A Different Blue(16)

bridge. He sounded the advance with a blast of the trumpet and cried out . . . and I am quoting,

'Let us go where the omens of the gods and the crimes of our enemies summon us! The dye is now

cast.' What do you think that means? The dye is now cast.”

The classroom was silent. Of course there were kids who knew the answer, but, per usual, no one

raised their hand.

“The deed is done, your goose is cooked, the milk is spilled, your bed is made,” I droned in a

very bored voice.

“Yes,” Wilson ignored my tone. “It was in the hands of destiny. He had crossed the Rubicon

and there was no turning back. We all know what eventually happened to Julius Caesar, yes?” No,

we didn't. I did, but I was through being the star student.

“Julius was murdered – a murder plotted with the help of his friend. Shakespeare wrote a

wicked play called Julius Caesar, which you have all been assigned to read and which you will be

tested on this Friday.” Moaning commenced, but Wilson just smiled. “I told you, literature

tells the history so much better than the text books, and it's infinitely more enjoyable to

learn it that way. Quit your whingeing. You'll thank me someday.” Whingeing? That was one I

hadn't heard before.

“So Julius Caesar crosses the Rubicon, rushing to his destiny. And it was a destiny both

glorious and tragic. He reached the very pinnacle of power, and in the end he discovered power

is an illusion.

“So that brings us to round three, people. Feel free to add pages as you need. This is the

assignment we started the first day of school. And it's just going to keep on growing. You've

written some of your history, at least in broad terms. Now I want you to take one moment from

your life. A moment where the dye was cast, where you crossed your metaphorical Rubicon and you

couldn't go back. I want you to tell me how it formed you or changed you. Maybe it was something

that was beyond your control, something that happened to you, or maybe it was an actual decision

you made. For better or worse, how did it affect the direction of your story?”

One by one, Wilson started passing papers to my classmates, making a comment here or there. I

sighed, remembering how I had thrown mine in the trash. Again. The classroom got quiet as people

got to work. I tore a clean sheet of paper from a notebook and prepared to start over. Wilson

was suddenly standing in front of my desk, which unfortunately had remained right on the front

row since he had assigned us to the seats we had “chosen” on the first day of school.

[page]He laid a sheet of paper on my desk. I looked down at it in surprise. My eyes shot up to

his and then back down to my paper. It was the paper I had thrown away. Twice. He must have

retrieved it after I left the room that day. It had been smoothed and pressed flat again, as if

he had laid it between a couple of heavy books. My words stared back at me, almost mocking.

“There's no sense in running from the past. We can't throw it away or pretend it didn't happen,

Miss Echohawk. But maybe we can learn something from it. You have an interesting story, and I'd

like you to tell me more.” He turned to walk away.

“Seems a little unfair to me,” I blurted out, and I immediately wished I had kept my big mouth

shut when thirty pairs of eyes zeroed in on me.

Wilson raised his eyebrows, tilted his head inquisitively and folded his arms.