Luke and the Scratch

Luke was in elementary school, maybe the third or fourth grade, when I noticed at supper one night that he had a slight scratch on his chin. Curious, I asked him how he got it.

“I don’t know,” he said nonchalantly.

“You must remember how you got a scratch on your chin,” I said.

He thought for a while, then offered, “Maybe Billie’s fingernail made it.”

“Really,” I said. “How did that happen?”

“His thumb or something might have scratched me.”

“What was he doing that his thumb would scratch your chin?” I asked.

“He was trying to hit me,” Luke said without emotion. “It probably happened then.”

“He was trying to hit you?” I said, a bit alarmed. “Why would he want to hit you?”

“Well, I hit him, so he was trying to hit me,” Luke said between bites of food.

“You hit him?” My alarm was escalating, held in check only by Luke’s calmness. “Why did you hit him?”

“Well, I was hitting him—“

“You hit him more than once?” I was incredulous.

“Oh yeah. I was hitting him a lot,” he said. “An after a while he tried to hit me back.” Luke’s face broke into a large grin. “But all he was able to do was scratch me a little,” he said proudly.

I looked at Betsy, who was as astonished as I. I looked at Marcus, who didn’t look surprised at all. “Why were you hitting him at all,” I asked, trying to control my tone.

“He was calling Tommy names, so I hit him,” Luke said, as if the logic was foolproof.

“Wait! You hit him first? For calling someone else a name?”

“Oh yeah,” Luke said. “I definitely hit him first. Then I pushed him down and jumped on him and kept on hitting him.” He reached for the mashed potatoes and gave himself another  helping.

“Wait! Where did this all happen?”

“On the playground at recess,” he offered placidly.

“Weren’t there people around? Did anyone see you doing this?” I was getting a bad feeling.

“Oh yeah. There were lots of kids there. They were all around us.”

“Did the teachers see all of this?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Oh yeah, there were a lot of teachers there.” Again, calmly.

“So, you started a fight on the playground, and lots of kids saw it, and the teachers came over and broke it up? Is that what happened.”

“Oh yeah,” he said. Then with a bit of pride, he said, “But Billy was crying!”

“Luke, this is horrible. You were a bully! You attacked a kid and made him cry!”

“No, I’m not, Dad. I was sticking up for a friend.” He looked at me earnestly, and it was apparent that his eyes and his conscience were both clear.

“What happened after the teachers broke up the fight?” Betsy asked. “Did you get in any trouble?”

‘Oh yeah,” he said with what sounded like enthusiasm. “I had to go see the principal.”

“You had to see Mrs. Copley?” Betsy asked, aghast.

I was a bit aghast as well. “What happened when you saw her?” I asked.

“Nothing. I like her,” he said, smiling.

“You like her? Have you seen her before?” I really didn’t want to hear his answer.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve seen her lots of times.”

I looked at Betsy and she stared back at me, wide-eyed as I probably was.

Later, when I ran into Sue Copley, I asked her about the fight. She told me that Luke explained in detail the whole incident. When she asked him why he was sent to see her so often, he said he didn’t mind, he liked seeing her. Then she said he sighed and said, “I just don’t know why I do these things.”

She said it was all she could do not to laugh out loud.