he says, patting the bulging breast pocket of his spiffy jacket. “Can’t be too careful around chemistry experiments, can we, Miss Stevens?” His stern expression confirms this observation is the line my job sits on. “I trust you’ve given adequate consideration to your lesson plan. I expect nothing less than excellence from my teaching staff.” With a curt nod, he goes back inside his office.
Oh, shoot me now. Every experiment I’ve considered has ended up a disaster. At least I have an extra hour to prepare. I run back to the staff room, dodging students on their lunch break, the ones I’m supposed to supervise. They can fend for themselves today. I need YouTube and need it now. It’s bound to have a chemistry experiment that won’t blow up my classroom. But when I switch on my computer, the server is down.
I am so screwed.
Trying not to panic, I dig through the drawers in my desk. Maybe Simon Keen, the former chemistry teacher, left something behind that will help? All I find is a biology textbook (I don’t know what that’s doing in here when I’m a chemistry teacher), a broken stapler, and a daily planner which I’ve never written in. Stuck to the outside is a memo: PLEASE BE ADVISED OF SCHEDULED INTERNET DISRUPTION 4/30/20 DURING THE HOURS OF 9 AM–2 PM.
“I don’t have time to read memos,” I say to the empty staff room. “I’m too busy blowing up my classroom.”
Pulling out the biology textbook, I flick through the pages, hoping to find something that might pass for chemistry. My nose wrinkles at a whiff of cigarette smoke. I glance over my shoulder. Mr. Nagey, the ancient Head of Chemistry Department, stands in the doorway looking sheepish.
“Miss Stevens,” he says. “Don’t you have playground duty?”
“Don’t you?” Wondering if he’s heard of nicotine gum, I resume my search through the biology book. It’s no use. All I find is a detailed description on how to dissect a toad. The memory of fainting in class when I did this experiment in ninth grade swims through my mind.
“Observation day, I presume?” Mr. Nagey asks.
“Yes. If you don’t mind, I need to prepare.”
He chuckles. “I hope you fare better than Simon.”
I look up. “What about Simon?”
“Brilliant young teacher. Head full of ideas. And not one of them good enough for Principal Roy.” His voice chokes off as he descends into a coughing fit so hard I worry his lungs will explode.
“Simon transferred,” I say when the coughing stops.
“Transferred? Ha. Shown the door more like it.”
My heart skips a beat. “Principal Roy sacked Simon?”
“You didn’t hear me say it,” Mr. Nagey says.
I lean my head in my hands. “Oh, please God, I need a miracle.”
“You just need more faith in yourself.”
“Faith won’t impress Principal Roy.” Sighing, I glance at his desk. “Would you have a chemistry textbook I could borrow? The internet is down.”
“What’s in it for me?” he asks.
Two can play at this game. “I won’t report you for smoking on school grounds.”
“Got me,” he says. “I’ve got a few books on my shelf.”
Muttering blackmail beneath my breath, I go to his desk and search through his collection of books. Seeing one that might help, I drag it out. With it comes a small jar filled with an innocuous-looking white powder that I suspect would rather I mind my business. It rolls from behind the textbook and drops onto the desk.
“Mr. Nagey!” I pounce on the jar, suspecting cocaine, or something similar. “What is this?”
“Ah,” Mr. Nagey says. “I wondered where that got to.”
“Are you crazy? You can’t bring drugs to school. What if a student finds it?”
“Fool girl,” he says. “That stuff isn’t drugs. That’s my secret weapon. Here, let me show you.”
Crossing the room, he snatches the jar from my hand, unscrews the lid and drops a dollar coin into the powder. Plucking it out, he places the powder-coated coin on the desk, pulls a lighter from his pocket, and sets the powder alight. There’s a sizzle, then the powder burns and morphs into a brown crystalline shell around the coin.
“I call it ‘Han Solo in a Jar’,” he says, tapping the shell with his fingernail. “Hard, but porous enough to break. You can waste a whole lesson getting the students to chip away at the crystal to find the hidden item. Kids love this stuff.” Using the nib of a pen, he chips away crystal to reveal an undamaged coin. “Works like a charm every time.”
I stare at the powder in the jar. This is the experiment I need. Simple, yet guaranteed to keep my students engaged long enough to appease Principal Roy. And there appears to be no risk of blowing up either the classroom or a student.
“Could I use that?” I ask.
“I drive a hard bargain,” Mr. Nagey says.
I snatch up the jar. “Let me use this for my observation experiment and I won’t tell Principal Roy you’re hiding cocaine in your desk.”
“Touché, Miss Stevens,” Mr. Nagey says. “Easily disproved, but not so easy to repair a tarnished reputation. I guess my answer is yes.”
Giving him a smug smile, I clutch the jar to my chest. I’ll ace my observation with this little gem. I’ll get the tick of approval on my credentials and never have to worry about job security again. But …
“I have twenty-eight students,” I say. “Will this amount of powder be enough?”
“Of course not. You’ll need a bucket load. I’ll write down the ingredients. You’ll find everything you need in the school’s chemical storeroom.”
Tearing a piece of paper from a notebook, he scribbles down the ingredients and hands me the list. “The main ingredient is Mercury thiocyanate, but if you add a pinch of copper, it will give the crystalline particles an aquamarine colour. Otherwise, you’ll end up with bland brown. Nothing interesting about that.”
I stare at the list. His writing is worse than a doctor’s. I need a post-graduate degree in palaeography to decipher the name and quantity of each ingredient.
“Could you help me,” I ask, panicking like my dyslexia student panics every time I write on the blackboard. “I can’t risk mucking this up. Please, Mr. Nagey, I’ll owe you for a lifetime.”
“A lifetime?” He scratches his jaw. “Deal. I was going for another smoke, anyway. Follow me.”
Feeling like I just sold my soul to the devil, I follow him to the school cafeteria where he collects three dozen red apples.
“What are those for?” I ask.
“You’ll see.”
He continues to the chemical storeroom. It’s at the top of a steep flight of stairs at the end of the chemistry building. Halfway up the stairs, Mr. Nagey grows short of breath, then collapses against the handrail, chest heaving.
“Are you okay, Mr. Nagey?” I can’t have him die on me now, even if it shortens my lifetime debt.
“I’m fine,” he gasps, pressing his hand to his chest. “You go ahead.”
I hesitate, not wanting to leave him, but he waves me off with a weak swat of his hand. Hurrying to the storeroom, I try to match up Mr. Nagey’s scrawls with the labels on the chemical jars, but his letters are so badly written I wonder if it’s me who has dyslexia and not my student. Hearing another coughing fit, followed by sharp wheezes, then silence, I grab a bucket from the bench, take my best guess at the ingredients needed then fill the bucket with equal amounts of various white powders until I have a similar concoction to what’s in Mr. Nagey’s jar. Remembering the copper, I add the entire contents of the copper container, then run from the room.
Mr. Nagey sits on the step smoking a cigarette, the bag of apples at his feet.
“What are you doing?” I hiss. “I thought you were dead.”
“Don’t think I’ll let you off your debt that easily.” Stubbing out his cigarette, he tucks the butt inside his shoe, then stands and walks down the stairs, the bag of apples swinging from his hand. Rolling my eyes, I follow.
When we reach my classroom, Mr. Nagey takes the bucket of powder and sets it on the front bench.
“One apple per student,” he says, plucking an apple from the bag and rolling it in the powder. “Use the gas lighter on low flame to ignite it,” he ignites the lighter, “and then—”
And then he stops talking. His hand shoots to his chest. His eyes glaze over. Then his knees buckle. As he drops to the floor, he bumps the bucket of powder. It falls off the bench and lands with a bang on the floor that puffs up the powder like an atomic mushroom cloud. As the powder settles, it coats Mr. Nagey from head to toe.
“Mr. Nagey!” I dive for the open flame, but I’m not quick enough. The flame ignites the powder on Mr. Nagey’s hand, starting the chemical reaction. There’s no stopping it. Like a serpent-demon consuming its prey, the powder sizzles into a swelling mass that encapsulates Mr. Nagey’s entire body. The resulting crystalline substance ends up looking like a grotesque coffin sprouting a multitude of curling, aquamarine tentacles.
Gaping in horror at the catastrophe, I creep forward and tap where I think Mr. Nagey’s face is. He’s probably already dead—heart attacks can do that. If he’s not, well, Han Solo survived carbonization. Maybe Mr. Nagey will survive this.
Secretly, I don’t like his chances.
I chip away the outer coating, hoping the tentacle I break off is not a finger when the door to the classroom opens and my students file in, followed by Principal Roy.
“All set, Miss Stevens?” He stops and goggles at the crystalline mass. “What on earth is that ‘thing’ doing in my classroom?”
His classroom? Anger swells inside me, shoving aside the shock at being caught in a situation I’ll never explain. This is my classroom. And I’ll have whatever ‘thing’ in here I want.
“This ‘thing’ is the subject of my lesson today,” I say, using my best ‘I’m-the-teacher-in-charge-here’ tone, all incompetent mushiness in his presence forgotten. “Please take your seat at the back of the class and we’ll begin.”
With a stunned expression, Principal Roy retreats to a chair at the back of the room without another word.
“Students,” I continue, “today we will observe the effect of heat on chemical compounds. Please take an apple on the way to your seats and let’s get started.”
Luckily, there’s enough powder left in the bottom of the bucket for the experiment. Following my instructions, the students dip their apples into the powder, their faces bright with anticipation. When they ignite the powder, the “oohs” and “ahhs” at the chemical reaction are music to my ears. And to Principal Roy’s. He takes an apple and joins in with the experiment. Copying the students, he chips away the crystalline coating to reveal an intact rosy-red apple. His surprised gasp mixes with the students’ squeals of wonderment that fill the room.
The bell rings, ending the lesson. The students file out, full of chatter about the unusual experiment. Principal Roy, however, remains behind, eyeing the ‘thing’ with curiosity.
“Bravo, Miss Stevens,” he says. “I must admit I had my doubts, but you have exceeded my expectations. I’ve never seen a class so engaged. It’s everything I expect in a lesson. And what an experiment. Head of Department material, dare I say it. Keep that in mind. Mr. Nagey won’t be around forever. Now, when do we get to see what’s inside that thing?”
“Oh, dear, look at the time,” I say, glancing at the classroom clock. “That revelation will have to wait, I’m afraid. Parent/teacher interview. Sorry.”
“Of course, of course. Don’t let me hold you up.” Turning on his heel, he strides from the room.
“Did you hear that, Mr. Nagey?” I say to his crystalline coffin. “Head of Department material thanks to your secret weapon.”
“Fool girl, faith in yourself is your secret weapon,” says a distant voice.
Tears welling, I close my eyes and imagine Mr. Nagey floating off to the afterlife.
“You’re right,” I say to his ghost. “And I promise I’ll make you proud and remember to keep the faith and—”
“Will you stop your blubbering and get me out of here?”
My eyes snap open. “Mr. Nagey?” I pause. “What’s in it for me?”
“No lifetime debt,” he grumbles.
“Deal.” Picking up a knife, I begin to chip.