Clipped Wings

By Dale Thele

Shane reveals a poignant coming-of-age narrative of growing up in ultra-conservative, north-central Oklahoma in the early 1970s, told entirely from Shane’s teenage perspective. From triumphs to disappointments, his story unravels a tapestry of secrets and lies, exposing deeply hidden skeletons in closets that should never see the light of day. A fictional novel, inspired by actual events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dale Thele
• Release date: Feb 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9780578836645

Dale Thele

Dale Thele is a bestselling American author whose life has been a lengthy series of compulsions strung together by atrocious acts of stupidity due to boredom. After raising heck in a sleepy oil town in north-central Oklahoma for 18 years, he then ventured to Oklahoma City University on a quest for higher education. He quickly learned “higher” education meant to “elevate” one's mind with the aid of either a reefer or a bong, and ample amounts of alcohol. Destiny dragged Dale to Austin, Texas, where he lives vicariously through the fictional characters he congers up, and the far-fetched adventures he writes.Dale began writing in 2008, influenced by authors like Timothy James Beck, Mark Kendrick, Michael Thomas Ford, and Bryan Healey. Dale pens works of fiction which often includes an LGBT character or two.

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Book ONE of The Shane Davison Chronicles

A Novel

Dale Thele

Published at Smashwords by

Fountain Literary Press

Austin, Texas, USA

Copyright © 2021 by Dale Thele

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

ISBN 978-0-578-83664-5

Smashwords Edition

DISCLAIMER

This is a work of fiction. Although inspired by actual events, the reader should not assume any portion of this manuscript is factual. In addition, this manuscript is a period piece taking place during one day: Friday, August 16, 1974. There are numerous references to earlier dates going back to 1956. Being that this is a period piece, some terms and phrases may be considered outdated or inappropriate for the present day. Use of terms and words are intended to give a sense of authenticity and should not be deemed racial or intended to be hateful or belittling by today’s social standards. Be aware of the use of profanity, drug and alcohol use, dysfunctional family situations, implied sexual relations, homosexuality, homophobia and violence; you the reader are hereby forewarned.

Characters in this manuscript, although they may have similarities to persons living or dead, are purely accidental. The principal location where this story takes place is fictional, however references are made to actual locations which existed in the 1970s.

All scenes, dialog, characters, and story setting are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as factual. Other than stated, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, businesses, and locales are altogether coincidental.

"The hardest part in life is trying to show the smile

you know is fake while hiding the tears that won’t stop."

—unknown

Friday, August 16, 1974

Shane Aaron Davison—that’s my name, but you can call me Shane. My mama’s the only person who called me by my full given name. Whenever she’d holler Shane Aaron Davison, I knew I’d pissed her off big-time. I could bet I was in one butt-load of trouble. So, here I am, eighteen-years-old, sittin’ in this shithole of a bus terminal. There’s nothin’ fancy ‘bout this here place. It’s really kinda depressin’—if ya wanna know the honest truth. On top of that, it’s a crappy night—considerin’ the bad thunderstorm and all outside. Under the flickerin’ overhead lights, it looks like it’s just you, me, and that old lady readin’ a dog-eared paperback romance novel in the ticket booth. Oh yeah, and that drunk passed out over on that there bench. If not for the transistor radio in the ticket booth tryin’ to play music between the cracklin’ interference from the storm, all we’d hear is the wind, rain, and thunder. I suppose ya figured I could use some company otherwise why’d’ya come sit next to me. I must look a fuckin’ mess, like I’m breakin’ inside or somethin’. Guess I am at that.

Ya wanna know somethin’? Everything I own in this damn world is jammed inside this here suitcase next to me.

Oh yeah, I also got this bus ticket I’m holdin’ in my hand. The worst thing though, I no longer gotta place to call home. It’s hard to believe, just hours ago, I was on top of the world—I had a family, a roof over my head, a bedroom of my own, a best friend, and a dream. So, what in the hell happened?

Sort of a rhetorical question—ya know—not that I expect ya to answer or anythin’. Besides, what do ya really know ‘bout me? Right?I suppose in the time before our buses arrive, maybe I can tell ya my story. That is—if you’re interested? But, before I start, I gotta warn ya, I’m ‘bout to tell ya some crazy-ass shit. If I hadn’t lived it, I wouldn’t believe it myself. There’s a sayin’ that goes somethin’ like—life can be stranger than fiction. At times I wish my life was fiction—then maybe things that happened might’ve actually made some kinda sense. Ya know?

Bear with me while I tell ya the story that’s become my life. It’s not a bed of roses filled with lollipops and unicorns. It’s not anything I’m proud of—it’s simply my life. I didn’t choose it—it chose me. I wasn’t given a choice in the matter—I was thrown into it. I’m not askin’ ya to believe what I’m ‘bout to tell ya. You can decide for yourself. Besides, I’m tellin’ my story more for me, so maybe I can make sense of what’s left of my life.

I suppose just ‘bout every story starts at the beginnin’, but I’m not so sure exactly where my story begins. So, I’m gonna start where I think things started goin’ downhill. Hear me out before ya go judgin’ me. Like I said, my life’s been some crazy fucked up shit.

So, back to the question I asked earlier, what in the hell happened? Thinkin’ back, I’ve no friggin’ idea when everything started goin’ to shit. Between you and me, I can’t help but feel it all started on one particular day, three years ago…

CHAPTER 1

My hometown

The year is 1971—the entire country’s changin’. Yet, the small North Central Oklahoma town where I was born and raised is stuck in smalls-ville thinkin’. The local powers-that-be are content with the status quo, happy as river clams, as long as no one rocks the boat. My hometown isn’t what you’d call a big city, but it’s not exactly a wide spot in the road either.

Let me tell ya a li’l ‘bout this town I call home. Stay with me here, this is kinda important so you can picture the shithole town I live in. Main Street runs from one end of town to the other. I can literally walk the entire length in less than an hour. I’ve got long legs, so maybe I walk fast. Ya know? I never walk, just to be walkin’, I always have somewhere to go—somewhere to be. I’m kinda given to bein’ that way. Given the time I have, I know where I need to be and my feet just start movin’. I don’t dilly dally ‘round—no siree. If I see somethin’ interestin’ along the way, I file it in the ol’ noggin to go back to it at another time. Ya know, like a to-do list when I got nothin’ better to do. Usually, I end up forgettin’ ‘bout those things ‘cause I’ve always got someplace to be or somethin’ important to do.

Main Street is the longest east/west street. The far west section has a lot of older homes—a bunch of old retired people live there. I reckon that part of town was built first. Those old folks most likely raised their kids, then gave ‘em the ol’ heave-ho when they graduated high school. After raisin’ them kids, they must’ve been too dang tired to move, so they just kept livin’ in those houses.

The middle section of Main Street is what we call downtown. It’s a whole four city blocks of banks and stores, with traffic lights at all four intersections. When I was real li’l, I remember when there were only stop signs. Then, not so very long ago, the business owners got real uppity and put up traffic lights. Those four blocks have been known as downtown for as long as I can remember. There’s a dime-store where they have this big-ass popcorn machine just inside the door. When ya walk by the place, the smell of buttered popcorn makes ya just wanna rush inside and buy up a bag.

When I was a li’l kid, Mama took me there. She’d shop for grownup stuff upstairs, and I’d run downstairs. I can still hear her voice, don’t run on the stairs.

She was always too late. I was already downstairs.

First, I’d stop at the candy counter. A nice lady who smelled like roses always gave me samples, then I’d go to the pet department. The parakeets were fun to watch. Then I’d check out the hamsters. I hardly ever saw any of ‘em, on account they were curled up in furry balls buried under chewed-up newspapers. Then I’d look at the fish aquariums, but they were icky, with green water and tons of slimy shit growin’ on the inside of the glass. I’d get real sad-like when I seen the dead fishes floatin’ on top of the water. Then I’d go check out the new toys. I think the best toy I ever got from there was a four-inch rubber Troll doll with bright yella hair. I bought it with my own allowance money too.

Later, at home, Daddy said, dolls are for girls.

Then Mama said, let him be, it’s what he wanted.

On Main Street, there’s also two department stores, a couple of shoe stores, two ladies’ dress shops and two men’s clothin’ stores. The biggest store in downtown is a name-brand catalog store. Mama said, they’re too pricey, so we don’t shop there. There’s a fire station, a fancy funeral parlor—people say it’s haunted, so I don’t go inside. Across the street is an ice cream place. Ooh, what I’d give for a triple swirl vanilla soft serve cone right ‘bout now. There’s a farm-n-feed store that always stinks like cow shit. I always hold my breath whenever I pass by the place. At Easter time, I used to look in the window at the cute colored baby chickens. Now, that I’m older, I know how they got that way so I can’t fuckin’ stand lookin’ at them poor critters.

Then, there’s a barbershop I used to go to, but now I want my hair to grow out. Mama said, you can grow your hair long, but not so it curls. Damn, wouldn’t ya know it, my hair goes all wavy-like when it’s longer. So, to keep my hair from curlin’ I sleep with one of Mama’s old nylon stockin’s on my head. I learned that trick from my grandpa. But he wears a stockin’ to keep his bald head warm at night.

There’s also a beauty shop, but Mama stopped goin’ there on account she said, the beautician burnt her hair once. So, now she has her hair done by some lady who works from her home.

On the fourth block of downtown is the public library. Across the street are the city offices and courthouse. After that block are a bunch of modern, bigger houses, more expensive than those on the west end. Then Main Street dead ends at a shoppin’ center. They gotta big-ass five-n-dime store, a couple of highfalutin ladies’ shops, a drugstore with a real soda counter, and next door is a locally owned grocery store. There’s also some small, pricey specialty shops crammed between those bigger stores.

Mama and Daddy used to take me to that shoppin’ center at Christmas time to see Santa. We’d go to this red trailer house set up in the parkin’ lot. I’d sit on Santa’s lap and tell him what I wanted for Christmas. Now that I’m grown, I don’t believe in Santa Claus anymore. Shoot—that’s kid’s stuff.

Where Main Street ends, it comes together with a busy north/south street. It’s actually a highway, but someone gave that stretch runnin’ through town a street name. Funny thing though, when ya leave town, the street goes back to bein’ a highway name again. What’s up with that shit, ya know? As I see it, if it’s a highway, give it a highway name. If it’s a street—then it should have a damn street name, why make it all complicated, right? Just leave the gosh-darned names alone and make it easy to understand. I’m pretty sure it’s someone’s job to make up street names. How much ya wanna bet one day they had nothin’ better to do? So, they decided to make up a name for that part of highway runnin’ through town. That’s the government at work—if they don’t got somethin’ to keep themselves busy, they’ll make work for themselves. Daddy said, the government has to find ways to spend our tax dollars or that money will burn a hole clean through someone’s pocket. Daddy’s not a big fan of the government, which I think is kinda funny since he’s employed at the Post Office.

So, now ya got a general idea of the god-awful place I call home.

Oh, but wait, I almost forgot to tell ya ‘bout the two junior high schools. One’s on the east side of town—literally on the other side of the railroad tracks—honest injun—I’m not shittin’ ya. The tracks actually divide the two school districts. Last year I graduated from the newer junior high on the west side. Now I’ll be goin’ to the senior high school, the only one in town, and it’s named the Henry Starr Senior High. Tell me honestly, who in their right mind names a school after a half-breed Indian Territory outlaw, who supposedly robbed twenty-one banks? Ya know? That’s more bank-robbin’ than the James-Younger and the Doolin-Dalton Gangs put together.

The whole damn town’s hellbent on crooks, thieves, and robbers. Take, for instance, the Cimarron River Cafe on the southern outskirts of town. It’s the only half-decent sit-down place to eat. That joint cooks up some damn good barbecue ribs, but it’s a frickin’ shrine to none other than Bonnie and Clyde. Hangin’ on the walls are glass framed photographs and yellowed newspaper clippin’s of the famous couple. Yup, before they got themselves gunned down, they sometimes hung out there. Don’t that beat all?

No matter where ya go in this frickin’ town, some shyster’s name is plastered on the front of a buildin’ or on a street sign. I’ve got my doubts ‘bout a town pridin’ itself on conservative Christian values while bein’ batshit crazy over old-timey crooks. Go figure.

CHAPTER 2

First day of a new school term

Monday mornin’, August 23, there’s not a single, solitary cloud in the sky. It’s startin’ out like most late summer Oklahoma mornin’s. The temperature’s bearable, but the humidity’s sky-high. By afternoon it’ll be hotter than fuckin’ blue blazes.

The walk from home isn’t bad, it’s only ‘bout ten blocks to school. Like I said, this town ain’t all that big.

Arrivin’ at the 1920s Spanish-style three-story high school buildin’, it seems bigger than I remember. Maybe it’s jittery nerves ‘cause I’m startin’ classes here. It shouldn’t be a big deal, after all I’ve been here lots a times for plays, concerts and such in the auditorium.

So, today I’m officially a sophomore. It’s taken all of fifteen years and six months to get to this milestone. I’m at that shitty age where I’m no longer a kid and not yet a bona fide adult. It sucks. Ya know? Yet, I’m expected to know what I wanna do with my life. The only thing I’m certain of is in three years I’m goin’ away to college. No, I haven’t decided on a major nor where I’m gonna go—I’ll decide that later. For now, I’m enrolled in high school college-prep courses. It’s some new program the school board’s tryin’ out. What it means is for the next three years my classes have essentially been decided for me. Some idiot at the school board came up with this college-prep bullshit. It’s supposed to prepare us college-bound kids for college. I say some lame-ass bitch at the school board had nothin’ better to do, so she came up with this fuckin’ crap. Anyways for this semester, I’ve got Algebra—I hate math with a passion, honest I do. Then American Literature and Debate—not too keen on Debate, but I’ll earn a required credit. And I got Orchestra. Did I mention I play the violin? Yup, I started playin’ when I was a third-grader, and last year I was first chair in my junior high school orchestra.

The rest of my classes are American History and Physical Ed. I’m not too hip ‘bout PE, but one semester is all that’s required to graduate. The good thing is next semester, instead of PE, I’ll take Driver’s Ed. I gotta wait ‘til the second semester on account my sixteenth birthday falls too late. Ya see? In this state ya gotta be sixteen years old to get a driver’s license. As I see it, my havin’ to wait for the second semester to take Driver’s Ed is my parent’s fault for havin’ me earlier. Am I right?

Today, I’m feelin’ kinda optimistic. Ya know? Sure, I’ve got like a bazillion butterflies bangin’ ‘round inside my stomach. Who wouldn’t be anxious ‘bout startin’ at a new school? This year, unlike previous years I’ve gotta plan, I’m gonna reinvent myself. Durin’ the summer, I decided I’m gonna be one of those popular kids, ya know, the ones everyone wants to hang with? All my life, I’ve been that pathetic kid who sat in the back of the class. Ya know? The guy who blends in and isn’t noticed? I’m tired of bein’ a nobody, I wanna be a somebody.

Even with a plan, I’m not all that excited ‘bout startin’ a new school year. But, if I keep tellin’ myself I’m lookin’ forward to startin’ a new year enough times, maybe I’ll actually start believin’ it. Yeah, right. Anyways, once I go inside, I’ll see a bunch of students walkin’ the halls. It can’t be much different than any other school day in the past nine years. I’ll recognize a few faces, but most of ‘em I don’t care to know. Over the years, I’ve learned to ignore anyone who treats me bad or calls me names. I don’t particularly like confrontation, so it’s easier to pretend those assholes don’t exist, eventually they go away on their own. So, that leaves me with a list of friends I can count on one hand, leavin’ a couple of fingers to spare. That kinda blows, don’t it? Mark my words, this year I’m gonna change all that, you just wait and see.

They—whoever they are—say high school years are the best years of one’s life. It’s a time to make lasting friendships and cherished memories that stay with one forever. Hey, I know it sounds real lame, but what if they are right? Maybe this first day of high school is the beginnin’ of the change I wanna happen in my life?

So, here goes nothin’—grabbin’ hold of the lever, it’s like some weird-ass electric shock shoots from my hand straight into my brain. Suddenly, I’m havin’ flashbacks of first-time’s goin’ back to when I was a snotty brat kid.

CHAPTER 3

Memories

The first memory is of an exceptionally pleasant sunny spring mornin’. I was in the first grade, everybody was havin’ a good time on the playground durin’ recess. I remember girls in full-dresses, petticoats, and patent leather Mary Janes. There were small circles of girls sittin’ on the cement patio playin’ jacks. Red rubber balls bouncin’ in the air while lightnin’ fast hands scooped up handfuls of colored jacks.

Other girls hopscotched through chalk markin’s drawn on the concrete sidewalk, while another group played Double Dutch with two long jump ropes. In the grassy area beyond the sidewalk, boys tossed baseballs to one another. It was springtime and everyone was feelin’ their oats by the sound of carefree giggles and laughter.

Standin’ apart from all the other kids, I watched everythin’ goin’ on ‘round me. I had no interest in tossin’ balls ‘round, nor playin’ jacks, skippin’ rope, or hoppin’ through chalky patterns drawn on the sidewalk. Instead, I was kinda watchin’ one li’l girl. My heart fluttered, and I was confused by the mixed up feelin’s I got, it was like nothin’ I’d felt before. It wasn’t anything unpleasant. The sensations just scrambled my brain so I couldn’t think right.

I was lookin’ at Diane Erwin, the most beautiful girl in all the first-grade class. Well, that was pro’bly subjective, but to me, she was perfect. I watched her flick her straight auburn hair with red highlights sparklin’ in the mornin’ light. And her smile—she had this gap where her two front baby teeth once were—gave her smile an impish quality. It just made me wanna melt. When she batted her big brown eyes, the gold flecks seemed to twinkle. I liked Diane more than any of the other girls in my class, but I couldn’t put it in words to explain why.

My face started gettin’ all hot.

One boy who always tossed a ball of some sort durin’ every recess—who I didn’t think even knew I existed—suddenly puts an arm over my shoulder. He pulls me in as if we’re long lost pals or somethin’.

I’m not too sure ‘bout the guy.

Hey, buddy, he said, followin’ my line of sight. You kinda like Diane, don’t ya?

I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout, I said to him, instantly lookin’ away from my dream girl.

If you like her, ya gotta let her know.

I don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout. I repeated, ‘cause I couldn’t come up with anythin’ better to say while studyin’ the tops of my brown leather oxfords. To be frank, I’d wanted slip-ons, but Mama said, tie-up loafers are dressier.

I see the way ya look at her.

Shruggin’ my shoulders, I pretended to not be interested.

You gotta kiss her, so she knows ya like her.

Hey, wait. Maybe this guy was onto somethin’. Ya know? I wasn’t all that experienced when it came to stuff ‘bout girls, but this boy seemed to understand how things worked.

Take her by the hand. Go behind those bushes over there. Then kiss her.

Oh, no. I can’t do that. I wouldn’t know what to say.

Ya don’t gotta say nothin’—silly—just kiss her, that’s all.

Are ya sure?

Trust me, would a bud like me steer ya wrong?

I considered what he said. My head spun like crazy. All I could think ‘bout was kissin’ Diane. Then somethin’ snapped inside like a busted rubber band. I marched right straight over to Diane. Grabbin’ her hand, I took her to the bushes. Once we were behind a row of trimmed hollies, I leaned in and planted a quick peck on her soft cheek. Then I ran out from behind the bushes, back onto the open playground.

All the kids were gathered ‘round, pointin’ and laughin’ at me.

My face went hot, I swear it must’ve been on fire. I wanted to run away and never come back.

Thank god, the recess bell rang.

All us kids scrambled back to class. The entire time, the girls snickered, and the boys laughed and made fun of me.

I didn’t say nothin’. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me, but I wasn’t lucky enough to find a crack on the playground big enough to fall into.

Back at our desks, Miss Kimball, our teacher, a very nice lady, told us to read to ourselves from our readin’ book.

Openin’ mine, I started readin’ ‘bout a girl named Jane, and a boy named Dick, and they had this dog named Spot. I liked Spot, pro’bly ‘cause I’d always wanted a dog, but Mama said no, time and time again. I heard no so many times; I gave up askin’ any longer.

Miss Kimball called my name.

Yes? Miss Kimball. I managed.

Will you come with me, please? She said movin’ toward the door leadin’ to the main hall.

Lookin’ ‘round the classroom, I noticed everyone was snickerin’.

One girl whispered, You’re in big trouble, buster, as I got up from my desk.

Swallowin’ real hard, I was scared to death as I followed my teacher to the hall.

Well, hell’s bells, I’d never been in trouble, not at school anyways, at home—yes—but that was all different, so I didn’t know what was gonna happen. I heard tell ‘bout a wood paddle kept in the principal’s office. It had these sharp nails stickin’ out all over it. Once a kid gets a paddlin’ from that thing, they can’t sit for a whole month of Sundays.

My eyes went all watery—that happens when I get scared. Damn eyes always gave me away.

Once in the hall, the closed classroom door separated me and Miss Kimball from snickerin’ classmates.

Miss Kimball told me, it is not appropriate to kiss a girl—what a big fuckin’ word to use with a first grader.

I figured by the tone of her voice, that long-ass word meant I was in a mess of trouble.

She told me to stand in the hall and think about what you have done. Then she went back into the classroom.

I was left all alone in the hall. An empty hall seemed way larger when it’s not packed with excited kids. It made everythin’ all that much scarier.

I did as I was told. The more I thought, the more confused I got. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why it was okay to kiss my gramma on the cheek, but it wasn’t okay to kiss a girl I liked. Besides, I liked Diane a whole lot, almost as much as gramma. All I wanted to do was let Diane know I liked her and hope she liked me too.

My thoughts got all discombobulated. I also thought ‘bout how that boy set me up so I’d get in trouble. He wasn’t a friend. He’d never spoken to me before. How could I’ve been so gullible to have trusted him? It was real shitty of him. Ya know?

Finally, I came to two conclusions.

One—it’s not good to trust others.

And two—it’s wrong to kiss girls.

I promised myself I’d never kiss a girl, ever again. I swore I’d never again be embarrassed like I was durin’ recess. Then, for no damned reason, I started cryin’.

The second first happened two years later. I was in the third grade and I was invited to my first-ever birthday party. Sure, I’d gone to cousin’s birthday parties when all the guests were aunts, uncles, cousins—ya get what I’m sayin’? The party I was invited to was for a classmate—no relatives—that’s what made the party invite so special. It was excitin’ and intimidatin’, all at the same time.

Mama made this huge to-do over the whole affair; you’d have thought I was gonna meet the Pope or somethin’. She went and bought a gift and even had it gift-wrapped real pretty-like at the store. She never got fancy like that for relative’s parties. Since it was wrapped, I didn’t know what was inside the expensive lookin’ wrappin’ paper and curly ribbons. She fussed over the clothes I was to wear. She starched my Sunday go-to-church shirt. The collar was stiff and scratchy—real uncomfortable. Ya know? She even pressed my Sunday suit and polished my leather dressy shoes. I had to get a haircut and get this—I even had to take an extra bath.

Mama primped over me ‘til I nearly changed my mind ‘bout goin’.

I almost wished I’d never accepted the invitation—had I’d known all that crap was necessary for one damn birthday party.

Finally, I was dressed and ready.

Mama sent me on my way with the lovely wrapped gift.

The party was for Judith Lohmann, the most popular girl in the third grade. I could hardly believe she invited me to her party. I got giddy thinkin’ ‘bout it.

The Lohmann’s lived a li’l over five blocks away. I’d never been to her house before, but I kinda knew ‘bout where she lived. One of the kids once pointed her house out from the school playground. She lived across a cement ditch from the elementary school. Judith preferred to go by Judy maybe ‘cause her favorite movie was The Wizard of Oz, it was my favorite too. I didn’t much care for the scary ol’ witch and those damn flyin’ monkeys, but everythin’ else in the movie was okay.

Mama wrote the Lohmann’s street address on a piece of paper and slipped it into my pocket. On the way, I tugged at the stiff collar. Mama buttoned it all the way to the top, and she made me wear a clip-on necktie. Ya see, I didn’t know how to tie a real necktie. Daddy showed me once, but when I tried tyin’ it, it didn’t look anything like it was supposed to, so I settled for wearin’ clip-ons.

Arrivin’ at Judy’s street, I figured I’d best check the address written on the paper—ya know—the one Mama put in my pocket. Searchin’ all my pockets, I couldn’t find it.

I kinda paniced and started gaspin’ for air that wouldn’t come, and my chest got tight. I got lightheaded, and I started sweatin’ real bad. Damn sneaky tears formed in my eyes. They did that unexpectedly sometimes. I don’t always know why they leaked from my eyes. Sometimes they showed up when I was happy, sometimes when I was sad, and sometimes for no fuckin’ reason at all.

I searched every single one of my pockets, but the paper just wasn’t anywhere to be found.

It couldn’t have fallen outta my pocket, could it?

Judy’s party was way too important to miss. On Monday at school, what would everyone say when I didn’t show up at the party? I’d told all the kids I was goin’—even Judy.

Boy howdy, Mama would be really disappointed in me if I didn’t make the party. Especially after she’d gone to all that trouble to get me ready.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t turn ‘round and go back home. But how would I find Judy’s house?

Lost and confused, I had an emotional meltdown while I carried on a heated debate in my head. It seemed, no matter what decision I made, I’d end up disappointin’ someone. I didn’t wanna disappoint anyone.

Outta the blue, I thought I heard my name.

It came again.

Through a blur of tears, I saw someone who looked a li’l like Judy, just two houses in front of me.

The party’s over here, she waved like crazy at me, we’re in the backyard.

Wipin’ the tears on the sleeve of my suit jacket, I ran lickety-split to Judy’s house.

Together, we walked to the backyard.

The place was decorated with colored balloons and crepe paper streamers. There was a long table filled with every kinda chips and dips a kid like me could imagine.

I handed the wrapped gift to Judy, Here, this is for you.

My hands were sweaty, and my tongue didn’t wanna cooperate. I couldn’t get the words to come out. I wanted to wish Judy a happy birthday, but the words didn’t make it from my brain to my mouth. Like a nincompoop, I stood there with my mouth movin’, but nothin’ came out.

Thank you, Judy smiled. This is pretty.

I managed an idiotic smile as my face went all hot-like.

Bein’ that that was the first real birthday party I’d ever attended, I wondered why the girls stood on one side of the yard, in party dresses and hair ribbons. While the boys were on the opposite side of the yard leanin’ against the fence. I sorta felt outta place in my Sunday duds when the other boys were wearin’ regular school clothes.

Ya see, Mama always laid out my clothes for me, she said, it’s important to always wear clean underwear and to look one’s best. I had to be careful to not get my clothes dirty, ‘cause I was expected to wear those same clothes the next day to Church. But not the same socks and underwear, ‘cause Mama made me change ‘em every day. What gets me is why should I put on fresh underwear and socks every day when they aren’t dirty? If ya ask me, I don’t see the point. I suppose Mama must really enjoy washin’ laundry.

Anyhow, at the party, music played from vinyl records on a portable phonograph player set up on the backyard patio. Mrs. Lohmann made sure the food never ran out. There was cake, ice cream, and green glass bottles of soda pop in an ice-filled cooler. I felt like a real grownup, but I wasn’t certain how to act or what to say.

Standin’ off to the side, all by myself, I watched the party like I was watchin’ a TV program—without commercials, of course. When the party came to an end, parents arrived to pick up their kids. That was my cue to leave for home.

Durin’ the walk home, I realized I’d forgotten to thank Mrs. Lohmann and Judy for invitin’ me. Before I’d left home for the party, Mama told me, be sure to thank Mrs. Lohmann.

Shit. How was I to remember all that stuff? I was just a kid. Party shit had a lotta rules. I couldn’t be expected to remember all of ‘em. Ya know?

Besides, I wanted to get away from the party as discretely as possible. I’d had a horrible time. I didn’t see what all the fuss was ‘bout, I’d had more fun at my cousin’s birthday parties. I decided right then and there, parties are borin’ as shit and I’d never go to another birthday party unless it was for a relative.

Oh, did I mention I found the lost piece of paper with Judy’s street address written on it? I’d forgotten Mama slipped the paper in the suit jacket breast pocket, the only pocket I didn’t check. How dumb was I—right?

The third first happened one year later when Diane Erwin invited me to her Halloween party. Yup, we were still friends, even after that whole kissin’ fiasco. I still liked Diane, and she seemed to like me back, but just as friends. I never tried to kiss her again. After all, I’d made a promise to myself and I’m not one to go against my word, ever—well—pretty much. Mama always said, once you make a promise, you must never break it. She had a lot to say ‘bout life, I guess she’d know, she was a whole helluva lot older than me.

I had my reservations ‘bout goin’ to Diane’s costume party. The memories of Judy’s birthday party were still quite vivid in my mind. I didn’t know if I wanted to go through all that disappointment again. But Mama, in all her worldly wisdom, convinced me going to the Halloween party is good for your social development. Besides, Mr. Erwin and your daddy work together at the Post Office. It would be a nice gesture to accept the invitation. I suppose I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Once Mama made up her mind, that was it—period. It was either her way or the highway. If ya know what I mean.

For nearly a week I racked my brain tryin’ to come up with a costume, I wanted to win the prize for best costume—a shiny plastic golden lovin’ cup. I’d never won a fancy prize like that before, and I wanted it real bad. I even cleaned off a special place on my dresser to display it. I just had to win that contest. I just had to.

A couple of days before the party I finally decided on a costume, I was gonna go dressed like a girl. Of course, Daddy rolled his eyes and grumbled somethin’ I didn’t make out, but Mama was like all encouragin’. She dug through her old clothes and found somethin’ from the olden days when she was young. Surprisingly, the poodle-skirt and sweater almost fit me. Ya see, Mama doesn’t stand all that tall, she’s kinda compact. I, on the other hand, had gone through several growin’ spurts. I was nearly the tallest boy in my class and really skinny too. Mama said, you’ll eventually grow into your body.

I had my doubts that would ever happen. I was nothin’ but arms and legs. Ya know?

Anyways, Mama made some alterations here and there to my costume, it fit me real good. In the mirror, I looked a lot like Annette Funicello from the Mouseketeer TV program, except I had short boy hair.

The evenin’ of the party, Daddy came home from work and hands me a brown paper bag. His expression was kinda hard to read, but there seemed to be a hint of mischief ‘bout him.

I opened the bag. Inside was a red curly wig, just like Li’l Orphan Annie’s hair in the Sunday newspaper comics. I put on the wig. Mama brushed it and it looked good. I decided not to wear a mask, instead—I put on a pair of jeweled cat-eye sunglasses like famous movie stars wear. Mama rubbed some rougie-stuff on my cheeks and fire-red lipstick on my lips. When I looked at my reflection, I couldn’t believe how pretty I was. Made me stop and wonder if maybe I should’ve been born a girl.

Anyways, I was certain to win the fancy plastic golden lovin’ cup.

Daddy drove me to the party ‘cause it was gettin’ dark outside.

I didn’t know what to think when he parked the car a half block from the Erwin’s house.

Why are we stoppin’ here? I asked.

You don’t want anyone to know who you are, right?

Yeah. I’m reluctant, but I agreed ‘cause I figure my daddy knew what he’s talkin’ ‘bout.

Get out of the car, walk to the Erwin’s house, and no one will see the car. That way they won’t know who’s in the costume.

I wasn’t sure if Daddy was embarrassed to be seen with his son dressed like a girl or if he was tryin’ to help me win the prize. Climbin’ from the car, Daddy had one more bit of advice. Don’t say too much at the party, you don’t want anyone to recognize your voice.

The plan sounded logical.

I start walkin’ toward the Erwin’s house. Pausin’ momentarily, I looked over my shoulder expectin’ to see our car and Daddy once again. There was nothin’ but an empty space at the curb. He’d already driven off.

At the Erwin’s, Mr. Erwin ushered me inside the house, then Mrs. Erwin directed me to the den where the party was goin’ on. I heeded Daddy’s advice and didn’t say a single word. I kept my lips sealed. I nodded when I was asked a question, and I kept my trap shut. Perched on a bar stool, I could see the entire room, yet remained outta the way.

The costume contest started. One by one each guest’s identity was revealed, all but one—me. No one guessed who I really was in my costume. I suppose bein’ an invisible wallflower at school had its advantages ‘cause no one even brought up my name when they tried guessin’ who’s under the red curly wig. Finally, everybody was stumped. Mr. Erwin gave me the fancy plastic golden lovin’ cup for the best costume. I nearly kissed that trophy; it was so beautiful and shiny.

Continuin’ to play along, I didn’t let on as to who I really was.

I was elated I’d won the contest, but at a cost. I suspected Daddy was ashamed of me for dressin’ like a girl. That made me feel bad, and I didn’t feel much like joinin’ the others. I was no longer interested in the party. Behind the jeweled sunglasses, no one knew my pain nor saw my damn leakin’ eyes.

Not long after the costume contest ended, the party wrapped up. Parents showed up to get their kids. Within a few minutes, all the kids were claimed—all but me. Quiet-like, I sat on the bar stool, never utterin’ a single, solitary word.

I kinda figured Mr. and Mrs. Erwin were concerned ‘bout my identity. They said somethin’ along the lines of, do you suppose the mystery girl accidentally wandered into the wrong Halloween party? Which was plausible, since there were three other parties goin’ on at the same time in that one residential block.

While the Erwin’s discussed what they should do ‘bout me, I figured maybe I should start walkin’ home. It didn’t appear I had a ride comin’. I was convinced Daddy wasn’t comin’ for me.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door.

I’m here to pick up my boy, my daddy said.

I’m sorry, Shane didn’t show up for the party, said Mr. Erwin. But we have an extra little girl we don’t know who she belongs to.

By any chance, does she have fiery red curly hair? Daddy asked.

Why yes, how did you know?

I pulled off my wig and sunglasses. It’s me. Mr. Erwin.

Daddy and the Erwin’s had a good laugh.

After that night, things weren’t the same between Daddy and me. My unfortunate choice to wear a dress and pretend to be a girl drove a wedge between me and my daddy. If only I’d had a crystal ball to have seen what would’ve come from wearin’ a curly wig and poodle skirt, things might’ve turned out differently. As far as I’m concerned, that party cost me dearly. That’s when I decided two things.

One—I’d never go to another Halloween Party.

And two—I’d never dress up for Halloween, ever again.

First-times for things didn’t seem to work out for me. There were many more firsts, but I think those were the top three which began to shape my future.

Now in present-day, I’m ‘bout to start another first—the first day of high school. I know the moment I step across the threshold, it’ll be yet another first in my life. Will it end tragically like so many other firsts?

I hope not.

CHAPTER 4

My high school

Tuggin’ on the brass latch, the door swings open. I pause after crossin’ the threshold. The heavy door closes behind me. Holdin’ my breath, I wait. Damn. I’m not struck by a bolt of lightnin’. The sky doesn’t fall. I’m not sucked into a black hole. Shit. Nothin’ catastrophic happens.

This has gotta be a sign of good things to come. Maybe I’m gonna get what I’ve hoped and dreamt. Could my luck finally be changin’? I hope so. This is exactly what I need. Ya know?

Climbin’ the marble stairs, I look over the banister at another set of identical stairs leadin’ down to the first floor. Then I continue on to the second floor—the main floor of Henry Starr Senior High School.

The familiar scent of pine disinfectant and sawdust tickles my nose. Every public school I’ve attended always smells similar, no matter if it’s elementary or junior high. Now, I can add high school to that list.

Students walk in an unbroken circle in the hall, wrappin’ ‘round the rectangular-shaped buildin’. There are two lanes of walkin’ traffic. One lane moves to the right while the other lane moves to the left, just like drivin’ a car. As I look ‘round, I wonder what kinda chaos would ensue if someone purposely reversed the directions of the traffic? I’ve no plans to find out, besides, students are content with the way things are. The school is like a tiny version of our town, as long as ya stick with the tried-and-true ways there’s no reason to change shit. Why would anyone wanna improve on perfection? I suppose that explains why nothin’ in this town ever changes, it’s just the way things have always been and will always be.

For some reason, maybe ‘cause it’s the main floor of the school, I can’t explain the draw I’ve got to the second floor. Swept into the tide of movin’ bodies, I find myself sucked like a rubber raft into the swift current. I search the flow of student bodies for a familiar face.

Girl-slash-boy couples walk hand-in-hand, whisperin’ to one another. Cheerleaders step in perfect formation as if at any moment they might breakout in to one of their synchronized routines. Snickerin’ at their inside jokes, the cheerleaders are oblivious to the plastic world they’ve come to believe they own and control.

The jocks strut like they got corn cobs jammed up their butts. Pattin’ each other on the asses while checkin’ out only the prettiest of the girls.

The rest of the students are a mix-match of social and economic backgrounds. Movin’ in a mechanical-like fashion, they don’t speak to others outside of their immediate circle of friends. Sometimes with a nod or a half-ass wave, they acknowledge others who are like themselves.

Then on the very bottom of the high school social ladder are the school trouble-makers. They’re the assholes who don’t quite measure up, always bein’ kept behind while every year everyone else moves up a grade.

In elementary school, they were the guys I always tried to avoid, even though some of ‘em were in my classes. They were always older and constantly held back in school ‘cause of their failin’ grades.

In junior high school, they got their own name—shop boys—‘cause the only subject they excelled in were metal shop or woodworking classes.

The high school shop boys are the most intimidatin’ of all. They’re bigger and a whole lot older. Why I’d bet some of ‘em are old enough to legally buy beer. Those neanderthals are a dangerous breed. They got no future, so they don’t give a fuck ‘bout rules or laws. I bet most of ‘em will end up makin’ automobile plates in the state penitentiary.

Geez, those guys give me the heebie-jeebies. They must have a similar effect on other students ‘cause they’re avoided like the plague.

In my opinion—school—no matter if it’s elementary, junior high or high school isn’t much different from the rest of the world. Everyone eventually gets labeled—if ya like it or not, and that label sticks with ya for the rest of your goddamn life. It’s like school defines one’s future role in society—that is, once you leave high school. If ya ask me, that kinda sucks a big one. Ya know? Suppose ya don’t like the predefined role, or if ya were mistakenly assigned the wrong role, what then? Guess you’re mostly stuck bein’ whatever, with no way out.

Venturin’ up to the third floor, I find it’s not nearly as crowded as the second. The traffic is less congested—the people are less sociable and slower-paced, it mostly consists of brains and nerds. I suppose since the library’s located up here, that’s reason enough to attract ‘em. The floor has an entirely different feel to it—sterile and impersonal. I don’t much care for it, so I go lookin’ for the nearest stairs to go explore the first floor.

Once I’m on the ground floor, I find it’s crowded, but not like the second. The traffic moves in the similar circular motion. I occasionally spot a recognizable face, I figure—this must be Sophomore Territory.

From explorin’ the three floors, I find the sophomores dominate the first floor, the soshes and jocks rule the second, and the nerds hide out on the third. I figure my best option is to spend as much time as possible on the second floor ‘cause that’s where the popular kids hang out. I wanna be popular, but I don’t know exactly how to go ‘bout gettin’ there.

Ya see, I’m not sure where I belong in the high school social scheme of things. I’m not popular—not by a long shot, but I wanna be. Most folks pro’bly consider me the nerdy type, but I don’t wear a plastic pocket protector full of ink pens. I’m not a jock—definitely don’t have the required athletic body. I’m tall and really, really skinny, or the term I prefer—lanky.

Through most of my school years, I’ve been taller than others in my classes, and I’ve always been—lanky. In junior high, I put on a few pounds, not that I was tryin’. It just kinda happened all by itself, I figured my body was finally catchin’ up with my height. The weight gain stopped after a couple of pounds, so I was still—lanky. I don’t play sports, and I was always the last to be picked when formin’ teams. Take gym class, for example—when we played dodgeball—I was always the one everyone ganged up on. They’d hit me with all the balls at once to eliminate me right off the bat. I guess I was an easy target, bein’ that I was so tall. Even as a kid, growin’ up in my neighborhood, when team captains chose players, I was always last to be chosen. On the playground, I couldn’t hit the tetherball to save my life. I was always afraid the damn ball would slam into my face, breakin’ my eyeglasses.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to explain ‘bout my eyeglasses. I’ve always wanted fashionable frames, but the stylish frames don’t fit the bony bridge of my nose. Mama says, You inherited your Daddy’s narrow bridge. So, since nothin’ fashionable fits my nose, I end up with nerdy type eyeglasses. Ya know the ones—the lenses are thick like coke bottles and the frames are always thick black plastic with those gross pads that rest on each side of the bridge—they look really retarded. That’s how I came to look like a nerd.

Anyways, for my sophomore year, I’m gonna make some changes so I can be popular. To do that, the third floor is completely off-limits. As for the first floor, I barely know any of my own sophomore classmates. Over the summer they’d turned into different people. It isn’t like I’m friends with any of ‘em. To them, I’m the person who blends in, an honest-to-goodness wallflower, someone who hangs ‘round but’s never included. I admit I’m no social butterfly. I prefer bein’ by myself. It’s safer that way, no one can hurt my feelin’s. I know I can always depend on me. I’ve never disappointed myself so far.

So, to be popular, I figure it’s not gonna be an easy task. I’ve definitely got my work cut out. The problem I gotta figure out is how will I go from bein’ a nerdy nobody to bein’ a popular somebody? I figure I’ll start by infiltratin’ the soshes and jocks kingdom on the second floor. I’ll observe and learn—who knows, maybe some of their popularity might rub off on to me.

At the first stairwell I come to, I decide to go back to the second floor. Just as I start up the stairs, I hit a damn brick wall...

CHAPTER 5

The wall

Precisely where do ya think you’re goin’? the wall says to me in a not so pleasant manner.

I look up at this massive body blockin’ my way. He’s mammoth.

I’m goin’ upstairs. Nervous-like and shakin’ in my shoes, I somehow answer back.

The first wall glances over at the nearly identical second wall standin’ beside him, echoin’ my words. The little shit says he’s goin’ upstairs.

The second wall shoots me a look that makes the hair rise on the back of my neck.

You’re a sophomore, ain’t ya? the first wall says to me.

Yes, I manage to squeak.

First wall looks at the second wall, He admits he’s a sophomore. What a goofball.

Second wall shakes his head agreein’ like a car dashboard hula dancer. A goofball fer sure.

Shit. Why did I even respond? I should’ve said I was a junior transfer student, and they’d never known the difference. Gawd. I’m so stupid.

Sophomores belong on the ground floor, the first wall says to me.

In unison, the hulkin’ walls spread their legs, blockin’ my way. Then cross their muscled arms over puffed up chests. Or at least I think they’re puffed.

Just who or what am I dealin’ with, anyways? Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Geez, Louise.

I’m—goin’ to my—locker, I manage to say, producin’ a piece of printed paper with my locker assignment.

The first wall studies the paper. His lips move as if he’s soundin’ out each syllable in his head. Then he turns suspiciously back to me. Okay. Ya can go to yer locker. Once you got yer stuff, ya come back down here. Kapish? Second floor’s no-man’s-land for you toads.

No-man’s-land, the second wall re-iterates.

I wonder if number two has ever had an original thought of his own.

The walls of Jericho part and I’m momentarily granted permission to pass through. As I move between the hulkin’ nimrods, number one grabs hold of my arm.

Ya come straight back. No goofin’ off. Get my meanin’?

I nod.

His vise grip releases my arm.

Scurryin’ up the stairs, I hear ‘em snickerin’ to each other. Makes me wonder if those guys were born in a barn or what? The both ‘em are dumber than doorknobs.

Once on the second floor, I’m pushed and shoved in the crowded hall. In the short time I was away, the hall got even more crowded. Bodies are jammed so closely there’s no choice but to surrender to the flow. I come to realize I pro’bly should’ve stayed downstairs so to get to my first class on time.

A warnin’ bell sounds.

Total mayhem explodes. Frantic bodies dart and dash in all directions—sorta like balls bouncin’ ‘round in a pinball machine.

I’m forced into a stairwell. The unrelentin’ suction draws me back to the ground level.

Within the pushin’ and shovin’ bodies I’m somehow propelled toward my first class—P.E.

Enterin’ the boy’s gym locker room, a sour stench nearly knocks me over. It stinks to high heaven of sweaty, smelly socks and other undistinguishable odors. Holdin’ my breath, I search for my assigned locker. Up and down the aisles of identical wall-to-wall gray metal lockers I hunt ‘til findin’ mine, in a secluded alcove. Openin’ the locker door, I put my school binder inside. Geez, I’ve been carryin’ that thing ‘round with me since leavin’ home this mornin’. I’ve been protectin’ it as if it’s got top-secret Pentagon papers. Should I’ve been captured by enemy spies, they’d have gotten no national security secrets from me, ‘cause the binder’s full of school supplies. Ya know—notebook paper, cheapo ballpoint pen, and a pencil. I’ve also got this paper bag, which I dump the contents into the locker. Gym shit—tee shirt, gym shorts, crew socks, a pair of lace-up canvas tennies, and the prerequisite jockstrap.

I’m kinda hopin’ I don’t gotta share this alcove with anybody else, since I kinda tend to be modest. Ya know? I can’t take a piss in a public restroom urinal if there’s anyone ‘round. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude or nothin’ like that. If there’s anyone else around, I’ll hold up in a stall with the door latched. Ya see? I’ll wait ‘til I’m all alone in the restroom, then close my eyes and pray for release. If I hear anyone enter the lavatory, even though I’m safe inside the bolted stall, I gotta give up—it just won’t happen. I suppose you can say I’m pee-shy.

While there’s no one ‘round, nervous like, I change into my gym clothes as fast as possible.

The jockstrap’s scratchy. Ya know? Down there. I should’ve asked Mama to have laundered it a couple of times to sorta wash out the new. She usually anticipates stuff like that. But since she’s not had any personal experience wearin’ a jock, how would she know there’d be a problem?

Readjustin’ my junk inside the stiff netted fabric, the boys aren’t happy bunched up like that. I wonder if women get just as miserable wranglin’ their girls into a brassiere?

Alls I wanna do is get back in my comfortable tighty-whities.

Chop. Chop. Gur-r-l-s-s-s. Get a move on. Wanna see ya’ll in the gymnasium. Pronto. An irritable and loud manly voice ricochets off the locker room walls, followed by a long ear-piercin’ whistle toot.

Hustlin’ outta the locker room, I’ve no intention of gettin’ on Coach’s bad side, especially not on the first day of class. Rumor has it, he has a nasty temper. They say one afternoon durin’ football practice a player made a snide remark. Couch threw that player to the ground, supposedly breakin’ the boy’s arm and leg. Then Coach made that player run two complete laps ‘round the field on that broken leg. The team lost their quarterback that afternoon, not to mention a shoo-in for the State Championship title. No matter if the rumors are true or not, I’m not ‘bout to test Coach’s temper.

In my rush to get from the locker room to the gym, wouldn’t ya know it, I crash smack-dab into him.

Sorry, Coach, I apologize.

He looks straight at me. I swear the color drains from his face, it’s like he’s seein’ a ghost or somethin’.

Are you alright, Coach? I says to him.

Couch blinks and shakes his head like he’s clearin’ cobwebs from his mind. Uh—sure—I’m fine, he stammers, starin’ at me with this really weird expression. He flips open a pillbox and pops a tiny white pill under his tongue.

You okay, Coach?

Best get a move on—son, he sounds just as peculiar as the puzzled look on his face.

Yes, sir, Coach, I give a military-style salute, then continue to the gym where I take a seat on the empty bleachers. I’ve got my choice of seats, ‘cause I’m the first to arrive.

Coach Powell swaggers into the gym shortly after me. Impatient-like, he paces the newly waxed hardwood floor in front of me. He checks his wristwatch, then glares in the direction of the locker room. He’s sorta on the chubby side and younger than I expected, especially since he’s coached the Henry Starr Badgers like-forever—maybe even longer.

Scrunchin’ his face in a sour expression, he rubs his stomach. It looks sorta like he’s got bad gas pains or somethin’. His belly hangs over tight-fittin’ shorts—pro’bly cuttin’ off blood circulation. I swear the seams are stressed to near burstin’.

Tappin’ his watch, he turns towards the locker room again. Lookin’ irritated, he blows the whistle so hard his face turns red. Get the lead out gur-r-rl’s—we ain’t got all day, he bellows.

One by one, dark shadows slither from the locker room. Slow and deliberate, these