William S. and the Great Escape Read Free Page B

slightly raw bowlful of whatever it was Gertie was trying to cook. Something you might think of as beef stew if you were feeling optimistic.
    When the bowl was empty, down to the last greasy drop, William peeked out, considering whether it might be possible to sneak into the kitchen and get a little more. In the end he decided against it. It looked like most of the Baggetts were there that evening, at least half a dozen of them. Whenever that many Baggetts crowded into a space where there wasn’t room enough to have a real free-for-all, the only thing they could think of to do for entertainment was to pick out somebody to torment. And William knew who that was likely to be. Who, for instance, might get punched or kicked or swatted, or even picked up and kind of tossed around from one oversize Baggett to another.
    Not being in the mood to be treated like a piece of playground equipment, William went the other way, scooting out the side door and up the stairs. And then on up the flimsy pull-down ladder that led to the dimly lit, slant-ceilinged attic that was his private living area. Not that the other Baggetts didn’t know where he was. But most of the time they didn’t bother him because of the dangerously decrepit ladder, and the fact that most of them were too big and awkward to squeeze through the small trap-door opening that led to the attic area.
    There were other reasons too why William’s space— it could hardly be called a room—was fairly private. Reasons that came and went with the seasons. Like, for instance, the fact that there was no heat in winter, and a certain amount of oozing dampness whenever it rained. And now, in August?
    In August, William’s attic usually provided the kind of heat that burned your eyes and throbbed in your ears, and made even the palms of your hands wet with sweat. Heat that on days like today would probably keep all the bigger Baggetts downstairs with their cold beers and electric fans.
    William took off his shoes and most of his clothing before he collapsed on top of the lumpy nest of old quilts and sleeping bags that more or less served as a bed. But not before he had arranged some necessities within arm’s reach. Things like his journal, his fountain pen, his water jar, and Doubleday’s Complete Works of William Shakespeare .
    Usually he spent some time on the journal first— the journal that had been suggested by Miss Scott as a summer project for anyone who was interested in writing or acting. You should write not just about the things that happened during the summer, Miss Scott had said, but what you
felt
and
thought
about those events, using dialogue whenever you could work it in. And then, if you were interested in acting, you should read what you’d written out loud—acting it out as you read. Like making yourvoice soft and warm when you read the good things, and harsh and bitter when the words led in that direction. William had done quite a bit of reading-out-loud practice ever since school had let out earlier that summer.
    Miss Scott.
Someday, William thought he might write a really long essay on what he
thought
and
felt
about Miss Scott. All about how he had known how special she was that very first day of seventh-grade English. How she could make boring stuff like diagramming sentences into a kind of game, and even the mushiest poems sound so strong and important that you felt you might try to write one someday. That is, if you ever found someone you could feel that mushy about. And, of course, one of the most important things about Miss Scott had been Shakespeare and The Tempest .
    Besides teaching English at Crownfield Junior High, Miss Scott taught drama at the high school, where every year she put on a couple of plays, and one of them was always by William Shakespeare . The actors were mostly high school students, but with a few especially talented nonstudents from elsewhere in the community. And last year, when skinny