Some silences were more suffocating, weighing more heavily on you with worry, hurt, anguish, they were more alarming than the noisiest noise. To Ben’s ears, it sounded final.

Telling no one in school was the easy part. These were not just his secrets, but his family’s secrets he was guarding. It was nobody’s business that they had fallen behind on their mortgage payments; that out of despair, the electric and water bills had been left unopened on the kitchen table; that his father was out of a job; or that he, Ben, was hungry. Hungry not only because he was growing—but because by now, they could afford no milk, no eggs, no meat, and his mom was running out of ideas how to make appetizing meals out of dry crust bread and a generous helping of dog food.

The hard part was pretending. In the courtyard before the ring of the bell, he would act as jolly and carefree as can be; say nothing while talking a whole lot. You could hear his voice above all others, cracking jokes in the middle of a crowd. He would laugh himself into tears and later, agonize that it might have rung hollow.

But laughter was risky; especially in this school, established in a brick structure in an earlier era, where the test of discipline was: If you could hear a pin drop, then all was just about right. Take this morning, for example. His teacher was bent on making an example out of him, and there was nothing he could say or do to prevent it.

Students were filing into class, Ben among them, when Mr. Campbell, the fiercest teacher in school, suddenly turned upon him. He had a crooked, dry mouth; and dangling from his hand, with its hooked handle jutting out, was a cane, which in its own subtle manner seemed to suggest, “Misbehave and I will draw your blood.”
“You,” said the teacher, pointing at him with the cane, then whipping it hard onto the blackboard. The force of the impact could be felt throughout the classroom. There was complete silence and the air thickened with the smell of fear. He pushed his thick glasses up his nose. “I am talking to you, young man.”
“Yes, Sir,” said Ben.
Mr. Campbell must have thought of himself as an excellent interrogator. His method—coming at you from all different directions, at every step letting annoying little squeaks escape from his shoes, while at the same time, repeating the same questions over and over—that method was notoriously respected. He seemed assured that even the toughest criminal would soon cry for his mommy.
“I see you laughing all the time,” he said. “Why are you laughing? Are you laughing again? Are you? No? What, then, is that smirk on your face? Are you trying to hide it? Think you can fool me? Do you? What is so funny, I would like to know? Did you hear me say anything funny? Anything even remotely funny?”
“No, Sir—I don’t think so—”
“Too loud, is what you are! Loud and vulgar, I say.”
“Sorry, Sir—”
“I want you to stay after school, right here. Stay here, do not move, and wait for me.”


And so it happened that Ben stayed alone in the classroom that day after school. It was a hot afternoon. He waited. Half an hour passed, then an hour, and the gnawing pain in his stomach started to consume him. By now he was more hungry than scared. One of the windows in the classroom had been left open, and he could hear voices from the opposite wing of the school. They wafted in, coming perhaps from the kitchen or the cafeteria. He could smell food. It was tempting.

Exhausted by the wait, he pressed his ear to the classroom door, opened it just a crack, and listened. The corridor was eerily quiet. His teacher was nowhere in sight. Maybe he had already forgotten all about him. Maybe he was gone by now.

Ben stared around him. He knew in his guts that his days in this place were numbered. With his father gone, with no protection and no source of income, a change was coming. Sooner or later, their home would be foreclosed, at which time he, Ben, and his mom would find themselves homeless. A change was coming—and amazingly, he found himself thrilled by it. Forced to move away, he would be far out of reach of Mr. Campbell and, even more delightfully, out of reach of his cane.

By and by, the smell of food overwhelmed him. He swung the door open and made a dash for it; before he knew it he was standing by the entrance to the cafeteria. With the florescent lights turned off, the place looked gloomier than ever. Long, metallic tables gleamed in the darkness, and piled on top of one of them were boxes, carton boxes full of food supplies, ready to be sorted out by the staff. For a moment, he listened to the voices. Before anyone could come out of the adjacent kitchen, Ben wrapped his hands around the top box and—in a snap—took off.

Back in his classroom, he raised the lid of his desk and poured the food supplies into the bin underneath. These were cheese triangles—dozens of them—individually wrapped in foil. He used to like that flavor. They were made from Cheddar cheese, fats, and emulsifying salts; a blend which, as the label declared, offered a tasty, low-cost alternative to hard cheeses. The label was prominently marked, Happy Cow Spreadable Cheese.

The first bite filled his mouth with a wonderful, creamy taste. Ben swallowed two, three, four triangles in a single gulp and at once his fatigue lifted—only to be replaced by a much heavier sensation: Anger.

He resented having to wait here, hiding the stolen goods, cowering behind the lid of his desk for fear of being found out. He resented having to make do, somehow, on low-cost alternatives to real food, while the other boys went home to a full meal. He hated his own laughter, the necessity of faking it, the burning feel of his unshed tears. Hated himself. Most of all, he hated that fat, Happy Cow.

For a long time he gazed at the cheese triangle melting away between his fingers. It felt as if right there, in the palm of his hand, was his own hopelessness, his misery, his pitiful life, a life foreclosed.

At last he raised his arm and—utterly in disgust—tossed the cheese triangle up with all his might. To his surprise, it did not come down; instead, it spattered across the ceiling, clinging to the paint by some mysterious force. Never before did he imagine that a blend of Cheddar cheese, fats, and emulsifying salts could form such a glue, a crazy glue that could defy gravity.

Ben had long been curious about the laws of nature, the forces of the universe; he  used to dream, with great enthusiasm, of becoming a scientist one day. He had a drive to excel—yet his drive far exceeded his diligence. Rarely did he complete his homework. Now, however, the flying cheese incident sparked his curiosity anew.

Purely for the sake of experiment, he unwrapped all the triangles, lowered the lid of his desk, climbed on top and from there, hurled them, one Happy Cow after the other, up into the air. Moving with speed, and with the accumulated force of all his frustrations, his scrawny arms looked like a blur. He pitched, he flung, he propelled those cheese triangles with great force. They rose gracefully in their flight until finally meeting the ceiling, where—incredibly—they stuck.

He was just about to let the last one fly; it was then that a sound first caught his attention. It was a repetitive sound: A squeak of a shoe followed by another squeak and a bang of a cane against the bare floor. The squeak-squeak-bang advanced in his direction until coming to a stop right there, outside the classroom door.

 
The desk shook under him; it nearly toppled over. Having lost his footing, Ben found himself, unexpectedly, spread eagle across the floor. He looked up and could spot, far away by the half-open door, a sharp nose. It came out and was soon followed by a pair of thick glasses.

“Well, now!” said his teacher’s voice. “What shall we do with you?”
Ben shuddered at the thought that Mr. Campbell might have glanced at the ceiling; that he might have noticed the shine, the buttery shine which emanated from the triangles, those Happy Cow Spreadable Cheese triangles which he, Ben, had just finished tossing up.
“Get up, get up already, up from the floor!” said the teacher, coming to a stand over him. “What happened to you? What are you doing down there?”
“Nothing,” said Ben. The palm of his hand was stuck to the floor, and he tried, as best he could, to wipe the gummy stuff off his fingers, behind his back.
“Seems like you have just jumped, I mean—jumped right out of your skin! Not laughing any more, are you? Are you, now? Go on, laugh—I dare you! No? Well, have I given you enough time? Have you used it well? Have you done some soul searching, some thinking?”
“Thinking, Sir?”
“About a punishment, of course! I can see the rebel in you—right there, in your eyes! No doubt, your father has his hands full with you. I know I am right; I can  see it in your face. Huh, don’t look so shocked! How would he punish you? Go on, tell me, strictly between us: If he were to punish you, what would it be?”
“Oh... Timeout, maybe?”
“Timeout? Huh! Some parents are just a bunch of sissies; whiny sissies they are! They do not have a bloody clue! Absolutely no clue, I say! How to deal with an unruly, rebellious child is a complete mystery to them.”

Ben lifted himself to a nearby chair and sat in silence as his teacher started circling around him, cane in hand. By now, the heat was relentless; overhead, cheese started to liquify. In one corner, the suspended triangles seemed to have elongated, forming milky-white nipples, from which drops started to ooze out. One droplet was already hanging by a thread. Soon, it would rain cheese all over the place.

Meanwhile, Mr. Campbell took a deep breath as if he was about to spit fire, “Come on, you little brat—let me teach you some Old School Discipline!” He took a step forward, his shoe letting out a little squeak; then he brandished his cane and with a big bang, brought it down—at which time it happened:

A tiny droplet had just detached itself from the ceiling. It trickled down slowly, in stages, taking its own sweet time until finally, with barely a splash, it landed at close range, right behind that shoe. The teacher stepped on it and—quick as a flash—found himself suddenly sitting under the teacher’s desk, on top of his glasses, separated somehow from his cane and utterly confused.

Ben leapt to his feet. The threat of cheese showers was hanging overhead, and with it—the possibility of shame, severe punishment, perhaps even expulsion from school. The thought of his father becoming even more disappointed in him, disappointed to the point of never coming back, flashed across his mind. And so, there was no time to waste. With great urgency, Ben handed Mr. Campbell his cane, helped him to his feet and led him, no—pushed him—quickly out the door.

The teacher seemed deeply embarrassed by his fall; his sense of authority had been shattered; so were his glasses. But with a shoulder to lean on he decided to focus, for the time being, on the task at hand, which was hobbling along. All the way to his car, not a word was spoken between them. There was, however, a puzzled look on his face, as if to say, in his usual repetitive style, What is this rush? Now what has just happened? Have I lost my grasp, somehow—not only on the cane, but on reality as well? Have I lost it? Have I? 


Back in the classroom, gooey staff was dripping down the blackboard; some of the desks were spattered with it. There were tacky puddles all over the floor. From time to time—when you least expected it—a drop came shooting down at you. Ben felt a tickle, as a splotch of cheese came combing through his hair and flowing around his ear. Utterly stunned, he sat down at his desk. Crumpled inside were dozens of foil wraps which carried the label Happy Cow.

Looking around him at this impossible mess, Ben realized he would have to confess; he would have to admit having stolen the cheese triangles. He would have to come clean—and face severe consequences—unless, that is, unless he could somehow clean things up. His entire future, he figured, hung on his next action.

Using mops, squeegees and sponges, which he took out of the janitor’s closet, Ben managed to spread the remnants of cheese into a thin layer. He smoothed it evenly all across the ceiling, so that by now, looking at that buttery shine, you would be unable to distinguish it from the paint.

He scrubbed the blackboard, wiped the desks, mopped the floor, sponged the walls, discarded all the foil wraps into the waste basket, wiped the squeegees, washed the mops, squeezed the sponges dry, emptied the waste basket, returned the mops, squeegees and sponges, and with a deep sigh, which could mean either relief or complete exhaustion, closed the janitor’s closet.

Before going home that evening, Ben surveyed his handiwork with a great sense of accomplishment. Never before had the classroom sparkled so brilliantly. It looked perfectly spotless. Now in a dingy old school, that in itself was a bit odd—and yet, strangely enough, it gave him a sense of security. He trusted that no one would ever notice anything suspicious, anything out of the ordinary around here—a notion which, as it turned out, was entirely misleading.

The iron gate of the school was already locked up for the night. Ben looked anxiously left and right, like an escape prisoner. The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. He tried to shake open the chain, tried to wiggle his way in-between the iron bars; when all else failed, he climbed over the fence and prepared to take a leap. It is at this moment—suspended in midair—that you are invited to skip over him, for just a little bit. Now turn your attention, if you will, to the broader view of things: That is, to the future.


Never in his wildest dreams, could Ben imagine that in the next few days, the buttery shine would start changing color; that yellow, irregular imperfections would soon begin sprouting from the corners, and eventually come to a full bloom in wild, orange hues. They would spread all over the ceiling and even on the walls, until finally turning deep purple, mixed with some other, absurdly strange color, which—if you had to define it—was closest to green.

Nor could he expect that in one particular corner, a corner which he must have missed, formations of some mysterious, drippy substance would start building up, much like stalactites. Soon afterwards, a number of self-proclaimed experts would be summoned here by the school principal. These experts (for lack of a better term) would exhibit an undeterred sense of purpose as they embarked on their mission: To find out the truth, despite any and all obstacles.

Unfortunately, these obstacles included a musty smell, which grew unbearably stale over time; and which could easily be mistaken—through the nostrils of a mere layman—to be vaguely familiar: Vaguely reminiscent of an odor imparted by, say, a damp, well-worn shoe, or a wedge of moldy cheese.

Another obstacle was the slimy glare, which would make you refrain from touching any surfaces whatsoever; most of all—the blackboard, where the slime would accumulate in some dents. These dents, some of which were quite deep, seemed to have been created by banging some hard, round object.

Leaning heavily on his cane, Mr. Campbell would come in the classroom, mumbling something in his own harsh, repetitive manner. He would shoot a skeptical look at the experts. They, in turn, would find him to be of absolutely no use in trying to determine the source of the slime, or the dating of these dents.

Regrettably, the experts could be easily distracted by noise. From the direction of the cafeteria, or perhaps the kitchen, spirited shouts would erupt between members of the staff, in a long-winded dispute over some missing box of food supplies.

Determined to overcome such distractions, annoying as they may be, the so-called experts would redouble their efforts. Initially, one of them suggested using special nose clips for keeping out the stink, as well as surgical gloves for handling slime, and ear plugs for blocking out noise. These ideas were given considerable thought—but, for fear of giving the wrong impression, they would later be discarded.

You could not avoid hearing arguments, passionate arguments about the merits of several alternative explanations for this particularly aggressive, fast-paced attack of decay. One expert would point out that it occurred in a random pattern. Therefore, the porosity of all bricks—damaged as well as undamaged—should be mapped out and examined in a quantifiable manner.

Another would suggest that a salt analysis should be performed, to determine the molecular composition of decomposition; especially in the paint, as it might have been contaminated—perhaps by some free radicals, which could have become chemically reactive and therefore, could have degraded the entire building.

A third one would explain that a stalactite formation normally begins with a single, mineral-laden drop of water, which leaves behind the thinnest ring of calcite, out of which comes the next drop. Such processes, he would insist, take decades, even centuries. The fast pace of growth in this case was, in his opinion, most unusual, perhaps even cause for concern.

Despite all their differences, the experts would agree on one thing: That a detailed, long-term research, consisting of a series of yet-undetermined experiments, should be conducted to study the root causes of this peculiar phenomenon. Only at the end—at the conclusion of such rigorous, systematic investigation—would they, the experts, be able to A. Prescribe a treatment, B. Evaluate its precise probability of success, and C. Monitor it over a carefully measured stretch of time.

In a matter of years, Mr. Campbell would retire and Ben would graduate before sufficient funds could be raised to carry out any part—A, B or C—of this proposal. Such developments, however, were far beyond anything he, Ben could have predicted that evening.


At the moment, his head was spinning; the fence was way higher than expected. He asked himself, Dare I jump? And at once, the air whistled around him and the earth leapt to his eye. You could hear a thump, as he landed on the other side of the iron gate. His footfalls echoed in the empty streets, and a nagging thought began to play in his mind.

Never before had he come home so late. His mom, he figured, would be worried sick. She would demand an explanation. He did not want to disappoint her—but how could he not? He could think of nothing, really; nothing he wanted to say.

He found her at the kitchen table, unloading several shopping bags, even getting out a wine bottle, which in itself should have given him a clue, an unmistakable clue that right now—as he was standing there rigidly, watching her—a change was upon them. A change was already here.

To his astonishment she was not at all angry; no—she merely gathered him to her breast and, despite his resistance, hugged him closely in her frail arms. To break free, he had to push her away.
“Please, ma,” he muttered; which she decided to ignore.
“Now guess what!” she smiled. “I have a surprise for you!”
Ben hated surprises. They were a fearful thing. Pale-faced, he turned away, bracing himself.  
“It’s about your father,” she said.
“What about him?”
“Your father is back.”
“Oh yeah? Is he, really?”
“Be good, Ben, be nice to him. These are good news—”
“Forget it, mom. I’m tired. Going to bed—”
“Please, Ben—stop—listen to me! He found a job!”
The importance of what she was saying was not lost on him; he turned around and caught the twinkle in her eye.
“And that’s not all,” she said. “I bought some groceries! Especially for tonight. Boy, are we going to celebrate! I know exactly what you like, what you have been craving to eat. For so long I could not afford to buy it. In good times—I can still see it in my mind—you used to swallow it whole, in one bite. Such a delicious, creamy taste—remember? Well, here is for good times! Here is for never going hungry, never, never again! See here? What a treat! It’s your favorite! Happy Cow Spreadable Cheese—”
“No,” said Ben. “Thanks ma—but no, thanks.”