The Wednesday Wars

by Gary D. Schmidt

“He isn’t really a villain,” I said, “is he?” “No,” said Mrs. Baker, “he isn’t.” “He’s more like someone who wants . . .” “Who wants what, Mr. Hoodhood?” “Someone who wants to become who he’s supposed to be,” I said. Mrs. Baker considered that. “And why couldn’t he?” she asked. “Because they wouldn’t let him. They decided he had to be a certain way, and he was trapped. He couldn’t be anything except for what he was,” I said. “And that is why the play is called a tragedy,” said Mrs. Baker.

When gods die, they die hard. It’s not like they fade away, or grow old, or fall asleep. They die in fire and pain, and when they come out of you, they leave your guts burned. It hurts more than anything you can talk about. And maybe worst of all is, you’re not sure if there will ever be another god to fill their place. Or if you’d ever want another god to fill their place. You don’t want fire to go out inside you twice.

“If an atomic bomb drops on Camillo Junior High, everything we’ve seen today will be gone, won’t it?” Another long pause. “Yes,” she said, finally. “And it really doesn’t matter if we’re under our desks with our hands over our heads or not, does it?” “No,” said Mrs. Baker. “It really doesn’t matter.” “So why are we practicing?” She thought for a minute. “Because it gives comfort,” she said. “People like to think that if they’re prepared, then nothing bad can really happen. And perhaps we practice because we feel as if there’s nothing else we can do, because sometimes it feels as if life is governed by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”