Second half of Third grade

With the move came a new school and new friends. This is also where I found what would later become my focus in life and my love, or passion rather, Writing. As I stated, there were new friends and with new friends came a self realization. I was one of the oddities in the new school. Another oddity was one of my friends I'll call Eyes. Eyes was a young man in my class that would try and be funny by flipping his eyelids inside out. Hence why I chose Eyes as his name. Also, The new school was where I would find someone to rival my feelings for Kate. Normally, I shyed away from blondes as my mother and older sister are both blonde or in their terms a dirty blonde. But this young lady in my class, whom we are gonna call Brittany for now, was everything a fat kid dreamed about in a friend. Skinny and smart. I already had several smart friends and I myself was pretty smart, but as a result of the move, I was falling behind in my studies because I missed everyone I had grown close to. Brittany couldn't stand Eyes because the eyelid thing grossed her out. Prim and Proper, she was always asking us to be mature with things that would make others feel weirded out by us. This prim and proper attitude is what caused my mother to insist this be the young lady I ask to be my valentine. I, of course, had told my mom that the girls in class didn't like me because of me and Eyes being the class clowns. Mom insisted I actually try and have better acting friends because it would attract attention and respect to me rather than everyone see me as a clown all of my life. Sad to say, I should have listened. Anyway, I asked Brittany to "be my valentine" and it seemed to drive a stake through our friendship. She turned me down and I was broken again. No one at my new school knew what I was feeling or hiding inside. A couple of weeks later, I underwent a surgery all young men do, usually a few hours after being born. Well, as all little boys ask for help when they get hurt or something, I asked a staff member at school one day if my "pee-pee" looked normal or infected. Remember, I am a recovering young man at this time and according to this staff member, I was trying to "Sexually Harass" her while she was cleaning the stall next to the one I had been using. This started a point in my life where I would quit asking for help and start struggling with not only school but anger control towards adults as well. Well, I got suspended for a couple of days. I remember being hurt and confused as to what I had done wrong.

During these couple of days, I would do my school work and be completely healed. I became bored being inside and remembered a writing project that was given. The assignment was to write a short story and make it interesting because we would get to read it to a class of our choosing. Well, I chose to write about a bird that we had been helping recover from a broken wing that we had found under a tree. I titled the short story "The Very Sick Bird". In the story, the bird's nest had been blown out of the tree by a strong wind and as a result, the baby bird had broken it's wing. It woke me up at night crying and calling out for someone to help it. Well, we all know there are only a handful of birds that can mimic human speech. A sparrow isn't one of them.

Well, after completing the assignment the day before returning to school, I asked my mom to help me design the cover page. She had been reading and proofreading my assignment and had access to the family computer, which I wasn't allowed to use at the time. She took me to the computer and pulled up the classic Paint program. We found a picture of a bluebird, which was hand drawn, and one of an icepack and a thermometer. Thus the cover was created. We printed it and I used a folder to contain my "masterpiece" that I would turn in the following day.

The next day, I turned in my assignment and during recess, my teacher had a chance to read it. When we came back in, she asked me about the bird for the inspiration and I explained we had found a bird on the ground next to the house after a windstorm. She asked If I understood the difference between blending reality and fantasy, and I replied, "Yes ma'am. Fantasy means it's made up and not real." She was shocked because I had this kind of understanding and most of my friends had no idea even how to spell the word at the time. In a letter to my mother, She would express concern for me because I was so advanced for someone my age or even in the higher grades at this school. So due to this letter, I would be tested the first time for my Intelligence level. Halfway through the test, I became bored and begin daydreaming. My thoughts about the clouds that had castles where fierce Dragons bellowed Fire and Electricity on knights in armor made of gold would prove my imagination was superior to my friends. The test giver said for a 9 year old to have such a high IQ was unheard of. He asked me to read words I wouldn't see again until I was in seventh grade, and to his surprise I struggled with word formation and sentence structure, but only because I didn't have an accurate understanding of the word. The last part of the test was writing about a member of our families Job. Well, I picked my mom. She was the most experienced of the household. Prior to me starting school, mom had worked for a chemical company in Texas, and when she came home had several smaller jobs including volunteering in the sheriff's rodeo as a rodeo clown. To this day however, she insist that she was one of the riders. So I wrote about the rodeo and how it seemed a lifestyle I would love to have. Getting to travel, making people laugh and happy, interacting with not only the crowds and co-workers, but animals as well. I loved the thought of possibly being like the cowboys I would watch at my grandmother's house. Legends such as Gene Autry and Wild Bill and Billy the Kid. Glory for being the best of singers, showmen and the worst. It was what I wanted to do, but something I would lose interest in.

After receiving the results of the test, Mom told me I could stay in the classes I was in or go into another class with fewer people. They were recommended as "Gifted" classes. I turned it down. I wish now I had not, but beggers can't be choosers I guess.

Also this same year, I would have my tonsils removed as a result of staying sick for three months of the school year and get the worst whipping of my life.

My younger sister, whom shares a real name with Brittany, we are gonna call Jezabel or Jez. Jez was with me in the lunchroom one morning eating breakfast and I told her to watch my lunch money so I wouldn't confuse it with money I had asked for for an extra slice of breakfast pizza. She agreed and I left it on the table and went and got the pizza. When I returned, my money was missing from the table. I looked at her and demanded she return the money to me. She lied, saying that there was a black boy that had walked past the table and snatched it off the table. I became enraged for the first time that I could recall. I asked her again and this time a girl had taken it while she wasn't looking. I told her, "Sissy, I'm warning you. Give me back my lunch money or I am not gonna be responsible for what happens." She shot me a look I would say could turn lava into ice water and said, "Make me."

I snapped. I picked up my backpack and wacked her across the face with it. Crying, she flung my money back at me and ran to one of the lunchroom attendees and said I had hit her because she had the same breakfast as me. Later that day, my stepdad would lock me in my bedroom and beat me with a belt to the point of where I could barely sit down at all. I had called my grandfather crying and explained what had happened. He came and got me and took me to the hospital. The doctor gave me a shot and told me it would help me be able to lay on the bed. My grandfather had called the police on the way to the hospital and told them to meet him there. They were just outside the door talking and I heard the officer say, " It happened in the City, It's not our problem." My first thought was please don't make me go back. I don't want to go back. Well, We asked for a city cop from the town I lived in to be sent to the hospital. He came up there and said, "It happened in the county, It's out of our hands." This ignited a fire inside my grandfather. Neither the county or city would do anything about it. So after being released from the hospital, My grandfather took me to his house and called my step grandpa and asked him to bring his Polaroid camera over and take pictures of the bruising on my rear end. He said he would be there in half an hour and bring the camera. He came over and took the pictures of my backside and left them with my grandfather. This would later be used to have custody granted back to him and us removed from mom's house every other weekend for visitation and set the ground work for future cases involving child abuse.

I had to go back to my mom's house as I was still going to school. I lived in my room after supper and baths at night after that. I feel into a depressed state that brought the voices back.

"You know you deserves it."

Crying, I replied, "No I didn't. I did what I thought was right. I hate him."

"If you hate him, why don't you do something about it?"

"Like what? I don't want to get in trouble again."

"You could kill him. You're a kid and a victim. You would get by with it and move back to Papa's house."

"No. No I can't. I can't kill anyone. That's not who I am and I want to go to heaven when I die."

"We will see."

I told no one about these voices because I wanted to be loved and not feared. Not put in a "Crazy House". Little did I know, it was coming. Not soon, but coming.

I went back to school and in the summer we would move, yet again, but still with mom and my stepdad.