When I was in 9th grade my English class was assigned a short story to complete by the end of the week.

I had written stories before, mostly nerdy extensions of the Alien series which were accompanied by drawings of lizards committing the bloody murder of those oblong-headed, fanged, voracious bastards that had frightened millions on the big screen. That’s the crap I was into for the better part of my childhood so when Ms. Bedalia (I’ve changed her name to protect the godless heathen from striking back at me) wrote on the chalkboard that a short story was due, my fourteen year old heart sputtered. I was a scholastically unmotivated kid but asked to do some art and school would suddenly make sense to me.

I began to scribble down some ideas on the school bus that afternoon while riding home and a story materialized based on everything I had known about horror at that time. A historical event from a dark chapter of our country’s past, witches, death, and then finally deliverance and diabolical redemption. What formed was an amateur telling of a witch burned on a stake at the edge of a cliff in Salem who scorches the earth with a curse to exact revenge on any poor sucker who would dare trespass upon the site. Of course, someone does and builds a home for a family only to be harassed by the demonic ghost of the witch. Campy — sure but nonetheless I put everything that I knew about writing into it.

The cautious and meticulous manner in which I wrote my tale wasn’t solely due to my dedication to the craft but also because of the one who had assigned it. Ms. Bedalia’s long dark hair fell from her head disastrously like the paradoxical beauty of the fetters from a whip dangling from a flower. I’d imagine a secret interest in her when she would teach a lesson on writing mechanics while those eyes – as black and cold as her heart – would happen to meet mine. She had just graduated from Boston University but her discretely vocalized apathy illustrated a regretful woman. Whatever she had learned in that vanguard school was wasted on most of us.

Then there was Master Bates — a kid who had the misfortune of being named Kevin Bates. He’d clown around, taunt Ms. Bedalia until the aim of her raspy-voiced directions was targeted on Master Bates to reprimand and command him to quit disturbing his more studious classmates. That was the extent of her compassion.

Sleepy-eyed and weary, she mostly resigned herself to a chair, her exhausted voice droning over the careful snores of the students. In my own stupid, feeble mind I believed that my horror story could indicate to her a student that was sincerely interested in her tutorship.

I turned in my five paged, loose-leaf bound example of prodigious work on the Friday it was due and then I waited. The weekend was passing slowly and by that Sunday, I had an A and Ms. Bedalia’s approbating smile and congratulatory kiss circulating in my mind like it was Christmas Eve. Maybe I could spark aflame the thistle and wood lodged in the dead soul of that woman.

The next morning I arrived to class early, placed a pencil and eraser delicately on the desk, laid the text book respectfully in the center and some extra paper on the left. I looked at Ms. Bedalia and gave her my best and shyest smile. I really was terrified of her mature womanliness but she returned the gesture with a nod, absent of any exchange of gratitude.

When the class settled in its seats, she rose from the chair and launched into the most impassioned diatribe, scolding an unnamed assailent who had committed the nearly criminal act of plagiarism. I wanted to applaud when she finished. Burn the accused on the stake. Pull out his nails so that the nefarious act would never be duplicated. Bring him to the center of the class so we can point fingers at his guilty face. Let us shame him.

Ms. Bedalia began passing back the stories, slamming mine on my desk. When I flipped it over, the front page was branded with a red F, underlined twice, with a caption that read Plagiarism!. Ironically, just as many people were falsely accused of witchcraft, the story that I had poured all of my talent and vigor into was to meet their fate. I shot my hand into the air, screaming bloody false, and lible but her disgusted face trumped my zeal.

After class, I waited for my classmates to exit the room. I didn’t care if I was late for the next period. I was liable to skip it anyway. I pleaded my case, completely dumbstruck. Calling plagiarism (I don’t even like to write the word) is the cardinal sin of a reader. You don’t do it unless you can procure the source and since I hadn’t copied my work from anyone she couldn’t prove her case but the rancorous score and branding stuck. Since I had written the story for her, it was garbage anyway so I tossed it and whatever is left remains in a pulpy mess in some Miami landfill (one could also debate who the story was really about.)

After that, Ms. Bedalia had two pains-in-the asses to contend with: Master Bates and the Plagiarist.