*Note: The story “Everyone Must Do Great Things” originally appeared on the website Forge, which unexpectedly went offline in 2021. An edited version of the story is reprinted here.

We could all tell, right away on the first day of Hjalmar’s freshman year, that he would grow up to be either president or a genius super villain. In the teachers’ lounge at lunch we compared notes on the new kids, and Hjalmar received the most analysis. We speculated about his full suit, with vest, and his strange, almost British speech pattern. In World History he shared that he had taught himself Italian over the summer. In Calculus II, surrounded by seniors, he discussed how he intended to test out at semester and take math courses at the university.

In Health I got the story of his name. During attendance most of the kids told me what they wanted to be called: “Josh” instead of “Joshua,” that sort of thing. Then I got to Hjalmar.

“Hjalmar Vilgot Lindblad,” I said. “Not much you can do with that, is there?”

“It’s Hjalmar Vilgot Lindblad, the fourth. My great-grandfather was an admiral in the Swedish Royal Navy.”

“Cool,” I said. “So, Vilgy then? H-Blad?” A few students laughed. “Hjalvil?”

“Hjalmar will suffice,” he said, face flat, like he was choosing what type of potato he wanted with dinner. “Thank you.”

Four years later Hjalmar stops in my room one day after school and sits in the same desk he did as a freshman, his back impossibly straight, tie knot impeccable, with hands folded on the writing surface. But this time he wears an expression I have never seen from him before. He looks confused. “I assume they did not do it on purpose.” He stares at the ceiling while his Rhodes Scholar brain runs through possible explanations for the insult. “But I am unable to imagine a situation in which it could have been an accident.”

I lean on my podium. “I don’t know, man. Most people are jerks?” I smooth my own tie, which is wrinkled and threadbare and covered in old yogurt stains.  “Maybe someone was trying to get back at you.”

“For what?”

“You’re going to be a wildly rich uber-genius, and most of them are going to struggle with community college.”

“Everyone has always been quite nice to me.”

“Graduation’s just around the corner. Maybe it just occurred to them.”

The yearbook lay open on the desk between us, and under his picture is the offense we’re analyzing. H-blad had submitted an appropriately brainy quotation: “Face the facts of being what you are, for that is what changes what you are,” by Soren Kirkegaard, translated from the original Dutch. Instead, what they printed, in all caps, is a little less profound. “MONEY, CASH, HOES – WHAT!” by the Kirkegaard of modern hip-hop, Jay-Z.

If Hjalmar feels offended, or embarrassed, or upset, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he looks lost. He can handle the sorts of high-level calculus problems that most of us mortals could never understand, but this problem has stumped him, and that’s a strange feeling for him.

“Do you know how it happened?” I ask.

“I spoke with Mrs. Gerhart, and she showed me the printed proofs with the correct quotation.” Hjalmar shifts in the desk. It’s too small for him. It’s too small for all of them. “That means someone must have altered the digital file after the final edits were entered.”

“Aren’t there thirty kids in yearbook class? That’s a lot of suspects.”

“Students were locked out of the folder as soon as the revisions took place. Only staff members had access to it after that point.”

“Yikes.” My classroom is too hot. I loosen my tie, wipe my forehead, and unstick the shirt clinging to my back. “So a student must have used a teacher’s computer then.”

“That is the conclusion I came to. And there is nothing to be done. Almost two-thousand copies were printed.”

“I’m really sorry.”

“It is fine.”

High school stands for so many different things for these kids. The best four years of their lives, or the worst. A few of them meet their future spouses in the brick hallways, and everyone finds a lifelong enemy or two. Graduating is a major life accomplishment. But not for Hjalmar. For him, high school is a nuisance, and maybe his peers hate him for it.

I sit in the desk next to him. “There’s something you should think about.”

“What is that, Mr. Brunner?”

“How you want to get back at them. How you want to make them pay.”

Hjalmar pulls out his leather portfolio and hundred-dollar pen, then waits as if a lecture is about to commence.

“The first thing you need to do,” I tell him, “is to prove that you found it just as funny as they did.” Since it’s just the two of us, I look him in the eyes, and he smiles, but not in a demeaning or conspiratorial way. The turn of his lip and his subtle nod are simple courtesy, a small act to let me know that he hears and respects what I am saying. I recognize the look from his freshmen year in Health class when I taught him about the effects of illegal drugs, or the food pyramid.

“I have a few ideas,” I say.

“Should we be talking about this?” asks Hjalmar. “Does this qualify as professional conduct on your behalf?”

I laugh, much louder than I intend. “I’m not worried. No one cares what I do.”

“In that case,” says Hjalmar, “I would love to hear your ideas, Mr. Brunner. Thank you.”

On the Tuesday after Memorial Day, six days before the end of the school year, Hjalmar finishes his lunch of carrot sticks and a peanut butter sandwich, wipes out his plastic containers, then repacks them in his spotless insulated lunch bag.

“Excuse me,” he says to the people at his table, his chess club and Academic Decathalon teammates. “I have a task to complete, so I shall speak with you all later.”

Hjalmar disposes of his empty milk carton and his napkin in the garbage can as he leaves the cafeteria. He nods at the assistant principal leaning against the wall. “Good afternoon, Mr. King,” he says. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Lindblad,” replies Mr. King. “Good to see you.” 

“You as well.” Hjalmar walks down the wide hallway to the main office. He straightens his tie and runs his hand through his hair before opening the heavy door.

“Hjalmar!” says one of the attendance ladies. No one in the school likes Hjalmar more than the attendance ladies. He brings them homemade fudge at Christmas and scented candles for Secretary’s Day. 

Hjalmar places his hand on the counter and looks the attendance lady in the eye. “Did your granddaughter’s ear infection clear up?”

“Yes it did, thanks for asking,” she says. She pushes her computer keyboard to the side of her workspace and leans towards Hjalmar. “And I have to say, I’m absolutely flattered you invited me to your graduation party.”

“I would be honored if you could attend.”

“Of course I’ll be there. Can I bring anything? Your poor mother is going to be swamped.”

“That is very kind. But we will be fine.”

“Are you sure?”

Hjalmar rests his hand on the attendance lady’s. “You have already done more than enough for me over the years. Please let me say thank you with the party.”

“Of course.” She straightens in her chair and shivers her shoulders.

“The reason for my visit,” he says, “is that Mr. Brunner believes he forgot some papers in the PA room. May I go check?”

“Absolutely.” The attendance lady hands Hjalmar the key on the long chain that hangs next to her station.

“Thank you,” Hjalmar says. “Have a fantastic day.”

“You too, dear.”

Hjalmar passes the attendance desk and enters the short hallway back to the administrators’ offices. He unlocks the door to the room where the ancient announcement equipment sits stacked in the corner. He flips every tiny knob that corresponds to every room’s speaker to “On.” From his Italian leather shoulder bag he removes an unlabeled compact disc and places it in the old CD player they use for the school fight song and the pre-recorded messages from the superintendent. He presses the gummy play button, then switches on the microphone. Silent as his AP calculus class during test time, he rests the microphone on the table in front of CD player speakers, grabs his bag, and leaves the small room. On his way out, he mashes a ball of modeling clay into the door lock. 

“Thank you very much,” he says with a nod as he hands the key back to the attendance lady and leaves the office with plenty of time to walk to his sixth hour class.

It’s a brilliant plan. Thirty-five minutes of silence precede the song, long enough that the morons in the office fail to associate him with the crime. And if they do remember that he was the last person in the room, they’ll never believe that he could mastermind such a prank. They’ll assume someone else must have snuck into the PA room. Some other hooligan must have found a way.

Halfway through sixth hour, while all the students slump in their desks and fight to stay awake, while all the teachers stand at the fronts of their rooms and talk as if anything they have to say matters, the song explodes into the school at full panic volume. Mr. Jay-Z sings about fucking all the haters, his good friend DMX joins in to discuss his willingness to shed blood for his “niggaz,” and the whole building joins together in a beautiful chaotic dance. The students smile and straighten up and bounce in their desks. The teachers run to their phones to alert administration to the crisis, or they run to find something to cover the loudspeaker, or they run back and forth across the fronts of their rooms, unsure of what to do but convinced they have to do something.

Down in administration, Mr. King bursts out of his office. “Give the me the god-damned key,” he shouts at the attendance ladies, who rush to bring it to him. He attempts to unlock the door, but the clay makes that impossible.

“Someone jammed the lock,” he says.

“What should I do?” asks the attendance lady.

“Hell if I know,” he says. “Get a paperclip so we can pick it out.”

They fail to unlock the door before the song ends. The whole time Hjalmar sits in his AP Chemistry class and continues to take notes. I don’t have a sixth hour class, so no one gets to see the look on my face.

“Next, you have to make them all suffer a little,” I say, which causes Hjalmar to look up from his portfolio.

“But I am certain this was the fault of only a few students,” says Hjalmar.

“A few students acting on behalf of your whole class.” I shake my head like this news is as painful for me to say as it is for him to hear. “Even if only a couple of them are responsible, I guarantee every single one of them laughed when they saw it. They all think you deserve it.”

“I am not willing to hurt anyone.”

“Of course,” I say. “We’re not talking anything illegal. It’s not like you need to shoot up the school!” I laugh, Hjalmar does not. “But you have to do something.”

Years before they hired me, the principal made a deal with the senior class. If they agreed to no senior pranks, no skip days, no big attendance or behavior problems, then the school would host an amazing all-night graduation party. And that party is incredible. Fully catered with live music. Everyone who attends gets something, hundred-dollar gift cards, electronics, all the way up to the grand prize: a full, real, working used car, donated by one of the auto dealers out by the highway. The whole community comes together to put on this unbelievable send-off for the graduates, and all they have to do is not make any trouble.

“You need to let them know that no matter how jealous they are, they can’t get away with treating people like they’re treating you.”

Thursday afternoon, four days before the last day of school, Hjalmar drives his spotless Range Rover two towns over to buy chickens. The farmer normally charges fifteen dollars apiece for the birds, but the old man is so impressed with Hjalmar’s polite demeanor and genuine interest in the intricacies of the corn-planting season that he sells the four hens and a rooster for only forty bucks. Hjalmar puts the birds in an old dog kennel in the back of his truck and returns home.

At 2:45 in the morning, Hjalmar’s alarm goes off. He dresses all in black. He drives to the school and parks behind the auto shop, where the overhang above the service door is just low enough to climb with the assistance of a stepladder. Before scurrying up to the roof, he ties one end of a rope to the top of the dog kennel, and clips the other end to one of his belt loops. He pulls the kennel up slowly so he doesn’t upset the birds. They cluck softly when the swinging of the cage finds too big of an arc, but Hjalmar’s world of lines and vectors and forces and acceleration helps him calm the movement before each pull upward.

The center of school features a courtyard that used to hold picnic tables, until the custodians got sick of picking lunch garbage out of the grass. One summer they landscaped the green space into a Zen garden and locked the doors. Getting the chickens into the courtyard is easy. Hjalmar tosses them from the roof and they float to the ground in a flurry of feathers. Hanging the sign in the garden where everyone can see it is quite a bit harder.

The day begins, and no one notices, until a student discerns the chickens pecking through the bushes. Within a few minutes, the students in all the rooms surrounding the yard rush to the windows in a flock. That is when they all see the sign, pleasant and inoffensive but more than clear enough to implicate the trespassers. “Good morning, Harrison High. Thanks for the ‘eggcellent’ four years! Love, the Seniors.”

The real show starts in the middle of second hour, when both assistant principals, two maintenance guys, and the ag science teacher try to catch the birds. They chase the animals, bent at the waist with arms out like toddlers chasing stray balls. One of the maintenance guys falls whenever he tries to turn a sharp corner, his fingers inches away from a bird’s neck. Some of the teachers fight for their students’ attention, but they lose. For nearly an hour, all of second and well into third period, the spectators pick their favorites, man or beast, and cheer or boo at the close calls. The strictest teachers shut their shades, but there is nothing they can do to block out the noise of the crowd.

I don’t have a courtyard room, so I give my second hour class a worksheet and excuse myself to the Spanish room to watch. Hjalmar has English second hour in a different part of the building, so he doesn’t get to enjoy the show either. In person, at least. Dozens of videos of the circus make it online by lunchtime. Hjalmar is back in his desk at the front of my room at the end of the day to hear the principal come on the loudspeaker.

“I hate to do this, but we have a tradition here at Harrison, and that’s something we need to take seriously. Due to the incident in the courtyard this morning, the senior post-graduation party has been cancelled. I repeat, the senior post-graduation party…”

“And most important, you have to show them that you’re not ashamed. You know who you are and you’re proud and you’re never going to let them bring you down.”

Hjalmar leaned back to think, and he comes up with the exact right answer, like I knew he would.

“I could use my valedictory speech at graduation to deliver that message.”

“That’s a fantastic idea. Hjalvil for the win.” I lean over to give him a high-five, and he hits my hand so hard it reverberates through my shoulder. “You need to let them know that you’re the only one in that whole fucking auditorium who’s going places.” I want to take his pen and just write the speech for him. “Right? You need to let them know that their big plans and dreams aren’t going to come true. But yours will.”

“What if I title the speech ‘Everyone Must Do Great Things,’ and then discuss how most of them will fall short?”

“That’s a great idea,” I say. “A really great idea.”

The graduation ceremony takes place on Wednesday evening. The whole ridiculous pageant looks like it does every year. Pictures on the lawn, hollow thank-you hugs and handshakes for all the teachers. Girls in wobbly high heels and boys in too-tight ties. Mothers dabbing their eyes and younger siblings asking when they çan leave. At 6:00, the crowd finds their seats in the musty auditorium. The band plays, the principal talks. Before the mind-numbing procession of diploma handouts, Hjalmar stands up from his seat and walks to the stage. The crowd claps for him, not long, not loud, but respectful. A more deserving valedictorian has never walked across that stage, and probably never will.

He stands tall and smiles. He didn’t bring any notes with him, because a person like Hjalmar doesn’t need notes. When his classmates were little kids imagining themselves hitting homeruns and winning beauty pageants, Hjalmar had been picturing this speech. He clears his throat and begins.

“In a few minutes, we will all graduate, and we will all embark on our journeys into this world. Some of us will travel far, others will settle closer to home. As we begin the incredible work it takes to build our lives, I would like to share something I have learned during my four years here at Harrison High, and especially over the past few weeks. Maybe happiness is not found in a resume full of accomplishments, in a long list of titles. Maybe happiness is something we find in people and in connections. Perhaps this is contrary to what we have been told, but my advice to all of us is this: Not everyone must do great things. Our greatness will be measured by the people we affect.”

I don’t listen to the rest of the speech.

The principal makes all us teachers stand outside the auditorium after the ceremony in a big receiving line, and I find a place at the end. Hjalmar comes out last. He shakes my hand and gives me his politician smile.

“What happened in there?” I ask, lowering my voice so the English teacher standing next to us can’t hear. “That’s not what we talked about at all.”

“I wanted to let you know, Mr. Brunner,” Hjalmar says, still holding my hand tight, “that I used Mrs. Gerhart’s computer to determine who last accessed the yearbook file to change the quotation. I understand what happened.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The computer in your classroom was used to make the change. You made the change.” Hjalmar doesn’t look confused any more. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do anything.” It’s so fucking hot out, I want to loosen my tie, but I can’t. Hjalmar won’t let go of my hand. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Most people are jerks, maybe? Is that why?”

I force myself to return his gaze. “You’ve got this all wrong.”

“I do not get things wrong, Mr. Brunner. I have known the whole time.”

Across the yard in front of the school, the graduates gather into a group to throw their hats into the air while all the parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles make a big circle around them to take pictures. “Three… two… one!” shouts one of the students, and the mortarboards go up and everyone laughs like they had all done something so special. They laugh like they have accomplished anything at all.

“Does anyone else know?” I ask.

“No,” says Hjalmar.

“What happens now?”

“That depends on who comes forward to confess to the chicken prank, and the song. That depends on whether or not we get our party.”

One week later, they get their party. The music from the gym reverberates around the building and pulses through the walls. I want to stop down. Maybe some of them want to say thanks, since I’m the reason it all worked out, but I’m too busy cleaning out my desk.