The Battle of Appomattox

“…the base and multiply it with the height then times that by a half and you will find the area of any triangle,” explained our math teacher, Mr. Orwell. We were all scribbling notes into our notebooks and binders. Most of us, though, were all conscientious of the time. We would always get caught glancing at the clock, which now read 12:54. That means that the period was almost over.

         “I would like to continue but it seems we have run out of time,” Mr. Orwell said. “I will see you next week. Test Thursday! We all packed our stuff and left Mr. Orwell writing on the board.

         I walked out to my locker which is conveniently located right next to my best friend’s. His name is Richard Clyde. His friends call him Richie. He would be considered a nerd. He’s sort of a klutz. He trips at least once a day. I think he’s a good kid, though.

         As I approach Richie, he tells me, “What do you think you got on your history test.”

If I was completely honest, I would have said that I think I bombed it. Instead I said, “Ehh, I think I did alright.”

He said, “Well, it didn’t seem that hard. I don’t think I got a perfect, but it wasn’t too bad. We better get to history or we might be late.”

I agreed so we hurried down the stairs to history. We actually got there a few minutes early so, Richie and I talked for the rest of the time we had before class.

Mr. Picman walked into the room as the last student sat down in his seat. He went right to his desk and grabbed what I guessed was our tests. Unfortunately, I was right.

As Mr. Picman walked down the rows, passing out the tests, he said, “I know a lot of you studied for this history test. But I also know that a lot of you didn’t study either.” I swear he looked my way when he said that. He continued with, “It showed either way.” That sent a shiver down my spine.

Whenever he got to me he frowned and said, “I didn’t figure this from you.” He handed me a packet that consisted of typed black words, pencil markings, and more red ink than anything I’ve seen in my life. At the top of the paper, it had eighteen out of seventy-five. With that, it had a largely printed F. I think my heart skipped a beat. This is the first test that I literally bombed. I knew what that meant.

On my report card, I have never had anything below a C. My grade in Mr. Picman’s class is a C and this grade, which I know for sure, would bring me down to a D. I really need to find a way to bring that up. “I think I’ll talk to him after class,” I thought.

We spent the rest of the period looking over the test. Not a clue was in sight. The eighteen questions that I did get right were mostly off of luck.

When the bell rang, I went right to the teacher. The first instant he saw me, I muttered out, “I’m sorry. I didn’t study and…,” but he cut me off there.

“It’s not my problem that you didn’t do well on the last test this semester,” he abruptly said. “If you want to fail, that’s your problem. I expected more from you, Jack.”

I took a few moments to gather my thoughts. Mr. Picman looked at me expectantly. I said, cautiously thinking about my words, “Is there anything I can do to get my grade back up to at least a C?”

He said, “If you really want to make it up, if you really want to work hard, I can give you two weeks to make this project.” And he handed me a piece of paper. He explains to me that I have to pick a battle that took place in the Civil War and make a scale model of the battlefield. It has to include the Union and Confederate armies, something that represents the landscape on which the battle took place, and it all has to be decently accurate to the actual battle. “When, and if, you bring it in to school, you must present that project to the class by explaining: how the battle was started, what happened during the battle, and what were the results of said battle,” he explained.

“Okay, Mr. Picman,” I said, “I won’t let you down.” And I stormed out of the room and out to my bus.



I’ve now been working for four days now and I haven’t had any free time for those days either. I’m really tired because whenever I’m home, I’m working. Sure, I went to the grocery store with my mom, Hillary Jones. I’ve also stayed after school today to help clean up a party the teacher had in class.

I think I’m a good kid all together. I’m in ninth grade, I’ve had decent grades, so far, I live in North Dakota, I’m about 5 foot, seven inches, and I work out. I have a good-bit amount of friends, too. I am what I want to be so I’m happy.

The project is just getting its structure. I have picked a battle that I think will be perfect. It’s called that Battle of Appomattox. I think it’s the most interesting battle besides the one that took place in Gettysburg, Pa. The battle is about General Lee and General Grant. Lee tried to escape but Grant intercepted him. Lee ended up surrendering to Grant after seven hundred casualties. At least I know what I’m doing now.

I think I might be able to pull my grade up. God knows I want to.





A few days later, I’m talking to Richie when I see Mr. Picman walk up to me and he asks me, “How’s the project going Mr. Jones?”

I responded with, “I think I might get that C that I’m aiming for.”

He exclaimed, “Really? I can honestly say that I do hope that I can bring your grade up for you. Do you have any questions for me?

I told him, “No, not that I’m aware of any.”

“Okay,” he said, “E-mail me or come see me if you have any, ‘mkay.”

“Okay Mr. Picman,” I concluded, “I’ll see you around.”





Thank God! Presentation’s due today. I think I did a fantastic job. It looks pretty cool. The landscaping looks excellent, the soldiers look deadly, and it’s looking like I might be getting that C. I don’t think I have ever been as happy to get a C on anything ever in my entire life.

I put a bag over it to keep it safe and got my mom to take it and me to school. When I got there, I put it in my locker. I’m going through the day anticipating forth period. I want to present it so I can see what I can bring my grade up to.

At lunch, I’m talking to Richie and somehow he brought up the subject of my history project. He really wanted to see it so I reluctantly went to my locker and got it out to show him. He asks, “Hey that looks heavy. Can I see how much it weighs?”

I said, “Okay but guard it with your life.”

I handed it over to him thinking, “Don’t drop it. Please.”

He took it gently from my hands and lifted it up and down to see the weight.

He said, “Wow, it’s a lot lighter than it looks!”

I see him try walking around with it above his head. I know he is just joking around but it scares me.

I try to take it from him but before I get there, he stumbles. Time seems to slow down as I look down to see what caused him to trip. He stepped on one of his untied shoelaces. I look back up and I know he’s on his way down. I can tell from his facial expression. It’s one of pure shock. I see his hands release the object that I put my life into. He lands on his knees before the rest of his body gets there. The project hits the ground. Richie sticks his hands out to stop the fall. I look at the project and its weight and speed from the fall catches up with it as I see it starting to crumble. Richie’s hands hit the ground as my project cracks into thousands of irreplaceable time-consuming pieces. After the chaos, time speeds back up and I’m caught just staring at the disassembled project.

Richie gets up and looks around until he spots the damage he caused. The next thing he spots is me.

He starts saying, “Jack, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Jack! Forgive me! Please!

Now I can barely see tears forming in the corners of his eyes. People started gathering around to witness the destruction of my project. That and because Richie was now screaming at me to accept his apology.

I simply couldn’t. I have so much rage building inside me. I am now angry upon comparison. I can’t even hear Richie over the ringing in my ears. I snap.

I turn randomly around and sprint about a meter before jumping into the air and landing into Richie pushing him to the ground. I raise my fist. He looks at me through my eyes and seems not to know me. That’s because he’s never met this person.

My fist went down. I see blood coming from Richie’s nose. I didn’t stop there, though. I couldn’t help myself. Then I threw another and another punch to the same place. Last I picked him up by the collar while I was still on top of him and head butted him harder than I needed to get the effect.

That was the last thing I did to him because two male teachers that I didn’t recognize lifted me up off of Richie. I didn’t fight them because I was still in shock or I didn’t see Richie move. I think it was both. After my rampage I calmly passed out.





I wake up in the hospital with my one arm in a cast, my head hurting, and my other arm tied down to the bed that I’m in. I think I’m dreaming until I remember what happened. I look around the room to see my mother looking at me. She gave me this I’m disappointed look. I felt really bad and nervous. What happened to Richie? The first words out of my mouth to my mother were, “Is Richie okay? Is he awake?”

She replied with a sad tone, “Yes. He’s awake. Why?”

“It’s not like I wanted to kill him,” I replied.

“Well, you really hurt him, Jack,” she scolded him.

“I’m sorry,” I said pretty loud.

She replied with a soft tone, “That won’t take back what you did.”

“Can I at least go see him? Maybe talk to him?” I asked.

“You’ll have to see what the guard says,” she told me. She walks out of the room and I hear her ask someone if I could go see Richie. My mother, with this new person wearing a police officer’s uniform, walked in the room and told me it was okay.

The guard says, “Don’t expect too much privacy. I have to be in there with you.

I tell him its fine and he cuts me free. We then make the long trek through the hospital to find Richie’s room. The guard and I enter the almost completely empty, silent room. Richie looks up as the guard shuts the door and stands in the back of the room. I approach him and he just stares at me. His nose is covered with a bandage and pills are next to him on a table. He’s lying down on his bed and he looks sad.

I tell him, “What can I say. I’m sorry. I know it’s not enough.”

He cuts in, “But it’s a start.”