Cookies in the mud and the Devil incarnate

I went to a small Elementary school in Amesbury Massachusetts. My second grade teacher was a Prison Matron. Her interaction with me was void of emotion unless she was angry. She was a bully. I hated her and she hated me. During a parent teacher conference, she told my mother that she simply did not like me. I was surprised that after that revelation, my Mother allowed me to remain under her control. Perhaps the school was crowded, and lacking the social status we were powerless to stop her.

I have one fond memory of that time in my school experiences. It was on Valentines Day a defining moment of my self-discovery. I learned that I was fond of boys. My attention focused on one classmate, James. I was completely uneasy with girls; I could not tolerate their presence. I would also hatch a plan, to even the score with Mrs. Low. The only evil act I had or would ever dream up. She had it coming; she alone had lit the fuse of my hatred. Her presence was stealing the innocence from me. The ever-gentle quiet David would hurt her, I prayed for her tears. She had forced them on me so many times through the school year. My brother Jon would help me with this calculated plan. We were seldom allies, he was always a bit distant to me, but he would on this occasion stand beside me in my blind anger.

I was a shy slight boy smaller than the rest of the kids and far more sensitive. I remember that when my mother sent me to the first grade at five, a suggestion was made that I wait one more year before beginning. My birthday is on the last day of the year; therefore, I was always a year younger than my classmates. Everyone was bigger than me and I took a beating for it every day. I wished I were home with my mother, watching her Iron and falling asleep to soap operas. I wasn’t ready to be thrust into the cruel and evil mix of children unable and unwilling to defend myself; I would be killed either in the fight, or when I got home. I was on a, no fighting policy strictly enforced by my Mother. I was instructed to ignore those boys. “Just walk away from them”, she would say. My father wasn’t home often enough to give me man advice.

I dreaded each day at school. I hated the survival mode I had to put myself into...Try not to look at anyone and keep out of sight, don’t move too quickly or make a noise. I would pretend bears in the woods surrounded me. I feared the sound of my breathing would bring the fists and kicks, as the inmates were in the exercise yard.

I loved my mother; she spent a lot of time making me feel special. I was the youngest at the time. I hated school. I couldn’t convey the desperate fear, I had become numb to it, and anxiety was my normal state. I would at times arrive home, a swollen lip or bruised eye after having been beaten. I was embarrassed still; I would try to tell her how I was treated there. “Just ignore those boys,” she would say. “Don’t go down to their level,” she said.

What she and a lot of mothers don’t know is you had better kick some ass, and do it soon, make a name for yourself right away. Like a prison, so you take the biggest one you can find and go gorilla on their ass. Then you get a name like “crazy ass kicking maniac” and the bullies will stay away. The school looked like a prison, the only thing missing was razor wire and a shotgun tower. I thought, as I drifted off to sleep with my electric blanket on high. The February winds found their way through the gaps of the windows and biting at any part of skin exposed from the blanket. I was wondering why my Dad was so late, and why Mom was crying in the kitchen.

There was one indisputable fact; Mrs. Low was kind to everyone but me. She knew I was poor. The poor kids parent’s don’t go to PTA meetings and joined in at the School Board. It was clear to my young mind that she treated the rich popular kids with kindness and patience. I was pushed into the corner and talked to firmly. Her eyes like glass shards piercing though me making me feel dirty and unworthy of her presence.

I think her bun was too tight. Maybe I could loosen it up a bit with her chair, that's one is not bolted to a desk, I thought. It would be too heavy. I had tried to push it aside on my way to the chalkboard, a tactic she employed, to demonstrate that I was not paying attention. “David!” “Why don’t you come up and write the name of the president we are talking about?” The chair was way too heavy, I thought as I drifted from her attention for a second. She was on me before I had a chance to recoil. She slapped me across the face. It didn't actually hurt. It was the embarrassment, to be slapped in front of everyone. "You will listen to me young man, write the name of the President on the board!” She screamed into my face. More than a slap, it was a message to everyone watching, I was fair game in the recess yard. It was perfectly acceptable to hit me. I imagined her watching with great satisfaction as I was kicked and punched beside the dumpster. The prisoners need their exercise; I drifted again. Looking outside at the stark branches of winter. Nothing moved, the sky was as gray as the dusty chalkboard. I would like to slap her, God I would love that. Right there in front of everyone. I would be cleaning that chalkboard after the school day. The job did not bother me, but her presence was like standing next to a bomb not knowing what wire to cut. Just one wrong move…

I was defiantly her prisoner. She certainly could pour on the hearts and flowers when a parent showed up. She was evil, and I knew it. I didn't dare to tell anyone because it would be even worse after. Her hate filled eyes would find me wherever I was in the room. Her middle-aged face was grizzled and unyielding, she appeared as a monster to me, worse than anything I could dream up looming under the bed at night. I constantly adjusted my behavior seeking her approval, much like Stockholm syndrome. I would keep seeking her approval; maybe I could make her like me.

The angry cold of February in New England. I woke to the sight of my own breath and the dread of yet another day with the evil witch. My brother, with whom I shared a room, was completely under the covers with just his matted red hair sticking out. I lay there with my mouth agape slowly exhaling, mimicking my dad blowing cigarette smoke. I reached over and unplugged my bothers electric blanket just to piss him off. He would be feeling the cold soon, I laughed to myself. I won't lie I did have a playful evil streak in me when it came to my brother. I was luck I had woken first, as I would have gotten the same treatment.

The window next to my bed was opaque with frost, I was dreading getting out from under the heavy layers of blankets. I pulled my jeans and a shirt from the floor into the bed and under the covers to warm them up. I lay there, a winter morning ritual of waiting for heat of my body to warm the clothes. In a feat of a contortionist, getting dressed under the covers. I did this each winter morning as our home had absolutely no insulation and there was no heat in the upstairs at all.

My sister Cinda was already up, I heard her downstairs with Mom. I could hear the faint frantic conversation; she was going on about being late! I was still and quiet just listing and Mom seemed a little frantic much like my fear she held that emotion as a constant. She was baking cookies. I could smell them, warm and toasty butter and chocolate, golden aromas leaking though the door to our small bedroom.

My brother was still sleeping and I decided to go down stairs. I made my way down the steep stairs toward the kitchen. The house was dark. I wondered why my mom was baking so early in the morning. In the living room I quickly found our only source of heat, a gas furnace like fireplace made of metallic tan sheet metal and a glass front showing a glowing fire. The metal clicked and banged as it came up to temperature. I stood by it slowly spinning in place trying to get an even distribution of heat. I wandered into the kitchen and my Mom was there with an apron and flour all over the counter. My sister was already out the door. I stood there just watching her. She bent down and pulled another tray of cookies out of the oven. I sat as mom gave me a warm cookie and an Ice-cold glass of milk; I sat quietly eyeing the rest of the batch. She kept busy at the sink and I can’t remember if we even talked. Locked in the moment of quiet morning with cookies for breakfast, the time got late and I missed the bus to school. My Mom wasn’t mad. I remember I rushed scrubbing my face and dashing to the front door.

I heard the sound of diesel acceleration and the bus was gone. It was a good long walk to school. I was actually looking forward to school for the first time because we were planning on a field trip to "Strawberry Banks" and learning about the history. I would be on my best behavior today. No looking out the window or daydreaming. I would impress Mrs. Low today and every day until our trip. I decided I would sprint as fast as I could without considering the icy sidewalk. I was late I knew I was late, so I ran with my folded bag of fresh chocolate chip cookies along with my bag lunch. I tripped halfway there, spilling the cookies directly into the mud puddle rimmed with razor sharp ice. The plastic fold over bag was soaked in puddle water and mud. My knees were stinging and my hands were both scuffed muddy and red, I was beginning to bleed. I got up sobbing and embarrassed; the cookies ruined. I was overcome with grief; all that effort that my mom went through was wasted. It was made worse by the fact that cookies in my house were a rare treat. It was hard enough to get a good meal not that my mother didn't try. Our evening was too often Ground mutton patties and boiled carrots and cabbage. It would be a meal served in hell, if you were from England. We were losing ground, money was erratic and my fathers’ drinking was worse than ever. I could feel it every day and see it in my mothers face. Now, ruined cookies and dread took hold. Mrs. Low would not be happy. Not happy at all.

I should have turned around and claimed I was sick, but I was in sight of the school now, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I made a final sprint my chest burning and nostrils sticking in the dry cold air.

I got to school and ran to the classroom out of breath and exhausted. The brown paper lunch bags were all in a box at the front of the classroom. Every one was in third seats, books open their eyes distracted momentarily as she moved in on me. I felt naked, like a fool being so late and obviously fresh from sobbing. The class snickered and whispered and then went quiet after a quick death stare from Mrs. Low. She walked toward me, a massive piece of meat towering over me, as I put the wet brown paper bag in the box, my name lovingly written on the front by my mother. I could feel her behind me; I was a shivering defeated, a hollow useless boy. I felt like nothing. I hoped for just a second that her reaction was to be compassion as drops of blood trickled down my wrist, Mrs. Low liked to make examples, today would be no different. I winced and tried to shut my ears just before she launched into a tirade about my tardiness. I cowered like a beaten dog terrified and wishing I could disappear. “Five times already this year Perreault”. She used my name like profanity. I opened my mouth, I tried to speak tell her about my Mom..."she was.... was, baking cookies…. and how I fell and the mud.” I stuttered, She barked, interrupting me like a lunatic. "You will not be going on the field trip Perreault!". "Tardiness will not be tolerated." I felt my heart drop; I was stuck so severely by those words uttered without a trace of compassion.

People are sometimes curios why I prefer my name pronounced Perreau, the true French pronunciation. Mrs. Low and a host of other equally cruel people used it like a filthy word through most of my life. I find comfort in the soft ending to the French version.

"PERREAULT! Take you seat,” she said with disgust.
I went to my seat and took my books from inside my desk I found a pencil. Dull, no way was I going to raise my hand and ask to go to the sharpener. I chipped away at the wood trying to get enough lead to write. Cold wet and feeling alone in a place full of strangers. Except for one boy, James. He sat next to me and dashed a quick look at me, “are you O.K. Dave” “yeh” I said, holding back the tears. I wanted to run. But she would catch me and add insolence to her list of my crimes.

Mrs. Low was not given to acts of kindness or humanity. She walked slowly; her deliberate gait meant to terrify me was all I could focus on as she made her way toward me apparently sensing that someone had given me a kind word. She would have made an excellent Nazi. She launched into a warning, as she grabbed my arm in a manner that would bring a lawsuit today. "I want silence in this room until I return" she ordered as we made our way out the door of the classroom. I didn’t have to know the direction the way was directed by her firm grip, as her fingers dug into the inside of my tender arm. I should have been on the way to the Nurses office, but she was dragging me her pace, quick and furious. Her destination, the Principals office. She opened the door her grip unyielding she forced me down onto the bench inside the office.

Mrs. Low called my mother on the heavy black rotary dial phone sitting on the unusually tall counter of the "office". I was there to hear it while sitting on the hard bench carved with initials and painted a hundred times. I was sitting against the wall by the door. Maybe I could make a break for it, just run like hell back home. I could tell Mother how bad it was, I would have been in tears easily, real tears. Holding her desperately. I held my eyes open and gave every bit of strength I could gather to holding back tears that waited for the slightest rift in my resolve. I was not going to give her those tears; it was exactly what she wanted. I used everything I has to twist my grief into hatred. I could kill her without the slightest regret. I thought.

Mrs. Low belted into my Mother, "your son is tardy again, and hen will not be allowed on the field trip” she said indignant. She continued, “David is insubordinate and a poor student. "He will not be going on the field trip!" I was thinking at the moment, she had planned this trip with the intention to torture me. "Something must be done with him,” She said. I felt tears welling up but I would not satisfy her. My resolve strengthened, as I was sure that my Mother would not tolerate this one-sided conversation. I waited, knowing what was coming. I had seen my Mother in action, I felt a strange calm come over me as I waited for her retort.

Silly of her to try that on my Mother, I thought secretly, keeping my expression blank. I knew she wasn't going to take that, not for a second. Bullies did not push around my Mother around. Confidence came over me as the phone receiver suddenly blasted from Mrs. Low ear, she pulled the receiver back from her polished bun-head. I could hear the phone actually crackle as my mother launched into a tirade, I knew it was one of her tirades, because Mrs. Low gave her best attempt to interject into the one sided conversation. "But, well, Mrs. perr," I couldn’t make out what was being said but the fierce arrogance of Mrs. Low washed slowly from her face, “Yes Mrs. Perreault” She said. “I’m sorry to bother you, I understand, there is no need for you to come down here, Perhaps it was a bit harsh, 'Yes absolutely, Mrs. Perreault” she said. I don’t know what my mother said, but I knew her fierce delivery and determination would not be overstepped by anyone. I sat there feeling finally justified, protected, and somehow feared by Mrs. Low. I watched the woman, who had no business around children slowly place the phone on the cradle. Her hand was shaking as she released the receiver. Her manic violent episode was over, and she knew more was to come. My Mother would be coming to the School, despite the ever so generous offer from Mrs. Low. There was a need for her to come down to the school. My Mother was furious, it was clear to me. She was furious with Mrs. Low. I pictured her slamming the door to the blue ford station wagon, the tires spinning in the dirt driveway. Hell’s fire was on the way to save me.

I walked escorted by the evil woman, back to the classroom, but she never put her hands on me, not ever again. "Take your seat David,” she said quietly. The room was locked in silence for several seconds as she made her way back to her massive desk. The lesson continued, as I saw Mrs. Low, a bit less confident, and defiantly worried.

I went on that field trip the next day by direct order of the Principal, apparently my mother had not stopped her conversation about Mrs. Low. My mother had come directly to the school bypassing Mrs. Low and laying into the Principal, something I would see her do many years later when I was in High school. She didn’t take shit from anyone when it came to her children. The orders were swift and direct. I would be going on the field trip and I was to be moved to another classroom as soon as possible. My Mother, the Angel that always watched over me, had issued the orders. But even Angels can only do so much; she was grasping to hold onto the family.

I tried to talk to my dad about my day as he arrived home on time for supper. He found my tear filled confessions that I had lost my cookies in the mud somehow amusing. I was not amused.

A few weeks later on a Friday morning my mother managed to get a few dollars together for the gift shop at Strawberry Banks. I bought a Captain’s telescope it was a treasure. I wasn't on the evil witches bus, I had been moved in with another classroom. Mrs. Low couldn't lose face directly in front of me. So she had me moved, I was happy to be beyond her control. The following week, I had a new teacher at the Amesbury Elementary School, but not before a defining moment was forever locked in my mind, Valentines Day. Indulge me as I go back to February 14^th……….

The Angel Gabriel

It’s getting close, Valentines Day and my opportunity to tell James how I really felt about him. The first memory I have when I just knew I wasn't the same as other boys was in second grade. After my horrible run in with Mrs. Low I was secretly waiting in great anticipation for Valentines Day.
Amesbury Elementary had a this most strange ritual on Valentine's Day we would bring in these small cards with small white envelopes. Our parent's had to buy these plastic wrapped boxes of assorted cards and envelopes of Valentine cards.

The assignment was to write one card to each person in the classroom, Boys and girls alike. This meant I had to send a card to Glen, that I hated. I could not even avoid giving one to Mrs. Low. The procedure was to write the persons name on the outside of the card and you could be anonymous or sign your name. I was a bit devilish I suppose, I had my brother Jon write the card to Mrs. Low. My co-conspirator wrote her name on the envelope and on the card I had him write just below "Be Mine" BITCH! I selected the word I knew it was bad; it always made my mother cry when dad was drunk and mean. It was of course anonymous. She probably figured it out my process of elimination, but no proof. I included a second card as a cover; her name on the envelope in my handwriting, my name scribbled under the yours always inside the heart shaped card. I could see her, happy to have a torture chamber and a lead filled Sap like the police carry, she wouldn’t feel anything as your teeth went flying. So with the greatest precision we even used a different color pen. A perfect crime, for a punishment already paid.

I felt a thrill that struck me, one of complete control as I saw the look on her face when she opened it. Her face grizzled up like she smelled shit; she immediately began a careful process scanning the room staring into our eyes with a projection of intimidation and retribution. “Who wrote this” she accused as she walked the room with the card open shoving it into my face, the prime suspect. I just sat in my seat smiled gently and said. "It wasn’t me". She gave her usual look of contempt and moved on. She should have gotten twenty cards like that, the evil cow. I was absolutely pleased. I hope it hurt her I prayed that it would.

No one could know how excited I was to be writing my most special card to James. It was my secret and it was keeping me going. He was blonde and sweet and quiet. Not rough like some of the other boys. I scribbled the majority of cards to the person on the envelope. And left them un-signed. The special card for James was truly special as I collected change all over the house to buy a real card for him at the drug store downtown. I asked my mother for privacy in the card isle, I also bought one for her a genuine card but a convenient way to cover the card I was buying for James. His card was perfect his name was perfectly and clearly written, I had practiced on a notebook about a dozen times. I wrote his envelope "Happy Valentine's Day James Griffith", ever so carefully. Inside I wrote below the pre-printed, Happy Valentine’s Day to a very special friend. Perfect I thought. I added you are a nice friend Thank you, David Perreault. I signed the card perfectly my name clear, so he would be sure it was from me. His, was the only card I signed out of 25. I loved James, his golden blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes were consistent to his gentle quiet way, he always spoke to me so softly and with a deliberate way with every word. He was the image in my mind, what I would see when in Sunday school, they spoke of the Angel Gabriel.

James would always find me on the playground and occupy my time distracting the majority of bullies from my direction. If you were sitting alone, you were dead meat. The teachers were off smoking cigarettes and sitting on the toilet while two of them sat on you while the other fed you dirt. I dreaded recess. But being with James was worth the occasional trashing I received. James would protest and they would go after him leaving me free from their wrath. He took some beatings for me. That is why Valentines Day was so important to me. The card I got from him was said, in a pre-printed message "YOU ARE COOL. James wrote, “I like you David." You are a nice friend.” James Griffith.

I came out to myself when I wrote my first love letter to the adorable James in second grade. I think I missed an entire year of learning, because I spent the entire day looking at him. I wanted to be him somehow. He was so pretty. If a boy can be pretty he defiantly was. He dressed in the best clothes had a perfect floppy blonde hair cut loosely and long in the bangs so every few moments he would toss his hair out of his eyes like a shampoo commercial. I would sit just a few feet away from him admiring him from his well-polished brown leather shoes that perfectly matched his large ribbed corduroy pants with a one-inch cuff laying perfectly against the laces of his shoes. His shirts I could tell were expensive, crisp and pressed tidy alligator golf shirts. I always wanted those clothes that look that he took for granted. My mother would try to put something together, a new pair of pants and a few shirts from k-mart. Bought with the help of my grandmother.

James always smelled like fresh laundry, even after recess. He would catch me watching him, he would flash a subtle smile and slightly close his brilliant blue eyes as he turned back to his work. He knew I was infatuated with him. I knew he liked the attention. Any other boy would have kicked the shit out of me if I gave a look like that. James gave me that same knowing smile and flash of brilliant blue, as he opened the Valentines Day card. I had purchased and written especially for him, every detail was perfect. I didn't want to be too close to him when he opened it, distance would save me if I has been wrong about him. I was fearful of Mrs. Low's wrath, being away from my seat too long. I was lucky to see her standing in the hall occupied with another teacher/beast. I watched as James scanned the room looking for me. I was sitting on the radiator eating chalk like candy hearts carefully selected from the bowl at the front of the room, looking for the white ones, my favorite flavor, Wintergreen. I wanted to get up from the radiator, walk over and kiss him. It would never happen I wasn't that brave but, if we had been alone without the chance of being seen and called faggots for the rest of our lives, It might have happened. Right there. I watched as his finger slid under the glue of the envelope. I watched his reaction intently. He did not give much away, but I saw his beautiful lips part as he exhaled and his eyes scanned the room. He looked directly into my eyes and slowly he smiled. I resisted my instinct to look away; he glanced down at the card as I watched his long full eyelashes lowered slowly as he looked at the card again. He flashed me an open and love filled look. My fear of rejection would not be found on this day. It would be a few days at recess when we were behind the school alone. Avoiding the bullies James Says " I liked your card David" "yours was nice too" I said. "Did you see the card Mrs. Low Got? She was really mad,” he said. I just smiled and looked down at my worn out blue and white low cut canvass basketball sneakers. I felt so terrible; I could not tell him it was I. His presence was so pure; I wanted his memory to remain untarnished by my act of hatred of Mrs. Low. Just as I looked up James was closer, much closer, he put his hand on my shoulder and leaned forward and kissed me. It was short and gentle. Innocent and not sexual. We just looked at each other, locked in a moment of time I am sure he remembers to this day. Nothing was said. We just walked back inside as the recess bell rang. I was blushing for sure and my stomach felt funny, but good. We never kissed again, we kept our game of glances and he made life bearable for that moment, of that time.

I cherished the card from James knowing why. I had found myself in that brief moment of time. Our love pure, as we touched in an innocent gesture of boys. He took the ugliness, pain and self-hatred; and in one kiss he replaced the agony with hope and a new meaning. I cherished his card and I looked at it often. It made me feel so good inside. His eyes like a beacon of light, lead me to my own heart. I could never be as good as him; my heart was ignited and awakened. Forever changed, I was given a great gift, I understood who I was and I was good with that, I was good with me.

James moved away over the summer before the fourth grade. Life was falling apart at the Perreault house. Not just mine but also terrible things were waiting on the horizon, very bad things.

Chapter 2

Angels Crash to earth

We eventually moved from that ranch house in the woods after several years I'll skip for now. We renovated my grandmother's house in the downtown. My Dad new pastime was tempting squirrels to take peanuts from his hands. And again we would watch from the windows quiet as he talked them in. We watched in amazement at his determination. He was peaceful then gentle, quiet I admired it so much. It was like a family secret our own television show watching dad in the back yard. You can't dislike a man that loves animals so much. I have known men who are hunters and admired their prowess. But, my dad, he was like a shaman with them. With us? Oh read on for those tidbits of misery

In my teens he spent more time with the electric poker machine at the corner bar with our food money than he did with us, with me. We moved from the rented ranch home fleeing bill collectors and my brother mark was smart and old enough to get out. My sister emerged herself in studies and my brother Jon was invisible as soon as he had his license. My brother too young to notice what was happening around us was happy to play a game or chase me around the parking lot on his big Wheel. As we slowly spiraled down even further. My father’s drinking was worse the arguments more frequent and the quiet family moments were lost in a general unhappiness. We were about to go supernova.

We had for the most part nothing of any worth and the colonial duplex seemed like a palace to me. It was beautiful, with a garage for my dad’s tools and the normal middle class homes all looking just slightly different, we appeared to be moving forward. Life was good and I spend my days cycling around the quiet street only about a mile from the downtown. I don’t remember much from those times but there wee things to remember. On the other side of the duplex I made friends with a six year old boy named Adam, I was around 9 at the time but he helped to relive the boredom, he was someone new, he has some kind of disorder and always seemed a bit pale, His mother and father were these completely ordinary people, like T.V. people, their house was spotless and on several occasions they would ask me to babysat while they went out to a cocktail party or a dinner or something. I was always hanging around anyway and I was paid a dollar or 75 cents to watch him for a few hours and watch their color television. Adam was hyper active times ten, but I was always able to distract him and calm him down, he looked up to me just because I was older. I was nice to him and always made sure he was in bed by 7:30 I would occasionally check in on him sleeping quietly In his bed or at times he would just fall asleep using my thigh as a pillow and wearing superman pajamas. Usually within a half hour or so he would begin to sweat and I mean drenched soaked hair his clothing stuck slick to his body, he would begin to move his head, and by this time I was standing up watching in disbelief and total horror. Adam would violently shake his head back and forth rapidly as if something was chasing him and he was barley getting away. His head moving side to side like a man running for his life. I would try to wake him and he would scream, no no no no no no…. and he would finally wake sobbing and afraid. I would sit with him and hold onto him putting my arm on his shoulders “ are you ok” I would ask quietly. He never answered me. This happened many more times over the weeks that passed I stopped putting him to bed and let him sit with me eventually falling asleep, then the terrors and the sweating and the violent shaking of his head I had become used to it but is scared the hell out of me just the same, and I told his mother when they would return. Seemingly unfazed they would say sometimes he has nightmares, thanks for staying with him; they would carry him upstairs to bed and pay me for my time. The following Saturday afternoon I arrived home on foot from downtown we I bought some penny candy at the small wood clapboard conveyance store that had faded advertisements from Pepsi painted on the side of the building. The air was cool inside and penny candy was really just a penny and the store had several heavy clear glass jars that clanged loudly no mater how quiet you were trying to be. The man behind the counter was always nice and would throw in an extra piece if he didn’t think you were trying to lift any of the candy. I approached the front of the house with the small brown paper bag filled with Swedish fish and hot balls and licorice sticks, I loved black licorice, and that was a good thing because candy never lasted very long at my house. I didn’t matter who bought it one of my brothers or my sister would snatch the bag took what they wanted and give me back the rest, I was the only one that liked the licorice. Adam was jumping down with excitement, not over the candy bit the new bicycle he had gotten for his birthday. We didn’t get new anything at my house. It was hand me down second hand and if you were lucky you would get a cool silver ringer made of stamped chrome plated steel with a wide paddle to push, always sounded like the ice cream ma to me for some reason. Adam had the fully dresses version of the latest newest coolest bike I had ever seen. It had tassels brightly colored made of glitter embedded plastic and a banana seat. It was obvious that the bike was too big for him bit it had training wheels. He was so happy and watching him ride He smiled better than I had ever seen him before. A week or so went by and he was throwing a tantrum with his father, demanding that the training wheels be removed. “I’m a big boy,” he said “I don’t Need them I can ride perfectly, right Dave,” he brought me into the argument. “Yeh” I said “ I think he is ready, he rode my bike the other day no problem.”. His father disappeared for a few moments and returned with a wrench, a few moments later and a curse word or two and the training wheels were off. Adam eagerly got onto the bike rode about 10 feet and crashed into the hedges across the street. Sobbing I could tell, but determined he got back on the bike and soon he was riding like a pro although he still has some hedge stuck in his hair. That’s how I remember him.

I was still summer and really hot for New England. I was window shopping and wondering where people get money to buy all this stuff. I walked around the corner and stopped at Vermett’ grocery store. I bought an Ice-cold root beer and had the cashier open it for me. I don’t think the twist off had been invented and there has actually been a man on the moon. Hot tired and as usual bored I made my way up the slow incline back to the house. I knew something was wrong. Everyone looked at me with panic like I was about to fall off a cliff. My sister was first to run up to me, tears in her eyes my mind racing my god “what has happened is the cat dead what!” I said nervously. There was a police car that I noticed next door in the driveway. Oh my god no what did he have one of those dreams did Adam get hurt. I thought. My sister took the root beer from my hand and said, “there is something I have to tell you” come sit down” No I barked tell me, I don’t want to sit” I yelled, “its Adam” she said he was hit by a car he’s dead” the words fell flat. She attempted I am sure to say this wit some connection to compassion, but she was overcome and the words barley came out as she burst into tears. We sat not one word spoken between us me my brother Jon and my sister passing h bottle of root beer; we could hear the unbearable cries of grief from Adams mother inside the house. No wood or glass would stop that sound. Hours passed and dusk fell. Exhausted and mosquito bitten we each made our way inside for supper. Adam I learned later had taken his bicycle along the side streets near our home he crossed market street never stopping never apparently looking he was dead instantly. I thought as I climbed into bed remembering Adam and his night terrors that he must have known it in his dream trying to wake up before the truck hit him. I was scared to sleep. What would my dream be, would my connection with him give me some glimpse of my fate. Something was coming for him in those dreams that was one thing you could be sure of I wish he would have told me it was a truck and he was on a bike.

Chapter 3

Angel Swiss Army

It wasn't long before everything went supernova at my house. My mother and father were separated, and we were evicted. The family was on a slippery slope, a steady decent, as I watched helplessly. My fathers drinking and gambling drove us over the cliff, at lighting speed. My sister was ready to start High School and had already moved to live with her father, and my feelings of separation were hitting the peak. The beginning of fourth grade at the Amesbury, Massachusetts Elementary School was more of the same, disaster on the horizon, for some unknown reason I found myself thinking that things would get better. My mother’s mantra, “don’t worry dear, things will get better,” was a constant and at this point, unproven philosophy. I was beginning to believe her, despite the evidence to the contrary.

My mother was crafty and resourceful; She had made sure to register me in with the school using my real father’s name, Perreault. My legal name remained Brickett. “I’ll send you the Birth Certificate later, I can’t seem to find it” she would say, With excellent delivery. Everything in my life seemed wrapped in some lie, I didn’t even have a real last name. The first day of school was hell, made worse by the fact that I could not find my only friend James, the boy with the brilliant blue eyes. The boy I had struck a bond with in the third grade. He could make things bearable, everything was on the brink of destruction, and I needed him. I would soon learn that he had moved away over the summer. There would be no more beautiful James, my ultimate distraction. I was crushed. There would be no more flirting, no more dance of glances, and no one to keep me from the boredom. He would not be there to protect me from the bullies, without James I had no one to admire. Why was everyone abandoning me? Now JAMES! He was my guide, my secret crush, now he was gone. Without him, my final glimmer of hope was lost. I wandered the hallways and the cafeteria thinking, perhaps the rumors were wrong, maybe he was still here. Later, would find out from the kind lady at the office, that James did in fact move over the summer. The words hit me like a hammer, my headache was instantaneous, driven into me like a nail in a coffin. It would be the continuation of a terrible decline. Depression would only touch on the distance of my feelings. I was overwrought, feeling a thin line and unconsciousness creeping up on me,I had so sit down. My ever-present pessimism was louder than ever, IF SOMETHING CAN GO WRONG IT WILL GO WRONG!

Amid my loss and confusion, I couldn’t understand the daily assaults, I was always nice, quiet and kind, I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to fit in, it didn’t matter where. I found some comfort in a new crowd of geeks and misfits of the school. This would only re-enforce my own displacement. I was not only guilty, but now, guilty by association with this band of odd creatures with thick glasses and hearing aids. In high school years later I would find acceptance with the burnouts. It was easy, just smoke a joint with them, or even pretend to, and you were in the club. I did not inhale, terrified that my unwinding thread of sanity would be lost forever. I did not want my body to be discovered in a pool of blood, mangled and contorted, like the ending of a re-education film in health class…” disoriented and insane he jumped from a roof to the cement below.” “Well wasn’t that enlightening class?” the teacher said. Now open your books to page... and I was drifting again.

I arrived for the second day of 4^th grade with my radar on high alert. I kept to myself and avoided eye contact. When danger approached, I could feel it like the instinct of a timid cat. Don’t walk down that corridor they will be waiting for you, I would think. “Hey PERREAULT,” a stranger would yell out from a group of boys in the playground or should I say the proving ground. Much like a Military zone you could step on a landmine at any moment. I knew to stay away from these seemingly friendly faces, the smile was not quite right, I would think. One of the pack would yell out, “why don’t you come on over were going to play kick-ball.” I would carefully watch the rest of them cupping their hands and whispering the plan. Ya, and I know who the ball will be… I would think, walking away quickly. If only I could find a teacher and ask a stupid question, anything to get away from them and be protected. I would think in a panic. I had fallen for that trick before, the betrayal hurt more than the beatings. They would lead me in under the veil of friendship and manufactured smiles, then beat the shit out of me, all the while, Laughing. Recess. This was great exercise! It was excellent training, for these would be used car salesmen or telemarketers. Their lies, a practice for things to come. “You have just won a trip to the Bahamas!, all we need is your credit card for confirmation.”

I noticed how happy everyone seemed, I envied them playing with their friends without a care. I had that with James, just throwing a tennis ball and jumping around. If you were occupied you were safe. If you were alone, the roving gangs of popular bullies (adored by the teachers) would find you. Now, without James, I tried to stay behind in the classroom, and pretended to be reading. “Recess is not optional,” The teacher would say. What the hell is it that I have done to bring this? For some unknown reason, I was a prime target for the fierce aggression of the bullies and sarcastic giggling girls. YOU WANT ME TO GO OUT THERE? My mind screamed. She probably had a bottle of whiskey in her bottom drawer and needed some privacy to guzzle.

The constant assaults were driving me deeper into the quiet place in my mind, a familiar place; I would go there often to escape the harsh arguments at home