This Thorn in My Flesh: One Man's Struggle with Attention Deficit Disorder

By Reed Anderside

This Thorn In My Flesh is a fictionalized account of Albert Newsome, the victim of a unique, and overpowering, attraction (known in the A.D.D. world as hyper-focusing) that has plagued him since childhood. Now, at age forty-six, Albert finds himself faced with possible criminal charges resulting from an incident that could result in possible prosecution. Alberts unique story is told through the eyes of Dr. William Walton, who encourages his patient to revisit those initial traumatic episodes in childhood and continue the emotional journey that will take Albert through his formative years and into adulthood. Dr. Waltons intense study will offer the reader a riveting account of one mans struggle with Attention Deficit Disorder. Was Albert Newsome a manipulative perpetrator? Or was he himself a victim? In the end, the reader must read and decide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 24, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477213568

Reed Anderside

The author, writing as Reed Anderside, served as a counselor for the Department of Rehabilitation Services for twenty-two years. During this time, the counselor began to identify similar components that were present among his clients who had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. As someone who had also grown up with A.D.D., the counselor became fascinated with the unique personalities and traits that were exhibited by his clients, such as forgetting, backtracking, and impulsiveness. This fascination led the author to a more intensive study of other individuals whose lives had also been altered by this genetic disorder. The result of his study is a fictionalized account of Albert Newsome, whose unique, and overpowering, attraction (known as hyper-focusing) became his ‘thorn in the flesh.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I was on my third cup of coffee when the doorbell rang. Sarah and our three children were at the mall taking back some unwanted Christmas gifts. The breakfast dishes had already been washed, and a fresh pot of coffee awaited me in the kitchen. Usually, when someone rings my doorbell it is most likely a first time caller. Those I know fairly well usually knock. As for myself, I hardly ever use the doorbell. A couple of raps to the beat of shave and a hair cut are my way of announcing arrival. So when I heard the doorbell I was pretty sure that the person at my door would be someone with whom I was not familiar. Since I had settled in with a very good book, one of the Spenser series by Robert B. Parker, and was completely relaxed and absorbed in my reading, the interruption was not welcomed.

To my knowledge I had never before seen the face of the man who stood in my doorway that Saturday morning of January 9, 1993, and it did not appear that he had ever seen mine.

May I help you? I asked him.

Are you Dr. William Walton?

Yes I am, I replied. I wasn’t going to invite him in until I had learned the reason for his calling. If he was a salesman we could get this conversation over with quickly, right here at the door. If it was to request my professional services I was simply going to give him my card and ask him to call my secretary, Megan, on Monday to schedule an appointment.

He extended his hand. My name is Albert Newsome. I know that this is rather unusual, my stopping by unannounced and all, but I really would like to talk to you if you have a moment.

Could I please ask what this is about, Mr. Newsome?

The man looked at me for a moment and tears welled up in his eyes. I… I think I’m going to be arrested.

I saw him take off his glasses and wipe tears away, and I made a quick observation that this gentleman did not appear to be one who was accustomed to being in trouble with the law. His dress was neat, his manners seemed well bred, and his response was that of someone who was very embarrassed about making such an admission. Furthermore, I could see that he was genuinely distraught. So I decided to invite him in.

I led him into the living room while thinking to myself: If his intentions are harmful, I am alone and putting only myself in danger. And if the man really is in trouble with the law, that pained look on his face is more commonly seen on the victim than on the perpetrator. I figured him to be in his mid-forties because of the salt and pepper hair, which was thinning at the top but was brushed straight back over his head and did a reasonably good job of covering his bald spot.

Although it was a mild January morning here in Mississippi, Albert Newsome was wearing a dark, gray sport coat over a white shirt and black/white tie and black slacks. Dressing so formally on a Saturday told me that this guy was attempting to make a good first impression. Which was another reason I invited him in. I certainly was not in the habit of conducting counseling sessions in my home on weekends, but I figured that turning away a man who had gone to so much trouble to impress me would be a cruel thing to do for someone in my profession.

I took his coat and invited him to take a seat on the sofa. Then I hung his coat on the rack in the foyer and returned to the same chair where I was reading Spenser. He saw the book was opened and watched me place my blue bookmark between the pages and lay it on the coffee table.

I’m sorry I’ve interrupted your weekend, he said. I can only imagine how important quiet reading time must be for a person in your type of work. He took out a handkerchief and wiped his eyes. The reason that I’m here, Dr. Walton, is to see if you might be able to help me. I realize that I should have made a scheduled appointment. But as I said, I think that I’m probably going to be arrested very soon, and it could be as early as Monday. For this reason, I wanted to be able to say that I have already contacted someone for professional help.

I looked at Albert Newsome and tried to predict what type of trouble he might be in. Newsome certainly didn’t seem like a murderer or a rapist. And he didn’t look like an alcoholic. Maybe he was a compulsive gambler. Or maybe he was gay, although it wasn’t a crime to be gay unless the person he was being gay with was someone underage.

What type of professional help do you think you need, Mr. Newsome? I asked.

Well, he said, I’ve gotten myself into a situation and might have broken the law. And if the other parties that are involved decide to press charges, I could be in a good bit of trouble. He was going around in circles and obviously having a tough time getting to the meat of his problem. I knew that if we kept this up, it would be a while before I got back to Spenser.

Mr. Newsome, I hate to sound insensitive, but as you know, I am at home. My counseling hours are Monday through Friday from nine until six, and while I do want to help you if I can, you are going to have to be more specific. I can’t know whether I can be of any assistance unless you tell me exactly what it is you need from me. Why don’t you just start from the beginning and I’ll listen. Then, when I think I’ve heard enough to make an assessment, I’ll share my thoughts with you and we will go from there. Is that fair enough?

Albert Newsome nodded and began his story…

I am presently employed with Ellington Rehabilitation Agency, he said. Are you familiar with Ellington?

Yes, I believe I am, I replied. It’s a private firm that assists disabled individuals in finding employment. You also help them obtain community housing, isn’t that right?

"That’s correct. Both the public and private sector refer our clients and we operate under a sub-contract agreement with the Department of Rehabilitation Services as well as the Department of Mental Health. For five years I served as a vocational counselor for Ellington, and four years ago I became its community services director.

"Two days ago, I drove down to the little town of Magee to check on the final renovations of an old four-bedroom wood-framed house that was built back in the 1850’s, but has not been lived in for almost eight years. It was finally put up for sale back in September and our firm purchased it as a home for disabled workers. My job is to insure that the project is being completed on schedule, and I wanted to make an inspection at a time when the working crew was not there.

It was around 4:30 in the afternoon when I arrived, and when I reached the block where the house is located, I noticed that there was a light on inside. I knew that no one was supposed to be in there because we had it roped off and there was a sign near the front of the property that designated it as a construction site. My first thought was that maybe one of the crew had left that light burning. The house is located on Old Wilson road, which is a dead end street cut off from the main highway by a railroad track and a small creek that continues on up through the center of town. In fact, the closest house to the project home is three blocks away and not even in view from Old Wilson. When I approached the house I noticed that there were a couple of kids inside. So, I drove on past it for a short distance before pulling over and walking back. As soon as I stepped up on the porch and looked through the front bedroom window, I saw two young girls playing house. They were about twelve or thirteen and …

Albert choked up a little as he looked out into the morning sunlight that was shining through my living room window. And when he looked back at me his eyes were tearing up.

Here’s where it gets a little tough for me to talk about, he said.

I nodded It’s alright. Please, go on. And he did.

"Both of the girls had long, brown hair. One was wearing a ponytail and the other girl had her hair pulled back in a barrette. I stood there for a few minutes watching them giggle and run around the room, completely unaware that I was anywhere around. There weren’t even any furnishings in the house, only a workbench and two old chairs that the painters had left. But those two girls were having themselves a ball, pretending to be princesses or pretty young housewives or whatever.

I opened the front door quietly and stepped inside. As I did I heard one of them say, ‘I’m going to have a big house like this when I get married.’ And the other one said, Me too, and then I’m going to meet my husband at the door with a big kiss.’ "

Albert paused for a moment and gazed into my hallway, his mind in obvious reflection.

They were really cute gliding around that room like two Cinderellas and standing on their tip-toes pretending to kiss their imaginary husbands. It was right about then that they turned and saw me standing there in the doorway.

He paused again, looking down at his hands, I suppose I need to tell you about my problem… before I continue, he said.

You probably should, I replied, that is if you think it might shed some light on the rest of your story.

Dr. Walton, I have this compulsion that has plagued me since childhood. It’s something that I’ve never been able to fully control, and sometimes it affects me worse than others. It’s also something I’ve never told anyone about, at least professionally, until now. My problem is that I have a powerful attraction for hair. He waited for some reaction from me, as though I would either restate his problem with some long, technical term and explain it all away, or stare at him with a "My God, you’ve discovered a new type of fetish!" look on my face. But I did neither.

Before we discuss your specific problem in detail, I suggested, why don’t you continue telling me what happened this past Thursday.

"Well, as I said, when I got my first glimpse of the two young girls, the first thing I noticed was their hair. It’s always the first thing I notice about females, the way it hangs down their back or up around their face or pulled back in a ponytail. It really doesn’t matter how it’s done. Hair seems to always turn me on.

"So I asked them what they were doing inside this house. I knew the girls were terrified and I really wasn’t trying to scare them. But all I could think about was their hair and how nice it would be if I could just… just touch it. It was like my sense of reasoning was suddenly taken over by this powerful urge and I didn’t seem to have any choice but to let it control me.

"Both of the girls seemed to be frozen there in fear, so I told them I figured that they were probably just playing around and didn’t intend on bothering anything. When I saw the bench in the corner I asked them to go over there and sit down and we would just talk this all out. But the one with lighter brown hair and barrette began to move toward the door, saying her Daddy would be home soon and he would be really mad at her if she came home too late.

"I was going to let her go, but when she passed me her hair brushed my arm, and before I realized it I had blocked the doorway. After that I knew I had to say something, so I reminded the two of them that they were trespassing on private property and if anything was missing or destroyed here, I would be responsible for it. What the girl had said about her dad was probably true, that both of their parents would soon be wondering where their kids were. But I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Even though I would have never hurt those girls for the world, I had to go on pretending I was upset with them.

"I took the girl with the barrette by the shoulders and gently guided her to a seated position on the bench. Then I stepped back and said something like, ‘I know you two probably didn’t mean anything bad by sneaking in here, but I need a little information from you so I can explain this to the police.’ When the other girl heard the police word, her eyes got really big and she also sat down on the bench. I asked them their names and they told me it was Jenny and Darla. Speaking in my friendliest tone of voice, I tried to relax them by saying we might not need the police if we could just talk about this a little more, that maybe after that we could all go about our merry way. Both of them managed a smile and nodded in agreement.

"Jenny, the one who was wearing the barrette, began to explain how the two of them were playing outside the house and had discovered that one of the doors had been left open. When Darla, the girl with the pony tail, pointed to the back door which led out into the back yard, I was certain that it had been left unlocked by the painters because that was the only door for which they had been given a key. I listened as the girls gave their explanation, nodding my head in assurance that I believed every word they were saying and trying to appear as attentive as possible. But my heart was pounding so loudly that I just knew they both could hear it. I began to move slowly toward them, until I had positioned myself behind the bench on which they were sitting.

When they completed their story I began to lecture the girls like a father-figure, stressing the seriousness of trespassing on someone else’s property, and as I spoke I began gently stroking Darla’s pony tail with my left hand. But my urge became stronger and … I felt myself becoming more excited. Albert’s chest expanded and contracted several times, as if he was having trouble breathing.

I allowed my hands to fondle, watching those thin strands of hair fall over my hands, and it sent chills all through my body. Both of the girls just sat there helplessly expressing their apologies for having broken into my home. Jenny assured me that they didn’t touch anything and Darla nodded in agreement with everything Jenny said. They were completely under my power and realized that there was nothing they could do about it. But I wasn’t an idiot and knew that I would soon have to let them go. I had gone far beyond the point of inappropriate touching; I was now kidnapping two young girls.

Albert started shaking his head slowly back and forth. "But by this time, I was so caught up in the act that I couldn’t stop, even though I knew I was treading in dangerous water. That look of helplessness in their little eyes was causing me to become even more aroused. Before I realized it, I had reached down and placed a little kiss at the very top of Darla’s head. As soon as my lips touched her hair, I felt her tense up. I tried to make it seem paternal and soothing, and mumbled something like, ‘I’m really not upset with you girls. I just want to be sure that you understand the serious of what you have done.’ Something like that. But I could tell that it had frightened her. Jenny, however, remained calm and continued pleading their case, saying ‘We won’t ever come back here again, we promise.’

I gave them my fatherly smile and stroked Darla’s ponytail downward with long, sweeping motions, gently pulling her head back toward me like a mother might do when verbally reprimanding her daughter. I told them that we could probably come to a compromise if they promised never to do something like this again, that I might be willing to forget all about our little incident. With her little neck bent backwards, Darla managed a nod. That’s when my fingers felt the holder in her ponytail and I started pulling it downward. I remember watching her hair fall loosely around her neck. Albert looked down at his hands as if he were trying to relive the memory, It was so darn thick! He muttered this more to himself than to me.

I complimented her on how pretty it was and started stroking Darla’s hair with both hands, trying to calm her down with friendly conversation. She attempted a smile, but she would not look at me. She just kept her eyes frozen on some invisible object straight ahead. I began to move my hands upward through her hair until both of my hands were completely submerged, while Darla sat there quietly and submissively. I did notice that tears were beginning to form on her cheeks, but I just could not stop myself. I remember pulling Darla’s hair back, in a ponytail, and watching it fall loose on her shoulders. I probably repeated this three or four times, I’m not sure how many. Even now… Albert placed his hand to his chest, even now, Dr. Walton, my heart is pounding just thinking about that experience.

I simply nodded and said, Go on.

Well, all of this time Jenny was just sitting there watching me play with her friend’s hair. Right about then, she asked me if they could please go now and repeated what she had said earlier about promising never to come here again. But this time she added, ‘And we won’t ever tell anyone about seeing you here.’ Albert chuckled to himself. I think Miss Jenny had gotten just about enough of my little game. But by this time I was so completely turned on that all I wanted to do now was … He wasn’t sure it was appropriate to say the word in front of me.

I said the word and he nodded.

"And yet I was also driven to let the opportunity last as long as possible. I noticed that Jenny’s hair was held back in a little silver barrette, and I reached up and loosened it. The child never even budged. I watched her long, brown hair fall around her head and … my god, how full and luscious it looked. I couldn’t think of anything else to say but, ‘Wow, you girls do have beautiful hair.’ Then I reassured them again that I did believe their story and felt confident both of them had learned an important lesson. The girls nodded, and I knew that they must have been praying that this would be the end of their ordeal, that I would finally let them go home. Even in my craziness I felt sorry for those girls, sitting there wondering what was going to happen to them next.

I glanced at my watch and saw almost thirty minutes had elapsed since I had discovered them there. Somehow I found the strength to say, ‘I tell you what. Let’s just forget this whole mess and get out of here. What do you girls say?’ Of course, they both agreed, and I suppose that if I had just taken my hands off of them right then, Dr. Walton, I might not be having this conversation with you. But I didn’t. I just had to feel that indescribable softness once more against my face. So I asked them if they would both just give me a little hug. They hesitated, but did consent. Suddenly I found myself pulling them toward me, and before I had realized it, I was burying my face in their hair

Albert took a deep breath, "And when it was over and I had come to my senses, I realized that the two girls were screaming. Without saying another word I let them go and got out of there as quickly as I could. My mind was reeling so fast I could hardly stand it. I must have driven eighty miles an hour the whole way back to Jackson. I knew I had finally blown it and figured that something bad was probably going to happen as a result of this incident. When I got home I went inside and tried to decide what I was going to say in case the girls told their parents. Fortunately my wife, Carol, was at a wedding shower and I had time to consider my options.

Then an idea hit me. I would drive back to Magee that night and arrange the house so that it appeared the girls had broken into it and I had caught them in the act of trashing the place. A few tools would be missing and the freshly painted walls would have marks all over them. ‘See what those little brats did?’ I would tell them. ‘Those walls will now have to be re-painted.’ I would play the part of the pissed off supervisor and accuse the girls of simply trying to cover up their vandalism. I was pretty sure that no one in my crew would ever admit to leaving the house unlocked. As far as any accusations made against me, I had no prior history of child abuse and it would simply be my word against theirs. Sure, my presence might have frightened those girls a little. But I would be adamant in that I had certainly not touched them on their heads… or anywhere else. Those kids had simply made up that story to cover their own little lying butts.

Albert wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. I could have done that.

But you didn’t, did you? I said.

Albert Newsome shook his head. Then he began to weep. I waited until he had composed himself enough to continue.

I just sat there in my living room, he was finally able to say, "and waited for the phone to ring or a police car to drive up; but nothing happened. The next morning when I went into the office, I was given a message to return a call to Eddie Pittman, my crew chief, down in Magee. I figured that one of the girls had finally said something to her parents and they had gone out to the house and talked to Pittman. I returned his call, but all he said was that he had found my clipboard in the doorway of the old house that morning and did I want somebody in his crew to bring it to Jackson for me.

"And then, around 9:00 a.m. I received a call from a social worker, Joanna Geyser, down in Magee. I had met her once before while working on a previous project, and I knew that she was familiar with the project on Old Wilson. Ms. Geyser said that Warren Sledge, an attorney in Simpson county, had just telephoned her about a possible child molestation incident that may have involved one of my work crew. It seems that the parents of two young girls there in Magee had contacted him on the night before and said that their children were involved in some type of incident, late Thursday afternoon out on Old Wilson Road. The reason she was calling was to ask me to come down and meet with Mr. Sledge and the girls so that we could all go out to the house and see if they could identify the person who might have been involved. All they would tell them so far was that the man was white.

I told Ms. Geyser that I would be tied up all that day, but would be willing to come down on Monday morning. Albert wiped his eyes again. That’s why I came by to see you today, Dr. Walton. If I go down there on Monday both of those girls are going to recognize me and I will probably be arrested. Of course I guess I still could say that it was my word against theirs.

Sure, you could say that, I agreed, but a competent social worker has a way of pulling the truth out of children. She would just separate them and ask each one to tell her version of what happened. And when their stories corroborated it would definitely weaken your word against theirs.

Albert Newsome looked away and said nothing for a moment. Dr. Walton, he finally spoke, I’m not here today just to protect myself from being prosecuted. Obviously, I don’t want to go to jail. And I certainly wouldn’t want my family, my career, and my reputation to be torn apart by all of this. What I want more than anything else in the world is to… he wiped his eyes… is to stop these uncontrollable urges from happening.

I’m assuming this isn’t the first time that you have been involved in an incident such as this, I said.

Albert shook his head. Oh no, not the first time, or the second time, or the third. He started to say something, licked his lips, and began biting the bottom one while he thought about how he wanted to continue.

My whole life, he said, has been one battle after another in an attempt to keep this stupid problem under control. I guess I’ve just been lucky up until now. And yet, even after realizing the seriousness of all of this, my mind’s eye keeps seeing those two girls sitting helplessly on that bench, and my hands stroking their long hair with no resistance. He looked down at his hands. I can still feel Darla’s thin curls touching my fingers when I close my eyes. I can see the image of Jenny’s ponytail being pulled down from its holder and her hair falling onto her shoulders. I can focus on that precise moment and almost bring myself to … Albert closed his eyes and swallowed hard, and I knew that his mind was reliving the incident. When he opened them again, large tears were falling down his cheeks. Albert put his head between his hands and continued to weep, his body shaking profusely with each heavy sob.

I felt totally helpless, unable to do anything but sit quietly and wait while Albert Newsome released the garbage that had been inside him for so long. After a few moments I got up and walked over to the sofa and sat down beside him.

Mr. Newsome, I said, placing my hand on his shoulders, what you have done this morning is take the first step in dealing with your problem. It probably won’t solve all of your current conflicts, but it is a start. What you need to do now is gather your thoughts over the rest of this weekend and be prepared to share them with me on Monday. You may very well have suppressed feelings that are a direct cause for this inappropriate behavior. We will meet in my office at 9:00 a.m. and try to unravel some of those feelings. After we find out what they are, we will then attempt to discover why they have such an overwhelming control over your life.

Albert looked up and smiled for the first time since arriving at my home. He was still shaking, but was now able to speak. Thank you, Dr. Walton, he said. Thank you very much. He stood up and shook my hand firmly, Well, I’ve taken up enough of your Saturday.

In a few moments, he was gone and I was back in my chair. I had refilled my coffee cup and was trying to regain my concentration on Spenser. But the conversation with Albert Newsome kept popping up in my head. It appeared that my support and understanding were what he had needed to give him some peace about his situation, at least for the time being. He would still have Monday, of course, to deal with. But if his meeting with Joanna Geyser or having to face the two young girls again, or even the possibility of prosecution, was weighing on his mind, all of that appeared to have been overshadowed by a sense of relief at having finally revealed his secret. One that he had kept inside him for so many years. I would learn more about his other inappropriate actions when we met again in my office. He could start from the beginning and finally be able to pour it all out. Then he would hopefully begin the healing process that all who suffer from these types of self-destructive behaviors must undergo. And while that was being accomplished we would also deal with Joanna Geyser.

CHAPTER 1

Albert Newsome was almost thirteen when he first discovered his unique fixation for hair. More precisely, it was in the fall of 1961, two weeks after learning that he had flunked the seventh grade. All through that hot Mississippi summer break Albert had been diligently practicing his trombone, waiting in anticipation for August to arrive when he would return to school and become part of the high school band. It was a telephone call he made to the high school band director Jack Sable that informed him otherwise.

Mr. Sable, the young boy said over the phone, This is Albert Newsome. The reason I’m calling, sir, is because most of my friends are receiving information on this year’s band camp and I haven’t gotten mine yet. Since it’s only two weeks away I thought I would just call you and see if maybe you had accidentally left my name off the list.

Newsome… Albert Newsome… Sable repeated several times. Yes, I think I did see your name written down somewhere. Oh yes, here it is right here… hmmm… Albert, there appears to be a small problem. They’ve still got your name on our Jr. High band list. There is also an asterisk by your name which indicates that you have been retained in the seventh grade.

Albert was stunned. But, sir! I passed the seventh grade! I got my report card right here. And Ms. Bond, my last year’s homeroom teacher, has it marked promoted".

Well Albert, I really don’t know what to tell you. I was given a list of all of the students who have been promoted to the eighth grade, and your name is definitely not among them. Of course, it could very well be a mistake. Why don’t you ask your mother to check with the Jr. High principal, just to be sure? However, until I’ve been given approval to add your name to my list, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do about it.

Albert thanked him and slowly lowered the phone. A mistake. Yeah, that had to be it, he thought, and he ran to find his mom who was outside in the garden.

***

That following morning, Ina Newsome and Albert made the seventeen mile trip from their rural community of Hamilton, across the Tombigbee River, into the small town of Aberdeen to meet with Albert’s new Jr. High Principal. Wyman Watkins had been on the job just one week and greeted them with a smile as they stepped inside his office.

Nice to meet you, Ms. Newsome, he said. You and Albert have a seat. Watkins was a short, distinguished man with thick, black hair. He had gentle eyes and a smile that was surprisingly comforting, so unlike the grim, stern face of the tall, thin man that had occupied the principal’s office Albert’s previous year. But Albert was still nervous, for he had never been comfortable talking with male administrators or male teachers. It was not until last year when he drew Coach King that Albert even had a male teacher. His elementary years in the Monroe county school system had been comprised totally of females. Coach King had been a traumatic change for him, walking around the classroom like a drill sergeant and popping a large, wooden paddle against his thigh the whole time. Albert had feared the man from the first time he entered his classroom, and the continuous popping of that paddle had been particularly disturbing.

Albert’s only other male authority figure had been his father, Arnold Newsome, a man of few words, with tendencies more in line with blessed are the peace makers. He had trained his four horses and two cattle dogs to obey him without a lot of conversation, and had raised his three boys the same way, mincing few words other than whoa’p, nope, sit, and stay.

Albert’s mother, Ina, was also a quiet person and a woman not accustomed to questioning authority. While Albert was glad to have his mother there with him that day to plead his case, he knew that Ina Newsome was much more comfortable getting along and going along than coming up to the principal’s office and trying to petition Albert’s school records.

So, Albert, Mr. Watkins said, your mother tells me that there is some discrepancy between what your report card says and what our central records show. Tell me exactly what Ms. Bond told you last year when you received your report card?

Albert was well aware that both his mother and Mr. Watkins would probably doubt his story, but he began trying to recall the exact words that Ms. Bond had spoken.

Well, he said, on that last day of school – it was a half day because we were only there to get our report cards – Ms. Bond gave out report cards to all the other students except me. She told the others they could be excused, so I just sat and waited until she called me up to her desk. I walked up there and Ms. Bond said that I had failed two subjects, math and history. I knew that I was kinda on the line with math, but I thought I had done alright in history, except for the final exam. It was really hard. Then she told me that Coach King, the history teacher, had gotten in trouble for punching one of the football boys, and because of that he made his final so hard that almost every kid in our class failed it. Ms. Bond said that since I really wasn’t given a fair chance to pass the course, she was going to change my report card from ‘retained’ to ‘promoted’.

Albert then showed Mr. Watkins his card, which clearly indicated that a black line had been marked through her initial entry and replaced with the word ‘promoted’. Of course, Albert knew exactly what the man was thinking as he examined the handwriting.

Mr. Watkins, Ina Newsome spoke up in her quiet, passive voice, you don’t think Albert changed that card, do you? If you ever saw his hand writing you would know that he just doesn’t write like that.

Watkins studied the card for a few moments. Ms. Newsome, the problem we have here is that Ms. Bond has now retired and moved away to south Mississippi, and both the coach and principal are gone. All we have now to go by are the central records, which do show that Albert was retained.

But can’t you call Ms. Bond? Albert pleaded. Can’t she tell you herself that she changed my report card?

Wyman Watkins looked at him and shook his head. I’ve already done that, Albert. Ms. Bond has no recollection of any conversation with you about Coach King or his final exam, or changing your report card.

No kidding, Albert thought. What teacher would be dumb enough to admit that she screwed up and forgot to come down to the office and change the official records.

You know, Albert? the new administrator finally conceded. "As principal of this school, I do have the authority to amend your record. However, after reviewing your past grades I see that you have barely managed to pass in each of the last three years. Your math scores are pitifully weak and your science and history do not appear to be much better. To be honest with you, I feel I would do you greater harm by allowing you to continue skimming