Wild Reckless

We’re discussing illusions from our reading today, talking about whether or not the main character of Crime and Punishment is actually good or evil, and how to spot the signs that tell us what to think. Everyone in the class is so quick to condemn Raskolnikov—convicting him without any chatter. I plan on playing devil’s advocate. I’d like to think that it’s my academic need to think deeper that spurs me to speak up, to interrupt the hanging ceremony everyone’s so quick to have. But I kind of think it’s more than that.

“But what about his intentions?” I ask, only one or two students really hearing my question over the debate. Mr. Chessman hears too, and soon raises his hand to quiet everyone down.

“Miss Worth, what was your point? I think the class needs to hear this,” he says, and I can feel everyone turn to stare at me.

“Uhm,” I say, adjusting my posture in my seat, wrapping my fingers around the top of my desk. More than the class’s attention, I feel Owen’s—my stomach pounding to the rhythm of my heart. “I was just thinking, we’re not really considering Raskolnikov’s intentions. We’re prosecuting him based on the rules, based on laws. But is it really that simple?”

“Interesting,” Mr. Chessman says, leaning on his desk and holding his hand to his chin. “Class?”

“It doesn’t matter what his intentions were, he murdered someone. The rules are black and white, and he knew them. Case done, piece of cake,” says Cal Russell, one of the more outspoken guys in our senior class. Cal won homecoming king, and he’s had the same girlfriend for two years—she happened to win queen. It was all so very surprising when they won, according to Willow.

“That’s a very narrow view,” I say, my foot bouncing under my desk, my temper—one of the trait’s I inherited from my father—trying to find a way out.

“Is it?” Mr. Chessman asks. “Explain, Miss Worth. I’d like the class to hear your thought process on this. I think this is opening up a great discussion.”

Awesome. More talking, which is probably going to lead to more arguing. And I can no longer hear Owen’s breathing behind me. His shoe is resting against the foot of my seat, though, so I know he’s still here.

“Well,” I say, taking a deep breath and thumbing through a few pages of my book. “Yes, you can say it’s premeditated, or whatever, because we read those chapters where he thought about the crime before committing it. But…”

“But what? You just said it right there, he thought about it, and still did it!” Cal says.

“Stop interrupting!” I say, too loudly. Temper winning. “Sorry,” I say a little more quietly. “Let me finish. He thought about it, and we got to read his thoughts. We know that he found good reason, he put the options on the scale, to see if the world was a better place with or without his crime, and he concluded, after much thought, that yes…the world would be better if he committed this crime.”

“Murder. Not a crime, but murder!” Cal says.

“Yes, murder—in this case. But, I think as readers we need to think of the larger message,” I say, my voice gaining strength. I’ve read this book a dozen times, and I know my argument well. Cal isn’t going to break me. “There’s a reason that, despite committing murder, the reader still loves the protagonist. What Dostoyevsky did was paint a portrait of the most heinous crime he could think of, yet open our minds to the possibility that perhaps the criminal isn’t so black and white, that maybe we judge without really seeing everything.”

“How can you possibly know the facts, know that he murdered someone, and sit there and defend him?” Cal says, turning his feet to face me in his seat, he’s trying to intimidate me, and my heart is pounding faster. I think it’s working.

“I’m not defending Raskolnikov, I’m defending the idea that we ignore other facts and judge people based on what we think is convenient,” I fire back.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says, rolling his eyes and moving to turn his attention back to our teacher.

“No…it’s not,” Owen says, his voice behind me that familiar tone, the one he uses when he reveals things. Just the sound of it breaks me a little and fills me with confidence and pride all at once.

“Mr. Harper? Care to expound?” Mr. Chessman says, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly, his mouth a small smirk. He likes Owen; I can tell.

I hear Owen clear his throat and shift in his seat, so I turn my head to the side, letting my eyes see him from a periphery. His head is down, and he’s sucking in his top lip while he thinks.