As my concentration turned away from the nearly completed test, my suspicious eyes darted across the room. At first, I suspected anyone and everyone, except my sixth grade teacher. Soon enough, I managed to narrow the list down to four or five individuals capable of such a cruel act. A few things tipped me off. Nate became the first person on my list of suspects; he could not hide his guilty laughter with his exaggerated cough. And Evanís crooked smile told me that he knew of something; if he wasnít guilty, he knew who was. I knew Bozoís poker face and nervous tapping of his desk did not imply that the chapter test posed any serious problems. He was too smart to be stumped on any of these obvious multiple-choice questions. Nick kept pointing to Steve, but his eye popping stare and pasty white smile gave rise to new suspicion; they were all in it together, ready to drop the blame on a single, defenseless Steve. Then again, what if Steve did have the capability to start something as spontaneous and unprovoked as this? What was I to do?
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Reluctant to admit defeat, I hunched over my paper to hide my actions. I wanted them to assume that I was continuing my test and that they didnít bother me one bit. But they all knew I could still see them from the corner of my eye, and I bet the guilty party was waiting for retaliation. Adrenaline was coursing though my veins Ė telling me that there was no turning back. Very slowly and quietly, I had cautiously begun to tear off little bits of paper. Within a few moments, I had a full arsenal of nine saliva-dripping spitballs lined up against my desk, and with a quick pull of my teeth, my writing utensil transformed into a lethal (okay, maybe not that lethal) weapon. I placed the first projectile in the wide end of the tube. A small, barely audible pop echoed across the room as I sucked on the other side of the tube; it was the sound of a drenched ball of paper smacking up against the narrow end of the pen. If you ever loaded a spitball before, you know what sound Iím speaking of.
Locked and loaded, I had my dadís favorite phrase in mind: fight fire with fire. I took one full breath to prepare me for the attack that I had planned, and a few moments later, my lungs were filled with trapped air that needed to be released. Visions of corporal punishment faded into pictures of school warfare. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but in my state of mind, I couldnít let this skirmish go without retaliation. I placed the spitball shooter to my lips, and I lined up my target Ė the fattest person in my sight.
Evanís big head skipped up and down with excitement. If I couldnít hit him, then, I ought to retire, I told myself. My lungs exploded in their unknowingly last attempt of the day. Little Bob was a successful launch (for some reason, I gave each spitball a pet name). He hurled through the air with unbelievable speed. Little Bob seemed to weave in and out of the maze of innocent heads before him. They were all going to pay, but Evan was going to be my first victim. At least, thatís what I thought.
Unfortunately, my aim wasnít too good. Perhaps my pen had a slight curve to it, due to manufacturing imperfections. Or maybe, the open window allowed just enough breeze in to change the trajectory. Either way, I missed my mark.
Little Bob clung to the side of Sarahís temple, and the saliva slowly oozed down the side of her face. With a quick flick of the hand, Little Bob was cast to the floor. I did not want to believe it; my body froze up on me. Sarah stared me down for the longest second of my life, and there was nothing that I could do about it. The spitball shooter still rested on my motionless lips as she jerked her squinted eyes towards me; I was caught red-handed. Many foul words came to mind, and somehow, I resisted the temptation to jump out of my seat and run home.
*** Please comment on any ideas for the ending.