The View From the Cherry Tree by Willo Davis Roberts

I could see him, waiting in line with other cars, drumming his fingers on the wheel. My own car showed up, with Ernie driving. There were even a couple of other kids standing around, probably waiting to see the massacre.

No way was I going to walk out there and let him pound on me.

He was watching the main front door, but I stayed inside, out of sight. I saw him standing just inside the gates, as the rules say we have to do, waiting for his car. Willie was picked up from school by limousine, like practically everyone else who attends St. Not that I’d have cared much, if he hadn’t gotten so mad. Who had taken my elbow in his nose and spouted blood all over the gym during third period, making everyone laugh uproariously. Willie was really William John Edward Groves, III, who stood a head taller than I did and outweighed me by maybe fifteen pounds. Everywhere I looked, there was Willie glaring at me. I don’t know how I got through the rest of the afternoon. “I didn’t make it up,” I said, my voice squeaking a little. In thirty years of teaching I’ve never had a student who had more imagination than you have.”

Dot, dot, dot.’ Well, Bishop, if pulp fiction ever makes a comeback, you’ll have your niche, all right. Epperson ran a cursory glance down the page, reading aloud the final sentence. Too scared to think about anything except meeting Willie after school. On the spur of the moment, no time to think about it.Īs it happened, I was scared. Epperson told us to write a brief personal essay. It seems harmless enough to make up stories to entertain yourself, but it can backfire. It’s a mistake to earn the reputation of being a liar.

The View From the Cherry Tree by Willo Davis Roberts