Butterflies & Rainbows
By: Rick Beck
(© 2020 by the author)
Editor: Khris Lawrentz

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

beck@tickiestories.us

Part 3

Chapter 9

One morning, in the beginning of August, about the time I was polishing off my bowl of Special K, Avery came charging into the house, banging the screen door behind him.

“Granny! Granny! Can we borrow Pop's fishing poles? The fish are in over at Wayside,” Avery explained.

“The fish are in where?” I asked.

“Yes, Avery. Pop won't mind, but I've got a doctor's appointment at 9:30, and I can't take you boys,” she said.

“Sure you can, Granny. Just drop us at the entrance, and we’ll walk down. You'll have plenty of time to get to the doctor's,” he said.

“I've got to meet some friends at the Mary Ester cutoff, after I leave the doctors',” she said.

“You tell us what time to be at the entrance to the Wayside, and we'll be waiting, you can drop us off here on your way to Mary Ester. Won't take five minutes,” Avery said.

The deal was sealed. I didn't know what the excitement was all about, but in a few minutes we were loading fishing gear into the car, and we were on our way to the Gulf of Mexico. I'd only been fishing a couple of times, and that went about as good as anything else I did.

We got out of the car and with the fishing pools in our hands, we headed for the Wayside Park pier. It was lined with fisherman. Out beyond the end of the two or three hundred foot pier, were fishing boats lined up on the horizon. I'd never seen anything like it.

“It's like women drivers on dollar day,” Avery said, pointing at the boats, as we took a spot on the pier.

“What's that?” I asked, pointing at the dark area that ran all the way around the pier on both sides.

“That's fish. The fish are in. With the fishing boats so close, the sharks are out, and the fish have all come in to get away from the sharks,” Avery explained, handing me a pole with two baited hooks.

“Go ahead. Toss the line in,” he said confidently.

I did what he said. As quick as the sinker and the bait hit the water, and began to sink, I felt a hit, and another one, and two more.

“I think I've got something,” I said, shocked by the discovery.

As quick as I brought in my line, Avery had two fish in the bucket and he was baiting the two hooks again.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Give me a chance. I want to catch a few.”

As quick as the lines went into the water, there were two more fish, maybe twelve or fifteen inches a piece, on my hooks. I brought in my line, Avery brought in his line. Four more fish went into the bucket, and Avery had my hooks baited again, before baiting his own.     By the time he got his line into the water, I was reeling my line in with two more fish. All up and down the pier, our experience was being repeated by dozens of other fishermen. It was a mad house. I'd never seen anything like it, but I didn't have much time to think about it, because I had two more fish on my line. 

As fast as we could get our lines in the water, we had more fish, and more fish, and after fifteen minutes and a bucket full of fish, Avery was worn to a frazzle. He hadn't stopped since we got there.

“Let's take a break. Someone's hooked into something big at the end of the pier,” Avery said, leaning his pool against the railing and heading for the large platform at the very end of the pier.

I followed suit, figuring we had enough fish for a month.

At the end of the pier a guy with the biggest fishing rig I'd ever seen, was cranking on his reel, bringing his line in a couple of feet at a time. Each time he'd wind in the line, he'd dip the rod, and wind in some more line, and once he got the fish up to the pier, everyone wanted to lean over to see what it was.

Avery joined the crowd. I stood back, not wanting to get in anyone's way.

“What is it?” Some one asked.

“It's huge,” another guy said, leaning out over the railing to see.

Avery leaned out. I couldn't see anything. The man kept reeling in the line, as the fishing pole had a serious bend in it. Then, I saw it. Just for an instant, it hit the surface, and then dove back into the Gulf, trying to undo itself from whatever was keeping it from doing whatever sharks did.

“It's a tiger,” Avery announced. “Don't fool around with it if you intend to catch it. That is a serious shark.”

“A what?” the guy who was leaning out over the railing asked.

“It's a tiger shark. Maybe eight feet. Maybe a hundred and fifty pounds,” Avery said. “You've got yourself one serious fish there.”

I took two steps back from the railing. I didn't know what a tiger shark was, but I intended to give it plenty of room. It sounded like something that needed plenty of room. I wasn't getting near it.

After another fifteen minutes, and a real struggle trying to get the shark up over the railing and on the pier. The tiger shark lay at the feet of twenty people who were standing around it, once the fisherman landed his angry catch.

I gave them plenty of room too.

Avery, the only kid I knew who was smarter than most adults I knew, used the toe of his sneaker to nudge the side of the shark. The tail came up, and the fish flipped itself sideways, as twenty people took one giant step backward.

Avery nudged it again.

I couldn't look.

What was he doing?

“I ain't reaching into his mouth to get that hook,” the fisherman said, using a pair of pliers to cut his line. “He looks mean. What do I do with him, now that I caught him?”

Another guy who looked like he knew what he was doing, came from behind the shark's head. He'd retrieved a butcher knife from his tackle box,  and he slammed the huge knife down through the shark's skull, and it embedded itself into the pier.

The shark's tale flicked one time, and it went still.

“He won't hurt anyone now,” the man with the knife said. “Let him die and we'll get him off the pier. For you. He's not much good. He just swims, eats, and makes little sharks.”

I didn't like seeing anything killed, even a shark. What was the point of catching him and not knowing what to do with him? It was a waste, but so much waist went on in life, it was just one more thing.

Avery glared at the man, and then he walked over to me.

“Come on. We've got five minutes, before Granny comes back,” Avery said.

“Why do men fish for something that they don't want?” I asked.

“That guy doesn't know anything about fishing. Once he hooked it, wasn't much he could do but reel it in or cut it loose,” Avery said, as we grabbed the poles and the bucket of fish on the way to the entrance to the Wayside Park.

As we got to the road, Granny was turning off of 98. She got out of the car to open the trunk. She didn't want smelly fishing gear in her Buick.

“Where'd you get all those fish?” Granny asked, amazed by the bucket chock full of fish.

“Caught 'em, Granny. Told you the fish were in,” Avery said.

Yes, he did. He cleaned all those fish and gave them to Granny.

She said, “You don't want any? There's two dozen here.”

“Granny, we've got a freezer full of fish John and I have caught. You keep these. It'll keep you in fish for a few days,” he said.

That would have been the great adventure of the summer, if you counted seeing that shark being caught, but the following week, Avery came charging into the house one morning, the screen door banging behind him. August was half gone by that morning.

“Let's go sailing. It's beautiful out. Come on, Dick. I've signed out the sailboat at the marina for this morning, but if someone gets to it first, we're out of luck. Granny, we're going sailing, Avery yelled.”

“Well, let me fix you some sandwiches. Wouldn't do to get out in the middle of the bay and find out you're hungry,” Granny said, swinging open the door of the refrigerator. 

Granny gave her blessing and four thick meatloaf sandwiches. We were off to the marina to borrow the marina's sailboat. It was only twelve feet long, but it was a sailboat. I was game. Whatever Avery wanted to do was fine with me. He was the doorway to adventure after all.

“Where do you want to go?” Avery asked, tacking along the shoreline, once we left the marina entrance.

“I don't know, Avery. You pick a place to go,” I said.

“Destin Bridge,” Avery said. “We'll go to the Destin Bridge.”

The Destin Bridge could be seen from my beach. It loomed on the horizon, the biggest structure visible from the western end of Choctawhatchee Bay. It didn't look far, but it was eight miles to the Destin Bridge if you drove from Granny and Pop's via Route 98. I'd asked how far it was one day, and Granny watched her speedometer to give me the correct answer. We were going over the Destin Bridge.

The day was perfect. The breeze was just enough to cool the surface of the bay to a pleasant temperature. Unlike Joe's boat, the sailboat was silent, except for the swish of the water against the hull and the jangling of the metal hardware, holding the sail to the mast, when the breeze caught the sail just right.

An hour or more, after we turned toward the bridge, we were passing the islands, where I'd first water skied.

“Want to explore the biggest island?” Avery asked.

“Sure,” I said, liking how it sounded.

“We'll take the sandwiches, and we can have a picnic,” Avery said, eyeballing the bag with the food.

One thing was for certain, if Granny fixed us something to eat, it was never long before Avery wanted to get into it. Her meatloaf was special, but her ham salad, egg salad, and tuna salad were Avery's favorites, and Granny knew what Avery liked, because he made a point of telling her how good it was.

Avery knew how to endear himself to adults. He was thoughtful and polite. He had excellent manners, and he was smart enough to use these tools to impress adults and to get whatever he was after.

I wasn't so clever, but I recognized cleverness, when I saw it, and for the first time, as we circled the islands to get a better look, I thought about going home in another two weeks. It did nothing for my mood. I didn't want to go back. I hadn't seen my parents in two months, and my life had never been as good as it was in Florida.

As we picked a site to land the sailboat, Avery began talking like he was a pirate. We were going to storm the shore and look for Black Beard's treasure. I couldn't keep up with him as he charged over the biggest hill on the few dozen acres of land.

I had trouble with my pirate act, but when I played, I usually was alone, and as smart and able as Avery was, he was 12-years-old, and he didn't mind acting like it, when he felt most like being a kid.

“Granny sure knows her way around good food,” Avery said, munching down on one of the meatloaf sandwiches with mustard.

He looked to be totally absorbed by the food, as he broke off pieces of meatloaf, putting the pieces in his mouth.

I looked at the sky. I felt a chill, as clouds covered the sun.

“We better go,” Avery said. “I don't like the looks of those clouds. We don't want to be in the middle of the bay in a storm.

“We still going to the bridge?” I asked, as we shoved off.

“Yeah, if it starts to rain. We hold up under the bridge, until it passes. Storms don't last long this time of year. It's probably going to pass. We haven't had a thunderstorm all week.”

I remembered one day when we were out, and it did rain. We were on one side of Route 98, and it was dry, but it was raining on the other side of the highway. I'd never seen such a thing before. Everything in Florida was new to me. For one thing, at home, I could see a few blocks. In Florida, I could see forever, and it was beautiful.

As we began to get nearer to the bridge, Avery spent a lot of time looking at the sky. He didn't say anything, but I could see the concern on his face, as the wind picked up suddenly, and the smooth waters of Choctawhatchee Bay turned choppy.

Avery spent a lot of time looking up into the sky. He checked the distance of the three islands. He steered directly toward my beach.

“This isn't good. We should have stayed where we were. This is bad,” he said, using the tiller to turn us back toward my beach.

“We're going back?” I asked.

“From your mouth to God's ears. I hope we can get back. This is very bad. The wind is going to turn us over,” he said, spending most of his time looking behind us.

Gusts of winds filled the sail and began tipping the boat. After a particularly close call, the small craft settled back down, and Avery had turned white as the sail. He turned the boat toward the islands.

The sail began to whip in gusts that came from one direction, and then came from another. Huge raindrops began pelting us. The sailboat began to rock. Avery looked over his shoulder. He looked at me. Avery was tan as a Florida boy could get, but his face had drained of color. 

“We aren't going to make it to the island. I don't suppose you've learned to swim yet?” he asked, sounding desperate, but he knew the answer.

“You were going to teach me. There's no water where I live. I'm not afraid of water,” I said.

I wasn't afraid of much. Life was what it was, and whatever came my way, was whatever came my way. Fear was built into my life. It neither peaked or diminished. Not yet, anyway.

“We're going into the water. I don't see how it can be avoided. I can swim fine. I can swim to safety, but I can't leave you,” he said.

As Avery reached for the sail, the boat began to tip. We both went into the water. As I reached for the side of the boat, something silver flitted away past my legs. I watched it disappear.

“What was that?” I asked, watching Avery watch where I was watching.

“The centerboard. It keeps the boat stable. We can't get anywhere without it,” he said, immediately regretting his comment.

“We're fucked,” I said, watching his face for the truth.

“Let me think,” he said. “I don't suppose you can swim toward those islands.”

“I can't swim, Avery. I can dog paddle. I can float, but I can't swim that far, even if you gave me a crash course in swimming.”

“Let me think,” he said. “Put your feet on the boat. It won't sink all the way. It's fiberglass. As long as you keep your feet on it, you'll be OK,” he decided, once he couldn't think of anything else to do.

We both kept our feet on the boat. It had sunk far enough that the water was up to my waist, but my feet could use the boat to keep me floating. I looked toward the islands. I knew I couldn't make it that far. It was silly to think I could. I'd drown if I tried to get there. I was staying with the boat.

Avery didn't have to tell me, the water was now up to my chest. The boat was sinking deeper into the bay. He kept looking at my face, and each time he did, he looked more frightened than the last time he looked. I was OK, as long as Avery was with me. I trusted him.

“Can you keep your feet on the boat?” He asked.

“It's what I'm doing,” I said.

“With both of us standing on it, it's sinking deeper. I can swim to shore, get help, and come back for you. By removing my weight off the boat, it should move up in the water a little. It shouldn't sink completely.”

“I'm listening,” I said, sensing there was more to come.

“If I leave you alone, will you be all right until I come back?” He asked, sounding like a boy who had figured out what he needed to do.

“I'm fine. I'll be OK. You go ahead and swim for it. I'm not going anywhere,” I said, not completely sure I wasn't going down if the boat went down, but I didn't want Avery staying with me, until he was too worn out to swim to shore.

He could swim to the island, which was a few hundred yards, but that didn't help my situation. If he swam for shore, it would be hours before he could get help.

Could I hold out for hours? I didn't know.

“I can't leave you. I got you into this. I'm staying with you,” he said.

“Don't be a fool, Avery. Staying with me is stupid. You can swim to shore. Swim for it. I'll be OK,” I said, thinking I would.

I'd always been OK, and I'd be through some crazy shit. I was still here, and there was no point in Avery staying. It made no sense for him to drown, if I drowned, but I had no feeling I was on the verge of drowning.

Maybe this was as far as I was meant to go. I'd finally had some fun. I was finally accomplishing things I'd never dreamed of doing. I'd stay afloat if I could. If I couldn't, I couldn't. No one would cry for me.

“You mean to tell me, you were prepared to die?” Carlton asked. “You are out in the middle of a bay. You can't swim. The boat you're using to keep your head above water is sinking, and you aren't panicking?”

“I really hadn't lived yet, Carlton. Death didn't scare me. My parents scared me. I feared them, but I didn't shake and quiver, when they were giving me hell. I knew it would end. I caught hell a lot. It wasn't any fun, but it was the same hell every time. I didn't know what death would be like, but if I died, I died.”

“I'd have been losing my mind,” Carlton said.

“Because your life was good. You had something to live for. I had nothing to live for, except going back to my parents,” I said.

“I can't imagine it,” he said.

“I'll set your mind at ease. I didn't drown,” I said.

Carlton laughed.

“Now I've got to figure out where I was. I need to think about how much to tell you. I don't want to bore you to death,” I said.

“You aren't boring me,” he said.

I had been face to face with Avery for maybe a half hour. Avery kept saying he needed to swim to shore to get help, but he was still with me, and that wasn't getting us rescued. We both were still keeping our feet on the boat, and the water was up to my chin.

I figured I should tell him that Avery did swim for shore, and I'd never known a silence, a loneliness, like I felt, once he was gone. My toes kept contact with the sailboat and the water was up to my chin.

“OK! I'll swim to shore and bring back help. Promise me you'll keep your feet on the boat. Don't leave the boat. That way, I'll know how to find you. I'll be back in an hour or two,” he said, leaving the boat, me, and the angry sea.

The rain had stopped. The wind wasn't quite as bad. The boat sank a few more inches, as Avery pushed off, swimming straight for my beach. He was a strong swimmer and in a few minutes, I could no longer hear his strokes, or see him.

The water was around my chin. Shortly after Avery left, the boat came up a few inches, and the water was around my neck. It was dark. The water rolled over my head from time to time, but it always settled back down. My toes were now all that touched the boat. I spit the water as it came up on my face.

I was still floating. I wasn't scared. I'd stay afloat, until Avery got back. I had to keep floating. If anything happened to me, Avery was going to blame himself, and I didn't want that.

I got into the sailboat. No one dragged me out into the middle of the bay. I willingly went, and I had fun, doing it.

I would not drown. I made up my mind, I would not drown. 

My toes once again lost contact with the boat. My feet frantically searched for the suddenly missing perch, and it was no longer there. My chin dipped below the surface of the bay. I kept expelling water. I didn't want to take a breath. As the idea of treading water, until Avery returned, came to mind. How long could I tread water? 

Once more my toes touched the sailboat, and this time my feet were perched on the side of the boat. My chin was out of the water. I felt cool air on my neck, as the boat seemed to stay steady. I applied no more weight to it than was necessary.

I stayed as still as I could, placing no weight on my platform.

I wondered how long Avery had been gone.

With only my head above water, a fleet of boats couldn't find me. 

I don't know how long I'd been in the water. It wasn't the least bit cold, but the rain was cold. The winds picked up, the swells washed over my head in a way that I could time. I made a point of not trying to take a breath, at the time a swell was due.

The rain stopped, the swells smoothed out. The water rolled me gently, as I kept my mouth and nose above the surface. I could still only see about four feet. The water was still rolling in a way that kept me from seeing my beach. If seeing my beach was a comfort, not seeing it wasn't encouraging.

Would Avery be able to find me? It was a big bay. 

I wondered if I'd ever go stumbling through the brush, and throw my towel down to sunbathe there ever again. I could still see the islands, a little west of where I was. A half an hour ago, I might have been able to dog paddle my way over there, but that wasn't possible  any longer. My arms and legs had begun to feel heavier and heavier.

Without warning, there was a huge splash next to me. I came out of my reverie. As someone put his arm over my shoulder.

“You're still here,” Avery said. “I didn't know if I could find you. The swells are so high.”

Avery was delighted. I was tired. The next thing I knew, he was boosting me into a speedboat. A man I'd never seen before pulled on my arm, as Avery pushed me into the boat. I lay flat on my back, in the bottom of the boat. Exhausted. I could hardly get my breath. I didn't realize how tired I was, until I lay down.

I didn't hear or see Avery for a few minutes. He dove to hook a line to the sailboat, and then, he was back in the boat, putting a towel over my shoulders.

Smiling like the Cheshire cat, he looked delighted to see me.

“You don't know how good it is to see you,” he said.

“You told me to stay there,” I said.

“Yes, I did, and you did it. I didn't know if I'd find you. They sent a boat from the marina. I didn't swim all that far when he saw me. They figured we might run into trouble in the storm. They sent someone to make sure we were OK.”

Once we got safely back to the marina, the reception was a bit cool. The boat looked OK, but the centerboard was on the bottom of Choctawhatchee Bay, and that isn't where it belonged.

Once we walked back to the house, Granny wanted to know if we got caught in the storm.

“Yeah, we did,” Avery said, and I let him do the talking.

“We're OK,” he said, applying the no harm no foul rule.

Chapter 10

Sometimes it's best not to tell adults that you nearly drowned.

I didn't know how close to exhaustion I was, until I collapsed in the bottom of our rescuer's boat  By the time the marina came into view, I had recovered from the sailboat excursion. By the time we walked back to the house, I was fine.

“I bet you boys are hungry,” Granny said, taking a platter of hamburgers and hot dogs out of the fridge. She began cooking. Avery sat down and watched. He loved Granny's cooking, and soon we were digging into a late lunch.

It's surprising how hungry you get after a day on the water.

Avery was my appointed summertime friend. He didn't need to take me fishing, water skiing, or anything else, but he did. The following morning, after the day I didn't drown, Avery came charging into the house, banging the screen door behind him.

“Avery, are you hungry. I'm just fixing Dick breakfast,” Granny said, cracking two more eggs, and adding bacon to the frying pan.

“I could eat,” Avery said with a smile.

After breakfast, we found out what was on Avery's mind.

“Granny, I'm going to teach Dick how to swim. We'll be down at the end of Hollywood. We'll be back by lunchtime,” Avery said, hoping Granny caught the hint.

Avery was something.

We didn't talk about the goings on the day before. We broke through the brush, and we moved across the beach and into the water.

“If you're going to come back next summer, you need to know how to swim. We aren't going to get ourselves into trouble again, because you can't swim. It's Florida. Everyone knows how to swim.”

“I believe you, Avery. I'm ready to learn,” I said.

It wasn't difficult. Avery took it step by step, the same way he taught me how to water ski. In no more than a half hour, I was able to do the breaststroke. He taught me to float on my back, and he showed me how buoyant our bodies were, if you didn't struggle. I hadn't struggled yesterday, and after today, I'd never need to tread water for an hour or two again.

I wasn't one to struggle much, against the things in life I encountered. There was always a way to lessen unpleasantness.

The following week, two weeks before school started, my father arrived, alone this time. I wasn't happy to see him. The prospect of returning to the craziness at our house, didn't thrill me.

After my father slept for a few hours, and ate some of Granny's food, we were in the car, heading north. I didn't look back. I didn't want to leave. I knew there was no choice, as we drove, and drove.

I sat in the backseat, having lost all contact with the summer of fun I'd enjoyed. Save my fear of being eaten by that tiger shark, and almost drowning, there had been no time in my life like it.

Granny and Pop both said, “You're coming back next summer.”

“Being mesmerized by the land between Florida and Maryland, I loved traveling. We couldn't get back to Florida soon enough for me. Why couldn't I stay there and go to school with Avery and Joe, but then they'd find out how stupid I was,” I said.

“You weren't stupid. I wish you'd quit saying that,” Carlton said.

“From my view, I was stupid. Until that summer, I had never done anything. I lived inside myself, until I turned 12, and then all hell broke loose. It was difficult to put into perspective. There was nothing, and then I was bombarded with stuff.”

“You weren't stupid,” he said again.

“Suit yourself. Do you want me to tell this story, or do you want to tell it?” I asked.

“Sorry, I can't help it. Quit saying you were stupid,” he said.

“Don't mention my parents, and forget how stupid I was. Anything else I should do?”

“No,” he said sheepishly. “Go ahead. I won't interrupt you.”

“ We saw just enough of each other to like each other. Anymore, and they might discover things about me that they wouldn't like.  Although we'd been so busy having fun, I rarely gave a thought to being intellectually challenged.”

Passing the kitchen, while Granny was feeding my father, shortly after he arrived, I heard Granny saying, “No, neither of them wet the bed. Not even one time. You don't know how nice it was having them here. We want them to come back next summer.”

“I don't know, Mom. We'll see,” my father said.

“It's the only way I knew what was going on. My father couldn't say we could come back, until he ran it by my mother. I was sure my mother loved being rid of us for a couple of months each summer.”

As we drove into the parking lot behind our apartment, all thoughts of Florida were gone.

My mother met us at the door. She hugged my brother first, and then me. What was that all about, I wondered to myself. My mother was not an affectionate person. Maybe she saw it in a movie.

That first day, things were calm. It was a good sign. We'd been home for half a day, and I wasn't in trouble yet. I did go outside as soon as I could make a break for it. I didn't go back until dinner time.

The kids were all a buzz about the new kid, Bobby, who moved in next door to me. His apartment faced Iverson Street, and ours faced 25th Avenue. Bobby's back porch sat where his steps were very close to our back steps. I would see Bobby watching me from his kitchen window, when I came and went.

Bobby was older. He had the darkest eyes, and they were on me anytime I came or went from our backdoor. I had a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, each time I saw him. There was something about Bobby.

The other kids told me all about Bobby, before we met the first time. I asked questions about him, but I avoided the meeting for as long as I could. When I caught Bobby watching me from his kitchen window, he had the same look in his eyes that the older boy Skippy and I met in the woods had. I knew exactly what it meant.

When I came and went, I dashed out of the back door, and down the sidewalk. When I came home, I started running two apartments up from Bobby's, and I dashed up the steps and through the backdoor.

I knew who Bobby was. I knew it was through him that I was going to find out what the word homosexual meant. Even before I saw him watching me, I knew Bobby and I were destined to be linked together in an unusual way.

“I wasn't afraid of him, and I wasn't afraid of what he was going to show me about myself. I simply wasn't in a hurry, the week after I returned from my summer in Florida,” I said.

“I'd learned a lot about Florida. I'd learned some things about myself, and life in general. In the company of two boys, my life took on a different feel. I could come and go as I pleased, especially if I was in the company of Avery and Joe.”

“Bobby would have lessons to teach me, but I wanted the glow from my time in Florida to stay fresh for a little longer. Once I met Bobby, I'd know more about my own identity,” I said.

“You are telling me, you knew Bobby was homosexual, and he was going to have sex with you,” Carlton asked.

“Something like that. It's not that simple. Bobby kept watching me. He wasn't dangerous. All the kids my age talked about how nice he was to them. Bobby was fifteen, and about to turn sixteen, and he would get his driver's license, shortly after school began,” I said, trying to put it together in a way that would make sense.

“I find that incredible,” Carlton said. “Want more soda?”

“Sure,” I said, and Carlton disappeared into the kitchen.

I suppose that having the feeling that Bobby was like me, seemed as logical as anything else in my life. I'd lived most of twelve years inside myself. I knew what went on inside me. Now, it appeared I knew what went on inside of others, certain others.

After a week, as Labor Day was closing in, and school was about to start, I came down the sidewalk to go into my backdoor. Bobby was sitting on the steps outside of his kitchen door. He was waiting for me. 

“You're Dick,” he said, standing up to reach for my hand.

“You're Bobby,” I said, and I looked into his face.

“Want to see my fort?” He asked.

“Sure,” I said.

When I walked through the laundry room behind him, I was impressed that he had a key for the storage room. He waited for me to go inside, and he shut and locked the door.

He'd piled all kinds of junk up on one side of the storage area, and by letting a carpet roll down over top of the space between the junk, he'd created a fort. If someone opened the door, they couldn't see if anyone who was in that space. So you had time to stop doing whatever it was you were doing, if you were doing something.

“You want to play strip poker?” He asked, once we were seated inside his fort.

“Sure,” I said, knowing why we were there.

It didn't take a brain surgeon that Bobby recognized me, just like I recognized him. Before I'd left his fort, I'd performed oral sex on him several times, and I found all the parts of concern in such a situation. Bobby was cool. He wanted to give as good as he got, and I suppose it was the most exciting hour of my life.

One time was going to be enough. I did whatever it was he wanted to do. It was fairly predictable, except for the intensity of the acts we performed. Bobby definitely wanted to know me better.

I was 12 by a few months. When I was eight or nine, I'd gotten out the dictionary, which was about eight inches thick, to find the word homosexual. I couldn't spell. I was stupid, according to most opinions, but I knew that word had something to do with me.

“At that age, you knew you were homosexual?” Carlton asked.

“I don't know what I was. I felt that word would tell me what I was. When I was nine, after I found the word homosexual, which was no easy feet, because I couldn't spell. My life was about being in my bedroom, and playing with my two Teddy bears. One I'd had as far back as I could remember. One I got when I was six. The two of them were my only companions. I played alone in my room, and my imagination allowed me and my Teddy bears, to soar off into the sky, and we traveled to places unknown. It was my only comfort. My room was my refuge,” I said.

“When I did something so bad, my parents said, 'I needed to be punished severely.'”

I came home one day, after school, and my Teddy bears were gone. They'd been removed from my room. There had been talk of extra punishment, but I couldn't imagine my parents being that cruel. The only comfort I got over the years, was the comfort those two companions gave me. They took that comfort away from me because I'd been so bad I wasn't allowed comfort.”

“Oh, my God. Your parents weren't bad parents, they were criminal,” Carlton said loudly.

“I suppose,” I said, thinking back to what came next. “It wasn't for me to say what was right or wrong. It was up to them. They weren't bad people, they simply had bad ideas about raising kids.”

“I cried every day, when I came in from school. I refused to ask for my Teddy bears back. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction, but my life was forever altered, the day they took my companions.”

“I really didn't want to hear anymore about your parents. They should have been horsewhipped,” Carlton said.

Having revealed to Carlton the lowest point in my life, brought on by my absolute refusal to obey my parents order to stop wetting the bed, the punishment was swift, harsh, and it precluded any natural life sustaining force. Life became a struggle for survival, and now I moved the struggle outdoors.

“I never told anyone my story. It was a reminder of how bad and incapable I was. I peed on myself rather than get up to go to the bathroom. If that isn't a humiliating confession, nothing was. I was so bad, my parents finally removed the only comfort I'd been allowed, two aging Teddy bears,” I said.

It forced me out of the house, and into a new world.

At nine, I discovered what I was genuinely good at, roaming, with no destination in mind.

“You didn't ask them to give back your Teddy bears?”

“Not once, and without them, there was nothing to keep me in the house any longer. I stopped coming home after school. How would my parents  know if I came home after school or not? They didn't come home until dinner time, and I knew to be home for dinner.”

“Avoiding any more talk of your  parents, what happened?” Carlton asked.

“I'd feared my parents getting rid of me. I had no knowledge that told me they couldn't. They were in charge and their hostility and anger toward me was obvious. In my mind, I had nothing to offer to anyone. Once I began roaming, it altered the way I felt. The people I met, every bit as outside the acceptable as I was, but happy to include me in the games they played.”

“You found friends,” Carlton said.

“I don't think they were friends,” I said. “I would meet them in the woods. It was mostly after school, and before dinner time. We moved again at about this time. I had to be nine, because we moved right after I turned ten. This was just before that. While I was around other kids in school, I'd never been around kids after school.”

It was surprising how memories churned up, as I thought back. I tried to remember the order in which things took place.

I hadn't been roaming long. I remember the second or third day I did, I met a teenage girl in the woods. I liked the woods. I guess there were fewer people in the woods.

I was still making up my mind to stay away from the house until dinner. I knew better than to be late for dinner. I ran into the teenage girl, and she wants to get naked with me. I didn't have anything else to do, and getting naked sounded OK with me.

It felt like something I shouldn't do, so I wanted to try it. I'd gotten an early biology lesson on the female anatomy. It was no big whoops. It was interesting. Because she didn't have a penis, there was nothing to see down there, but hair. I wasn't big on hair.

What happened next was down right freaky, because I wish it was a boy asking me to get naked. It was a short time before my roaming started, that I looked up the word homosexual. When you can't read, or spell, that was a job and a half. It took me several days of going through the H segment of the dictionary, that was eight inches thick, before I found that word.

I knew that word had something to do with me. Where I'd heard the word, or why I believed it would tell me about myself, I don't know. I became curious about it, and I looked it up.  

Starting out getting naked with a girl, told me a lot. As biology went, it had been interesting. As attraction went, not so much. It was what it was, but a few days later, I met a neighbor boy in the woods. Right away, I told Skippy about getting naked with the girl. I asked him if he wanted to get naked with us the next time we did it.

Skippy thought it over for a second and a half before saying, “No, but if you don't get naked with me, I'll tell on you.”

That worked out way better than I could have imagined. I used the girl as bait to be able to get naked with Skippy. He tossed the bait aside and made his desires clear, and right away, we got naked.

I wondered if everyone went to the woods to get naked. It seemed like fun to me. I was two for two on the get naked deal.

Skippy was more interesting than the girl. We began scheduling meetings after school to 'fool around.' Leaving my bedroom turned out to be a good move on my part Discoveries I made were an exciting addition to a life I'd spent in isolation.

Confirming my suspicions, that everyone got naked in the woods, one Saturday morning, Skippy was waiting for me, once I left the house. It wasn't a scheduled meeting, but he came to ask me if I wanted to meet another boy he fooled around with in the woods.

He told me his friend was older. Seeing another naked boy appealed to me. I was game, and Skippy figured I would be. We went to the spot in the woods where we usually fooled around. We met a teenage boy. He suggested we get naked. He has hair and he brings a lot more to the table than Skippy or me. The boy is really interesting, and before we get finished in the woods, he wants to get together again one day next week.

Roaming had paid off in a way I never suspected it would. Now that I realized that guys went to the woods to get naked, I was sure that I'd be roaming a lot more, but as with anything in my life that I liked, it was short lived.

A few months after meeting Skippy's friend, we moved. Once again, it came out of the blue.

“Don't go anywhere Saturday. We're moving,” I was told.

“Moving this time was more disappointing than the last two or three moves we'd made. Up until then, I didn't care where we lived,” I said. “I would be starting over, and going into the 5th grade.”

“So why was once enough with Bobby?” Carlton asked. “You seemed to be on your way to having more than one guy to fool around with.”

“There's a big difference between being nine and being twelve. At twelve, I was going through puberty, when I met Bobby. When I did things with boys before we moved, it was interesting and fun. With Bobby, the feelings were way more intense. My hormones were raging, and being with Bobby was like walking into a tornado. There was an excitement I hadn't experienced when I was nine. That meant it could get out of control fast. I could see me doing it every day with Bobby, twice a day. I was twelve. I was in enough trouble with my parents. Becoming sexually active with the boy next door would sooner or later end up with me in even more trouble. It did scare me. I wasn't traumatized forever and ever, but I was worried that I might be too young to be sexually involved with Bobby,” I said. “But I knew, when I did get sexually active, it would be with a boy.”

“You were twelve. How could you figure that out? I didn't know which way was up at twelve. Even when Chase and I started getting each other off, it was ill-defined at best. It took until I was in high school before my serious feelings for him intensified.”

“I can only tell you about me, Carlton. I was keenly aware of what went on inside myself. I considered the things I did, because every thing I did had a direct effect on how much punishment I would receive,” I said. “I knew Bobby was a homosexual the same way I knew that being sexually active at twelve was a lot more intense than the fooling around I did at nine.”

Bobby and I did run around together, because I went with him, when he got his father's car. We didn't fool around again. He liked spending time together. I suppose he felt alone too. He was in a new place. All the kids were younger, and I was the only one who could go with him. Once I went out the back door, my parents had no interest in where I was or what I was doing. I knew certain things would get my parent's attention, and I did my best to avoid doing such things. If one of the neighbors complained about me, I'd get it. Going out in the car kept me far away from prying eyes.

“Your parents needed some parenting classes,” Carlton said.

“It was what it was, Carlton,” I said. 

“I'd discovered masturbation by then, and fooling around required other boys. Masturbation was a solitary activity. I was satisfied with doing in alone. As I grew older, the repercussions for being sexual, made such things forbidden fruit. I could do it myself and get the same result. It was a low risk activity.”

“I couldn't, once Chase showed me what I was missing,” Carlton said. “The fireworks went off that night. I couldn't stay away from him after that, but as you supposed, being caught was disastrous for my life and my future.”

“As I began discovering things I could do, and I'd never been able to do anything before, my mind didn't visit the sexual side of things as often. When I was nine, and with Skippy guiding me, I wanted to fool around every day with anyone who was interested. After feeling bad for so long, this made me feel good,” I said.

“Amazing,” Carlton said. “You amaze me. When I was with Chase, and he had his hand on my dick, I couldn't add two and two. My entire being flowed through his hand, and he knew how to do it. I never thought to ask him how many other boys he was involved with.”

“Did you have a need to add two and two at the time?” I asked.

Carlton laughed.

But Carlton was right. When I was with Bobby, and he was asking me to do things to him, I was immediately inside what we did. Nothing existed but Bobby and what I was learning about his body.

Even though Bobby and I only got together that way once, Bobby was waiting for me to come out of my kitchen door, all the time. Once he got his driver's license, he could get his father's car, mostly on weekends.  

I liked that he didn't try to talk me into having sex with him again. He accepted that I knew what I was doing, when I did it, and I knew what I was doing, when I didn't want to do it again. I didn't have any friends, and a sixteen-year-old was good as any. Besides, Bobby knew everything about everyone. He was like a private eye, or maybe he was more like a snoop. I figured most of what he told me was bullshit, but he told a lot of stories about our neighbors. 

“Bobby knew my secret, and I knew his,” I said. “He seemed fine with me knowing about him. He knew about me, too. We were even.”

“I get that. It was like that with Chase, but he had calculated that he had the upper hand. As long as he used his hand on me, I really didn't care that he knew about me.”

“It was a few days after I visited Bobby's fort, that junior high school began. Things were coming at me pretty fast at that time. I'd spent all that time away from home, and then it was time for school.”

I once again ran the images through my head. My life was about to take a major right turn. I'd been warned about junior high by boys who had brothers who were already in junior high. My brother didn't tell me anything, because we mostly had nothing to say to each other. 

I did learn a lesson the day I got on my first school bus. I hated it. Being locked into a tin can with sixty screaming, mad, 12, 13, and 14 year old kids was no picnic. I had to take the bus to school in the morning, but I'd walk home from school, weather permitting.

Once at school, and once they finally unlocked the front doors, I went about locating each classroom. The classes and the room numbers appeared on a card that had come in the mail.

I was about to learn my first lesson in junior high school, after learning the lesson about the bus. When the bell rang, dismissing one class, you got five minutes, before the late bell rang, to be in your seat in the next class.

My first period was at the end of the last hall in the school. Second period was all the way at the end of the next hall over, which could only be accessed by going back to the entrance to the building, and then going over to that hall. Of course, when the bell rang to dismiss a class, hundreds of kids streamed into the halls, all trying to make it to the next period, without being late.

The not being late part was stressed on the card with the classes and the room numbers. It would take an Olympic sprinter to get from the end of one hall, to the end of the next hall over, unless you ran down everyone who got in your way.

Teachers became drill sergeants.

“Get a move on it. You'll be late if you don't hurry.”

I wondered if that was an unspoken lesson we needed to learn.

I wasn't sure what fate would befall me, if I wasn't in my seat on time, but I'm sure it was terrible. What would it hurt to give us enough time to get to the next class without rushing? We were there all day. Why not create a leisurely pace that encouraged learning?

Locating each of my classrooms, before school started, got me into my seat with time to spare in most classes. The gym was all the way at the far side of the school from the entrance, and I was late on the first day, but it was gym, and I wasn't really worried.

My only break came after 2nd period, when I went to the gym, which was a good distance from where my second period class was. I passed the office, the cafeteria, making it to the gym a minute after the late bell rang.

As I came through the entrance, I joined sixty other boys already standing with their toes on the red line that ran around the basketball court size room that was a basketball court. Before I realized I'd already missed out on the beginning of class, I was handed two sheets of paper. It was the rules you needed to know if you intended to get a passing grade in gym class.

What?

I was immediately intent on listening to Mr. Romeo, the name of the gym teacher who was reading the rules.

“Rule 3,” he said.

What happened to rules one and two?

Chapter 11

I made it to the gym a minute late. I didn't get scolded or reprimanded. I got shocked into what it meant to be in junior high school. There were rules to learn if I hoped to pass gym. 

I looked at the page. It was filled with writing I couldn't read. My focus increased, because if I needed to know two pages of rules to pass gym, I was already in trouble. How could they figure out a way to make gym class difficult.

I was ready to run, jump, and climb, and I end up staring at two pages of rules. It seemed excessive, but I knew if I didn't listen to Mr. Romeo, the chances of me passing gym weren't looking good.

“Rule 4,” he said, and I'd missed another rule while thinking about missing the first two rules.

I gave the teacher my undivided attention.

 'You will furnish one combination type lock for your gym basket. You can get one combination type lock at any hardware store. You will affix your combination type lock to your gym basket, after you remove your gym type uniform, described in rules one and two. Your clothes will be removed and put into the basket, and your combination type lock will be affixed to said basket. Do not leave your lock affixed to your gym basket, once gym class ends. If you leave a lock affixed to a gym basket, the lock will be cut off. If the lock is cut off, you'll need to buy another combination type lock. Do you understand this? I do not want to hear one of you ask, 'Where'd my lock go.' If you expect to pass gym class, do not ever ask me, where your lock went.”

A half dozen boys mumbled something in reply. I was too mortified to mumble. There had to be some kind of conspiracy at work here. This was gym class. It was time to play. What rules did you need to know to play? 

As I listened as he read one rule after another, I became aware of a man moving closer and closer to me. The silver whistle, red shorts, and white tee-shirt with the school logo prominently in the middle of the shirt told me he was a gym teacher, and now he had closed in to within a foot of me. He didn't take his eyes off me.

What had I done? I was late. Maybe that was it.

What did this joker want? I had to hear Mr. Romeo, or I was screwed on the rules deal. The only easy class I had, if you didn't count lunch, and I was already in trouble. I'd only been there three and a half minutes.

I did my best to ignore the second gym type teacher, who seemed determined to distract me, and I hadn't heard the last two rules, because I was trying to figure out what this dude wanted.

Finally, at rule ten or eleven, I found myself face to face with the second gym teacher. His nose was very close to my nose. We were the same height.

He began to lift himself up on his toes, letting himself back down. His dark brown eyes were watching my baby blues.

He kept lifting up on his toes, letting himself back down. He lifted up, came back down. I'd lost any contact I had with Mr. Romeo. So much for the rules.

What did this guy want?

After two or three minutes, the man finally decided to speak.

“I know you,” he said, lifting up on his toes, coming back down. “You're the kid who cleaned me out over at Hillcrest Heights Elementary. You kept making holes-in-one. I remember you,” he said in a voice that revealed nothing.

Of all the gyms, in all the world, why did I have to walk into his? 

I didn't know who he was. I guess it could have been the guy. How else would he know that? That guy wore a suit. This guy was in gym shorts and a tee-shirt. This guys had biceps the size of softballs, and his legs were coiled steel. How did I know if it was the guy?

Was he holding a grudge. Had he really been ticked off by me winning his table full of prizes. He let me putt the ball as often as I wanted.

“You're a pretty good little golfer,” he said, sealing the deal.

He didn't sound angry. He sounded like he liked what I did. Maybe I wasn't in trouble. Maybe walking into his gym wasn't all bad.

“I'd never putted a golf ball before,” I said.

“I know. That's the problem. How did you manage to clean me out?” He asked.

“I don't know. You showed me how. How do I know. I just did what you said. It wasn't my fault,” I said, ready to cry.

“Relax kid. We're cool. You learn fast. I was impressed,” he said.

“And I thought you'd never see that guy again,” Carlton said. “He was a gym teacher. He knew he was going to see you again. I bet he was waiting for you to show up in his class,” Carlton said.

“I suppose,” I said. “Most of my contact with adults goes badly.”

“I couldn't be sure about him. His expecting me to show up, would be a logical assumption. Gym class is mandatory in 7th grade. With only two gym teachers, and with my school being a feeder school for the school where he taught gym, he probably expected to see me again. And there I was.”

Seeing the images in my brain brought details into focus. I hadn't guessed the position I was in. I was suspicious of adults, even one who praised and encouraged me. As good as it was the day it happened, three months later, I couldn't be sure of anything, but it didn't take long to find out where I stood with him.

It took longer to realize that he had taken me under his wing. I was his boy, and one thing was for sure, no one was going to make fun of me, because of it. You didn't want to cross Mr. Q. 

Mr. Andrew Quattrocchi, Mr. Q thank God, didn't make me wait long to find out what he had in mind. Once we had our shorts and tee-shirts, and combination type locks, we were to be tested the first day  of gym class, after we dressed-out.

First was the standing jump. Each boy stood on the line indicated, and he jumped. Mr. Romeo measured how far he'd jumped. Each boy got a single jump, except for moi. As quick as I stood on the line, and jumped when told to jump, Mr. Q came over to me, clamping his very strong hands on my shoulders, guiding me to one side, away from where the testing was being done.

“OK, Charles, I'm going to show you how to jump properly. I want you to watch me. He began to swing his arms back, as his toes were on the red line, and he immediately saw the vacant look in my eyes.

Being no ordinary teacher, Mr. Q remembered the way he got my attention the first time, and activated the recording device in my brain.

He took my upper arm, and gave me a little shake.

“Are you paying attention, Charles?” He asked.

I immediately focused in on what he was about to show me. I remembered the secret combination that allowed me to succeed at something.

Mr. Q swung his arms back, brought them way forward, as if he were pulling his chest into the air. He repeated the motion, and he didn't move, but on the third time, when his arms came up like he was going to pull his chest into the air, it's what he did. His arms lifted his entire body off the floor, propelling him forward a long long way.

“Wow,” I said. “That was some jump.”

“Can you do what I showed you? You remember?” 

“Sure,” I said, and clamping his hands on my shoulders, he marched me back to Mr. Romeo.

“Let this one go again,” Mr. Q said.

Mr. Romeo held his hand out to keep the next kid from stepping up to the line, and I stepped up. I played the tape back in my head, and I did exactly what Mr. Q showed me how to do. I added over a foot to my first jump, and except for one other boy, I had out jumped everyone in the gym class.

This was what Mr. Q had in mind. I wasn't sure right away, what he thought he was doing, but after seeing me sink all those putts, without missing one, if you didn't count the ball I hit like a rocket. He wanted to find out what else he might be able to get me to do.

The standing jump told him what he thought was true. I would respond to his instruction with a major effort. He came to me two more times the first day, giving me another lesson, and allowing me to jump farther and outrun the other boys.

On the following day, when the gym teachers were taking control of their classes, I ended up in Mr. Romeo's class for about a minute and a half. We were all gathering, once our names were called, behind the teacher indicated.

After all the names were called, and each teacher had 30 students, Mr. Q came over, clamped his hands on my shoulders, and he said, “This one is mine. I'll send you a boy to make it even.”

From that day forward, I was Mr. Q's boy. No one questioned it. No one doubted that what I was doing was consistently as good as the best athletes in the two classes. For the first time in my life, I couldn't wait to get to school. I couldn't wait to meet with Mr. Q. He was more than a teacher. He made me feel special. He let me loose to perform for him, and anything he showed me, I repeated, and repeated, and repeated, until I did it better than anyone else.

I had never been anything. Now, I was an athlete. It was grand.

The 7th grade was the first year of school, when I thought I was able to do something. In a short period of time, everyone expected me to be the best or second best, in everything we did. Other boys were giving me plenty of room, because I was good at what I did.

No matter what I was doing, Mr. Q was close at hand. He wanted to witness what I did. There were few things Mr. Q showed me how to do, that I couldn't do the way he instructed me. My performances improved, as I applied what he taught me.

For as far back as my memory took me, I couldn't do anything. From the day Mr. Q taught me to putt a golf ball, my life had been on an upward trajectory. I'd never been anything before, and being something, being able to do something well, made me feel good about myself.

It felt good, being something other than a disappointment.

One day, being stuck inside because of the rain, Mr. Q came to get me. We'd been playing dodge ball. I followed him over to the ropes that hung down from the forty foot high ceiling. Two other boys followed me over to where Mr. Q waited. They'd seen Mr. Q instructing me, and they'd seen the results. These were athletes, and they wanted in on the extra lessons I was being given.

“I want you to watch me,” Mr. Q said, as he grasped the rope.

Sticking his legs out at a forty-five degree angle, his arms bulging muscle, he pulled himself up, touched the ceiling, and he lowered himself. He made it look easy as you please.

“Now, I want you to do it,” he said.

“I can't do that. You're all muscle, Mr. Q. I'm scrawny,” I said.

The two other boys said nothing, but they watched Mr. Q.

“It doesn't take muscle. It's all in your mind. By moving your legs out of the way, your arms are able to pull your weight up the rope. You're letting your brain override the physics involved.”

“I am?” I asked.

“Take the rope,” he ordered.

I took the rope.

“Be ready to take your body weight onto your arms. Don't worry, your arms will hold you,” he assured me.

I did what he said. My arms held me.

“Put your legs straight out,” he said.

I put my legs straight out, as he'd done. My arms held my weight just fine.

“Now, keep your legs straight out, and climb the rope,” he said.

I climbed the rope, touched the ceiling, and lowered myself. In some ways, it was easier than when I used my legs to help me climb. The legs weren't helping at all. They simply held the rope steady.

“I won't ask you to do anything you can't do, Charles,” he said.

By that time, Richard Moe was climbing the rope, as Mr. Q instructed. He touched the ceiling and let himself down.

“Cool,” Richard said. “It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.  

The third boy was flailing, as quick as he put his legs out, and he made it a few feet off the gym floor, before letting himself down.

“You let your brain get in the way,” Mr. Q said. “You can do it.”

These were little things that added up to a big thing. I did things few other kids in gym class could do. I felt good about that.

I would not brag about my athletic ability. I'd never use it to put someone else down. The idea that Mr. Q thought enough of me to want to show me how to do things right, made me feel special, and that feeling was enough to help me keep my mind on my business.

I watched Mr. Q. How much did he know, because of what happened in the Hillcrest Heights Elementary School auditorium?

Why did he spend so much time with me?

No one else got the attention I did from him, and there were better athletes. The only reason I could perform as well as they performed, was because Mr. Q taught me how to do things properly.      Other boys began watching us. Mr. Q didn't object. What he showed me was the proper way to use your body to get better results. When other boys did what Mr. Q showed me, they got better results.

They all knew who the instructions were for, and that gave me the kind of status I'd never enjoyed. I had become somebody.

I didn't know what Mr. Q sensed about what I did in the Hillcrest Heights Elementary School auditorium. The way I reacted to him that day must have told him a lot. He may have wondered if there was an untapped well of ability trapped within the uncomfortably insecure boy who mastered his golf hole. He'd see what he could teach me, now that he had my undivided attention.

I didn't have enough experience with adults who encouraged me to know what his motives were. Mr. Q treated me like I was a regular kid. He couldn't know that I'd never been a regular kid. I did just as he indicated I should do. If I'd been born at 12, by the time I walked into Mr. Q's gym, I was hardly aware of the world around me, but I was learning at a frantic pace.

He said that he'd never ask me to do anything I couldn't do, and that was good enough for me.

As I worked with the man who had become my personal trainer, my status in the gym class grew. Part of it was because of what I'd learned how to do. The other part was the amount of attention I got from a well-liked gym teacher. Mr. Q was one of the good guys.

I knew few guys, and when it came to good guys, I knew one.

While I felt pretty good about 7th grade gym, it was the only class where I saw some success, if you don't count lunch. None of my other classes had much to interest me. I knew math, and I was good with numbers, so anything to do with numbers, I did well at.

Nothing else appealed to me.

The fear I took to junior high school with me, that this might be the year I was failed, was unrealized. I had just managed to keep my head above water. With an A in gym, a B in math, the rest were

either a C or a D.

Mr. Q was a teacher, and I wondered how many boys he'd encountered in a gym class, who had the same vacant look in their eyes that I showed up with. Once I did what he instructed me to do, and then kept on doing it, things began to relax. I was expecting his instruction, and he expected me to perform at a high level. The other boys who came over to watch us, were a bonus. 

Mr. Q no longer needed to take my arm and shake, to get my attention. As soon as he took me aside, I was focused on him. I wanted to know what he knew. I needed to do what he showed me how to do, and above all, I needed the atta boys he gave me.

By spring, bringing home an A in gym, B in math, and a C or a D in the rest of my subjects, it looked like I wouldn't fail 7th grade. Gym made each day worthwhile. Mr. Q was a man who kept me hopping. 

In May, with the weather warming, and us going outdoors each gym period, we were playing softball on the lower of the two fields.

I came up to bat, watching the guy throw his lazy looping pitches over the plate. I watched the first two without moving, and when he threw the third pitch the same way, I gave forth with a mighty swing, timing it perfectly, and the ball arched up over our outfield, up over the second field, and it landed in the woods.

By the time the outfields were taking chase, I was rounding third base, when I heard Mr. Q yelling.

“Don't touch that ball. Leave that ball where it landed,” he yelled.

I wasn't sure what was going on. Had I done something wrong.

Mr. Q disappeared into the school, and when he returned, he was carrying a measuring tape. He came over to me and said, “Hold this end on home plate.”

By the time we were on the upper field, and in the woods where Mr. Q found the ball, he said, “Two hundred and twelve feet, Charles. That was one hell of a hit.”

As we walked back down the hill to my team's field, Mr. Q put his arm across my shoulder.

“Hell of a hit,” he said again.

I felt proud of myself for getting such a reaction from Mr. Q. It was the highlight of what had been my best year of school ever. 

Once the school year ended, my brother and I knew we'd be going back to Florida for the summer. I couldn't wait to get back to Avery, my grandparents, the Gulf, and Choctawhatchee Bay.

It would be another summer of constant good times. There was more boating, more freedom, and more of everything. We went fishing, crabbing, water skiing, and on some days we became beach combers, walking from Fort Walton Beach to Destin. The pristine sands of the Gulf were white, and the water was green.

Granny fixed Avery and me a bagged lunch. It took most of my energy keeping Avery out of the food, until we'd at least gotten a mile or two from the Wayside Park, where we started.

Coming back to Maryland wasn't quite as depressing as it had been the year before. I'd found a reason to like going to school, and I couldn't wait to get back to Mr. Q's gym. As an athlete, I intended to learn more, doing even better, and collecting all those, 'Atta Boys' Mr. Q had to spare.

My life had become good. While I didn't have a lot to look forward to, I never had anything to look forward to before. The 8Th grade was about to become far more intense than 7th grade ever was.

Gym class was after lunch this year. It was forth period. It provided two hours in the middle of each day when my brain could rest. This made school tolerable, and at the beginning of each school year, I often wondered if this would be the year I failed..

What made school intolerable was having CORE, a mixture of English, history, civics, and current events, rolled into two or three periods, depending on which day it was.

I'd rushed into the classroom the first day to claim the last seat in the last row, the one next to the windows. I was still scoring perfectly, managing to get that seat in every classroom. I was still champion, when it came to getting the seat farthest from the teacher's desk. Being an athlete had its benefits.

This would usually have me smiling for the first week, because teachers usually drew up the seating chart the first day, and after the kids were seated. It was the same with Mr. Warnock, but then he threw me the old fast, outside curve ball.

On the first day, in CORE class, Mr. Warnock began having each student read from the textbook he'd handed out. He started with the first student, in the first row, and proceeded one student at a time.

The thrill over scoring the last seat in the last row, was short lived. Everyone read a paragraph, and Mr. Warnock would read the next students name, and he read.

By the time it was my turn to read, I was worn out. It took until the second period to come to me. Twenty-nine down and one to go, but not so fast. I couldn't read from the textbook. I couldn't read from anything. I couldn't read, and when my name was called, I ignored it.

“Charles, stand up and read from where Brenda stopped,” Mr. Warnock ordered.

My textbook remained closed on my desk. Mr. Warnock was one of those no nonsense teachers, when he told you to do something, it went best if you did what he told you to do.

“Charles, stand up!” Mr. Warnock ordered, and I stood up, looking down at the gray cover of the textbook.

I stuttered and stammered, but by that time, Mr. Warnock was on the way down the row of desks to where I stood. Grabbing the book, he slammed it open, used his stubby little fingers to turn the pages loudly, until he found one he liked. He pointed his index finger at a spot on the page.

“Read. Start here.”

He went back to the front of the classroom.

The first word was a piece of cake.

“The....”

“Productivity,” Mr. Warnock said.

“Productivity,” I said.

The class erupted into laughter as I read, 'Of,' and stalled out again.

“Shut up,” Mr. Warnock roared. “Anyone who laughs will be making a trip to the office. Do I make myself clear?”

Clear enough for me.

I was still lost in words I'd never seen before. I stumbled, stuttered, and sweat my way through one paragraph, three sentences, and I was soaked by the end of my ordeal. Mr. Warnock had given me the next word about eighty percent of the time. He didn't ask me if I was stupid, but I guess that was obvious.

“Sit down, Charles,” he said, going to the day's lesson.

Shame and humiliation was nothing new. I'd been the dumbest kid in every class I'd ever been in, but this was the first time I proved it to my classmates. Now, everyone knew I was stupid.

The one thought I had, once my reading ended the first day, he won't make that mistake again. 

I was wrong. The next day, after the late bell sounded, Mr. Warnock said, 'Charles, turn to page twenty-seven. Read from the top of the page.”

I couldn't believe my ears. Why would he want to go through this again? There was an obvious answer. I didn't care to think about it.

I stood up, turned to page twenty-seven, and I stumbled over the first word. Mr. Warnock gave it to me, and I kept stumbling along, stuttering, stammering, and sweating my way through another paragraph. It was worse the second day. He gave me the word eight-five percent of the time.

No one laughed at me, but there was a lot of smiling. I'd never seen a happier classroom, than when I was called on to read, which was every day at the start of CORE class. Every day it was the same. Every day I sat down exhausted.

Chapter 12

I'd become an athlete in 7th grade, with the assistance of my first mentor, Andrew Quattrocchi, gym teacher extraordinaire. He showed me how to turn myself into a running, jumping, climbing fool. Because anything Mr. Q showed me how to do, I did as well as I possibly could, because Mr. Q was watching me, and he expected my best effort every time, and that's what I gave him.

Being something was infinitely better than what I'd been, until I turned 12. Never being able to do anything to please anyone wasn't easy. It wasn't as easy as doing what Mr. Q showed me how to do. His praise, when I did what he showed me how to do, was addictive. Getting his approval became my reason for living.

I'd never had a reason for living before.

Living inside myself for most of my life, living outside myself, facing the world I lived in,  wasn't the natural thing for me to do. I'd learned that the best way to get along with the people I lived with, was to avoid them as much as possible.

Why would people outside of my house be any different. It was obvious Mr. Q was an outlier. I didn't ask why. I was glad he was. 

A summer away from the craziness at my house, did wonders for my disposition. The only thing better than a summer in Florida, would have been to live with my grandparents all year, but I knew that wasn't about to happen. At least I got to spend summers there. 

After a summer away, with the affection of Granny and Pop, the friendship of Avery, and the full time adventure Fort Walton Beach offered, my mind was ready for whatever came my way. I knew better than to expect much, but now there was Mr. Q. There was someone who believed in me.

I had no idea what was waiting for me, soon after I returned from Florida. I couldn't imagine Florida in my wildest dreams, and now Florida was a temporary state of mind. It made life tolerable for the rest of the year.

Whatever else happened at school and at home, I'd be heading for Florida next summer.

As soon as Fort Walton Beach was out of the rear view mirror, I began adjusting to the way things were done at home. I had to ready myself for reentry into the craziest place on earth, after living a carefree life with my grandparents for over two months.

 I didn't know I could be anymore than I was, but my life was being opened to possibilities I never considered before. Possibilities like Mr. Q seeing to it I became an athlete. I thought being an athlete was something, but I wondered if that was all there was.

I understood that it was all connected in some invisible way.  Even my parents backed off the anger and hostility, after I'd been away for a couple of months.

Now, if they could only talk without yelling.

By the second or third week of school, I saw no way I could pass CORE. Failing CORE meant being held back, and being held back would ignite my parent's anger once more. I was helpless to do anything but stand and read in front of Mr. Warnock's class each morning. The kids who were my classmates, suspect that I wasn't very bright, but this was the first time my ignorance was put on display.

After considering cutting my throat, one morning before first period began, I ruled it out and I went to my desk to wait to be called on to read.

This is what I was stuck with, until Mr. Warnock got tired of hearing my stuttering, stammering, stop and start delivery. He was still giving me the words half the time. When would it end?

“Charles, stand and read from the top of page 124.”

I stood with my usual enthusiasm, staring down at the jumble of words in the textbook. I was once more wrestling the words I hated, and my classmates smiled, and, by then, I'm sure they'd love to shove their fingers in their ears, but Mr. Warnock wouldn't approve.

I came up short. I was looking at another word I didn't even try to sound out, as the sweat rolled off my face.

“Manufacturing,” Mr. Warnock said.

“Manufacturing... and...,” I said.

“You've seen this a couple of times before, Charles. Pronounce the first syllable,” the teacher said.

“Pro... Pro... dutivity,” I said, letting my finger show the way.

I gave it my best shot, until I was told to sit back down, and I dropped into my seat.

Each day, I hoped, this will be the last day he calls on me. The next day, the same thought came to mind. It couldn't go on forever. Could it?

There was one thing I noticed about my ordeal early on. There was a towhead sitting in the next row over, one desk forward of my desk. Each time I read, his eyes stayed on me. He had to turn his head far to the left to achieve this.

At first I was sure he was mocking me, but after a while, I saw a great deal of sympathy on his face, He was probably one more wise guy. I didn't like him. I didn't like anyone at the time I was busy humiliating myself each day, but the kid was persistent. He seemed determined to get a smile out of me.

Didn't he understand that I was in no smiling mood? There was nothing to smile at, but each time I sat down, he gave me a smile. By the time I finished reading the next day, I didn't have enough energy to smile. What was he smiling at?

If he was determined to get a smile out of me. I was just as determined not to give him one. After making that decision, the boy started making faces, once I sat down after reading. I ignored the faces too. I wasn't smiling no matter what he did. I hated everyone, especially that towheaded kid in the row next to me.

I was communicating with Tommy, the name of the boy in the next row. My message to him was clear. Get lost. His message to me came back just as clearly. You're going to smile. Sooner or later, I'm going to make you smile.

The following day, as CORE class began, Mr. Warnock called on me to read. I stood and I began reading. He wasn't giving me the words but about half the time now. It was progress, but the ordeal was no less stressful. One day he'd get tired of listening to me read.

“Sit down, Charles,” Mr. Warnock said. “Turn your textbooks to page one hundred and thirty-two.”

As I sat down, I glanced at Tommy. Somehow, he'd managed to turn his head upside down, under his arm, putting his chin in his armpit.

I cracked up.

 Tommy straightened himself up, smiled an, I told you so, smile, and he turned his attention to the front of the classroom.

I laughed out loud. It was the funniest thing I'd ever seen.

“Charles, do you have something to add to the lesson?” Mr. Warnock asked.

“No, sir,” I said, putting my hand over my mouth to stifle my laughter.

Tommy had been determined to get a smile out of me, and I gave it to him. Now he ignored me. Two could play that game. He'd done what he set out to do, and now I was on my own.

The very next day, the two of us arrived at Mr. Warnock's classroom at the same time. This time I smiled at him.

“You're funny,” I said.

“No, I'm Tommy,” he said, offering me his hand.

“I'm Dickie,” I said, taking the offering.

“Whose Charles than?” He asked.

“Charles is the stupid kid who can't read,” I said.

“You're not stupid. You've gotten better at reading,” he said.

“I suppose,” I said, and we went inside to take our seats.

After that, each time my bus unloaded at the front entrance of the school, Tommy was waiting for me there. Once they unlocked the doors, we'd walked the halls and talked.

Tommy was determined to get me to smile, and I wondered if he was just as determined to make me his friend. Anyone who could get me laughing, under those circumstances, was my friend. I didn't need to give that a second thought.

What I did think about was, what do friends do?

After the day Tommy cracked me up, I think even reading became easier on me. Having someone in my corner was neat.

Tommy walked to school from where he lived, a half mile away. He was always waiting for me when bus 64 began unloading. I'd never had someone wait for me before, or act like they were happy to see me. If this was what friendship was like, I liked it.

I never talked to someone on a daily basis before either. It made coming to school better. I not only had a mentor, teaching me to be athletic, but I had a friend. Tommy was the easiest person to be around I'd ever known. I didn't worry about what to say. I didn't worry about how what I said sounded. It was easy being with Tommy.

I'd never had a full-time friend before. I'd never had a best friend before, but Tommy would become both. At the time, he hadn't had his growth spurt, so I was a few inches taller than he was. He was small, friendly, and easy for me to like. 

As we walked in the halls, he said, “I live about a half mile from here. Want to come over to my house after school one day?”

“I walk home from school every day. I can come over today, if you want,” I said.

“Cool,” he said, and our friendship was about to take on a deeper meaning than either of us could have imagined.

Tommy met two of his brothers, one older, one younger, near the side entrance of the school. After introducing us, we walked through the woods, and down the hill to his house. When we got to his house, there were two more brothers and a sister. It was a real family.

I'd never been around anyone else's family before. I sure had no family, when you came down to it. There were other people living in the same house, but there was no sign of family, where I lived.

I was immediately accepted as being OK, if I was OK with Tommy, I was OK. He was the second oldest boy, and they seemed to get along fine. That's not to say they didn't argue, tease each other mercilessly, and laugh all the time.

Tommy immediately had me in the middle of it. Not all the brothers were all that friendly, but Tommy and Richard were ready to include me in everything.

At first, I wasn't all that comfortable with all those kids, but all those kids had friends, and there were more kids coming and going. It took some getting use to, but if I stuck with Tommy, it was all good.

That's to say, it was all good, after school. In school I had the same problem. When CORE class started each morning, Mr. Warnock called on me to read. I stuttered, stammered, and sweat my way through a single paragraph each day. Now, when I sat down, after reading, Tommy smiled a sympathetic smile. I didn't smile, we talked about it later. Tommy didn't mind that I was stupid.

October came and went, and then,it was November. My ordeal continued, but I was beginning to need less and less help with the words. It was a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, and as class started one morning, I stood up as soon as Mr. Warnock said, 'Charles, read from page 247, second paragraph with “The main crop of the Ukraine....'

Mr. Warnock didn't need to give me the word one time. I don't think I stuttered or stammered once. When I finished my paragraph, I sat down.

Mr. Warnock said, “Charles,  that was very good. You've come a long way, and in my opinion, it's no longer necessary for you to read each morning. Keep up the good work.”

Tommy turned to give me his biggest smile, and I finally had something to smile about.

The daily ordeal had ended, and something totally unexpected took place, I realized That I must be reading at grade level, or close enough for Mr. Warnock. It was a happy day.

Tommy and I met at the side door of the school, and we bounced down the stairs, and we headed for the woods.

“You did it. You finally read good enough to please Mr. Warnock,” he said. “I didn't think he'd ever be pleased.”

“I was beginning to think it would never end,” I said. “Thanks for not laughing at me, Tommy. You were the only kid that didn't laugh.”

“And you get the last laugh,” Tommy said.

I didn't know what to do with myself each morning, as CORE class began and Mr. Warnock started teaching the lesson for the day, without calling on me to read first. He would rarely call on me to read after that. Everyone was tired of hearing my voice, for now, anyway.

Life became very very good. I passed all my subjects on my first report card. Mr. Warnock gave me a C. I thought that was generous, considering all the time I spent learning to read. I got my usual A in gym, B in math, and a C or a D in the other four classes.

I got a D in art class. I'd made an ashtray out of clay. The teacher seemed to be offended by it. I'm lucky she didn't fail me. I remember when she sat the ash tray down on the table, it rolled away from her. The bottom was a bit on the round side. Except for that, and the fact any ashes in the ash tray would spill out as soon as the ashtray began rolling, was a bit disturbing, and she gave me a D.

How could anyone get a D in art class?

I saw the movie, War of the Worlds, one weekend

I loved good science fiction, and I loved the movie. I gave a great deal of thought to it. As my friendship with Tommy survived the Thanksgiving holiday away from each other, I was sure we were real friends, and once we were back in school, I walked home with him each day. I left his house a little after five to walk the three miles home, and I'd get home just before six.

My parents never asked me where I was after school, because I was there at dinner time. That was the rule. I gobbled my food. Asked to be excused, and that started the evening of vegging out in front of the TV.

The yelling at the dinner table had subsided after we came back from Florida that first time. I hadn't wet the bed since forever, and there was far less to yell about. I still gobbled my food and asked to be excused two and a half minutes into dinner. It still worked for me.

One afternoon, after leaving Tommy's house, while I was walking across the Census Bureau parking lot, I decided I needed to do something to show Tommy how much his friendship meant to me. What could I do that might impress him. I couldn't do much, but I had an idea. I'd write a story and Tommy and I would be the heroes.

I didn't know I couldn't write a story. I had learned to read. I should be able to write a story. Once I got home, I did my usual, asking to be excused, after gobbling my dinner, and I was excused.

I went to my bedroom, got out a brand new composition book, and I began to write, The Martian Disaster.

'The landing had gone badly. The rocket was tilted at an odd angle. Tommy, the pilot, knew the rocket would never fly again. He knew, the return to earth that had been planned and practiced for, before the mission started, had been a useless exercise.'

I wrote Friday night, until I fell asleep early in the morning. I woke up, ate breakfast, and I went back to writing all day. I wrote Saturday night into early Sunday morning, and after I woke up late Sunday, I wrote until I finished, 'The Martian Disaster.'

I had filled one standard size composition book, except for two pages. That should impress Tommy, I thought. I was impressed. I didn't know I knew enough words to fill a composition book.

When my bus let us out in the front of the school, I walked to the other side of the school. I had a plan. I wouldn't meet Tommy to walk and talk that morning. I'd steer clear of Tommy, until the bell rang to announce it was time first period started. I'd wait a minute, so Tommy would be in his seat, and as I walked up the row between our desks, I dropped the story on his desk.

I went to my desk to sit down. Tommy turned his head to look at me. I smiled. He looked down at the composition book. He opened the cover. He began to read, resting his chin on his hand. He began turning the pages carefully, fully engrossed in the story.

“Class, turn to page two twenty-five. Today we'll be reading about Hungary,” he said, surveying the class to be sure he had everyone's attention.

One head stayed down, as the rest of us looked toward Mr. Warnock, and his next instruction. He noticed there was one face turned down, and not waiting in anticipation of what came next,

“Tommy,” Mr. Warnock said, immediately honing in on my friend.   “Tommy,” the teacher said a second time.

Moving to the space between rows of desks, he looked toward Tommy, before beginning to work his way down toward my friend's desk, not saying anything else.

I needed to get his attention, before it was too late.

“Tommy,” I whispered. “Tommy.”

I reached over to touch his shoulder.

As Tommy turned his head to look at me, Mr. Warnock arrived on the scene.

Then it happened.

Mr. Warnock seized the composition book with The Martian Disaster written inside.

Oh, no! He can't do that, but he could, and he did.

Turning toward the front of the class, holding the open composition book in one hand, I heard his stubby little fingers turn a page as he stepped back in front of the classroom.

His back remained turned. His head was turned down. His eyes were on my story.

I cringed. My plan had gone seriously wrong.

Tommy looked at me and shrugged, indicating he had no clue why Mr. Warnock had seized my manuscript. I shrugged, to indicate I didn't know why he took it, but I knew disrupting his class was not a good career move.

It was then that Mr. Warnock turned around to face the students.

“Tommy, where did you get this?”

Mr. Warnock knew my handwriting. He knew who wrote it, but he wanted verification before taking action.

In a flash, Tommy turned on me, “It's his.”

I'd been given up by my best friend. I should have known better. I should have had a better plan. I'd spent all weekend writing that story, and now, not only didn't Tommy have it, but I was in dutch with Mr. Warnock, after I'd been doing so well.

Mr. Warnock looked at the composition book, he looked toward Tommy, and then, his eyes were on me.

“Did you write this, Charles?” He asked in a curious voice.

As I slid down in my seat, I positioned myself so the boy's head in the seat in front of me hid my presence.

“Out of sight, out of mind, I thought.”

“Mr. Warnock remembered where I was sitting.”

“Charles, I asked you a question. Did you write this story?”

“Maybe if I had some kind of seizure, he'd forget about the story,” I said. “I was putting off the inevitable. He knew the answer.”

“Tell me what happened. I can't stand it,” Carlton said. “Your stories have more twists and turns than twenty miles of a Philippine mountain road. I understand it wasn't a bright idea to interfere with your teacher's class, but he had to see value in the accomplishment. You could hardly read, and now you're writing stories.”

“I'd been caught in the act of attempting to impress Tommy. I'd put my friend in a very bad position, and with Mr. Warnock taking the story, there was no proof I'd written the story for him. What I knew was, adults are unpredictable, and anything could set them off. I expected to be punished, but the idea of losing the story sucked.”

My plan hadn't included Mr. Warnock intercepting the story, before Tommy got to read it. I'd spent an entire weekend writing it, 

“My plan has flaws,” I said to Carlton. “Of course, Mr. Warnock would notice Tommy wasn't paying attention, but how did I know he'd start to read the story as soon as I dropped it in front of him. What would I have done if Tommy waltzed up to my desk and dropped a composition book in front of me? I'd have immediately opened it to see what was inside. I hadn't considered it, and I lost my story.”

It was poor planning all right, and now Mr. Warnock had The Martian Disaster. How could I have been that stupid? What was Tommy going to think about me now? I'd not only put the heat on me, but I'd put it on him too.

“Charles, I'm speaking to you,” Mr. Warnock said. “Did you write this story?”

Peeking around the boy's head in front of me, our eyes met.

“Yes, sir,” I said, disappearing again.

“It is very good, Charles. I want you to come up here and read it to the class,” he said.

I took another peek to see if he was serious, or if this was some ploy to get me out in the open, and then he'd lower the boom on me.

“Charles, I'm not going to ask you again. Come up here,” he demanded.

I stood, slowly walking to the front of the classroom, and the students watched the drama unfold in front of them. 

It was a fitting punishment. Make me stand up and read my story in front of the class. I had been reading to the same class since the first day of school. At least I knew what these words said. I knew what I wrote, and at least Tommy would get to hear the story, if Mr. Warnock kept it.

As I reached his side, he handed me the composition book.

I watched him move to his desk, taking a hold of his chair, he rolled it over to in front of the windows. He sat down, never taking his eyes off me.

I opened the the composition book, and I began to read.

“The Martian Disaster,” I said, looking over my shoulder to see what Mr. Warnock was doing.

That's when he did something I rarely saw him do. He smiled, nodding his permission for me to take my 8th grade CORE class on a journey to Mars.

“The landing had gone badly,” I read. “Tommy, who captained the disabled craft, knew the rocket would never fly again.”

I stopped, looking at the class. Every eye was on me. I looked at Tommy. He was sitting on the edge of his seat, anticipating what I might say next. I returned to the story, and I finished reading just before the bell rang, ending first period.

I closed the composition book, looking back toward Mr. Warnock to see what would come next, after I read, “The end.”

Mr. Warnock stood to lead the applause.

“That was very good, Charles. Write more stories, and I'll let you read them to the class,” my teacher said.

“Yes,” the class approved of more stories to eat up CORE time.

I'd come to school with a singular idea. I'd drop the composition book on Tommy's desk, and he'd be impressed. He'd know how highly I prized his friendship.

Life being what it is, and me being what I was, the real world got involved, and I'd impressed not only Tommy, but Mr. Warnock, and the class. The same class that heard me stumble over words for months on end.

Today, there was no stumbling. Today I didn't stammer, or hesitate to read the words from the composition book.

*****

“Learning to read didn't make that much of an impression on me. It was relief from needing to read each day. I no longer was asked to humiliate myself. The idea that I was reading all the words in the textbook, told me nothing about myself. Not needing to humiliate myself each morning, meant more than anyone knew,” I said.

“Little changed between the day Mr. Warnock told me I would no longer need to read for him each day, and the day I began writing the story I'd give to Tommy. I wrote the story for Tommy. I didn't know I couldn't write a story, and so, I wrote it.”

“Certainly you had some thought of the progress you'd made,” Carlton said. “Certainly you'd learned that your parents were wrong.”

“My parents were my parents, right or wrong. My life was governed by their angry demeanor. While I could go to Florida and live a carefree life, I couldn't stay in Florida. I couldn't escape them, which meant I was forced to deal whatever they dished out.”

“You made amazing progress between age 12 and 13. That proves you were capable of doing anything you decide to do,” he said.

“In the beginning, I was a kind and gentle child, Carlton. I would do nothing to hurt another person, animals, or things that moved or were alive. To my parents, I was intolerable. It was clear they were stuck with me, even if they didn't want me. I didn't know if I would be allowed to stay in the places where they lived. They were so angry, I still worried they'd get rid of me if they could, and because they couldn't, they intended to make me as miserable as I made them, but I didn't do anything to them,” I said. “My being there wasn't my doing. If given a choice, I'd have opted out, If, in the beginning, and I knew what was coming, I'd have opted out. I had no choice.”

“This was my life, and I grew to fear them. Whatever I was born with that made me unique from all the other people alive, was lost in my despair. Whatever talent I had was lost in my fight for survival.”  

“If my own parents couldn't love me, because I was that bad, who would? I merely wanted to stay out of the line of fire, not make them angry with me for one day. I wished I would grow up as fast as was possible, so I could get out of their way, and they would finally have the happiness they had before I was born,” I said.

“I shouldn't say how sad that makes me. I'm so sorry, Rick. You deserved better, and I can only pray you'll find happiness along the way.”

To be continued...

Posted: 10/09/2020