stuff, including tickets to a Lionâs football game next weekend, but Brodyâs beat-up lighter meant the most.
I cupped my hand against the wind, then lit the smoke. I wasnât scared of being caught by anyone. What was Mom going to say? Smoking is wrong. I knew ex-Dad was at work. He was always at work or pretending to be when he lived with us. I pulled the smoke deep into my lungs and started the long, lonely mile-plus walk toward my deserted house.
Then I saw him by the side of the road: the Scarecrow.
He had his HUNGRY VET, PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS sign out, but few cars stopped. No doubt the ones that did were like ex-Dad, hurling insults rather than pitching pennies.
The cigarette dangled from my lips as I reached into my pockets looking for change. My wallet was free of pictures, love notes from Nicole, phone numbers, or even unused condoms. Those were stored with the
First Times
DVD deep in my closet. I found a couple of quarters, then walked toward the Scarecrow.
With each step, my make-believe dialogue built. I wantedto say,
Man, how did you get like this? What happened to you?
I had no idea what to do with my life, but I was figuring out pretty fast what I didnât want to be. I didnât want to be some nine-to-five GM jerk like ex-Dad; I didnât want to work at some clothing store like Mom where the world orbited around appearance. I didnât know what kind of job I wanted, and sometimes I wondered if Iâd even get a job. Last year in social studies class with Mr. Daunt, rather than reading about the dead civilizations of Greece and Rome, we read about current events. Mr. Daunt would bring in the
Flint Journal
and open my eyes to what was around me. Flint was becoming a modern city of ruins.
I threw my coins in the Scarecrowâs mostly empty can. The echo of a metallic clank rang in my ears, while my eyes focused on him. He looked back at me, and I felt the urge to flee.
With each slap of my shoes against the pavement, the anger within me raced. I ran past Whitneyâs house, where she was no doubt still laughing at Shelbyâs smackdown of me. I ran past Brodyâs house; no doubt he was still at school pumping iron and building up a thirst. I ran down our vacant driveway and didnât stop running until I was inside. I was out of breath, and drowning in rage. I slammed the door behind me loud enough to rattle the windows.
As I charged through the kitchen, I saw money on the table, a message on the machine, and felt the crushing feelings of disappointment, embarrassment, and humiliation closing in from all four walls. Everyone needed a place to be, but I was still shopping for a place to put my anger. Itwas backing up inside me, deeper and darker. Iâd put my hand into the Bunsen burner this morning, but that only provided a temporary release for this fiery fury running through my veins. I took off the bandage and looked at my burned skin; the pain felt right as I reached for the phone to dial Nicole. I needed her acceptance to save me from my terrible day, or her humiliating rejection to push me over the edge.
Whatâs the most humiliated youâve ever felt?
It was the first and last summer I played little league baseball. I was eight, and it was a strangely cold day with a light drizzle on a late June afternoon. I was waiting to hit, or rather to take three swings then sit down, when I noticed my parents in the stands. I felt stupidâboth of them taking the time to watch me fail at sports. Dad looked bored; I could almost hear sighs from where I stood in the on-deck circle. Mom looked worried, like something other than rain-filled dark clouds was bothering her. I tried to focus on taking my swings, which didnât seem to kill the butterflies in my stomach, it just sent them fluttering throughout my body. When the guy in front of me hit a double, I felt even more pressure. It was the last inning, the score was tied, and there were two outs; a hit
I cupped my hand against the wind, then lit the smoke. I wasnât scared of being caught by anyone. What was Mom going to say? Smoking is wrong. I knew ex-Dad was at work. He was always at work or pretending to be when he lived with us. I pulled the smoke deep into my lungs and started the long, lonely mile-plus walk toward my deserted house.
Then I saw him by the side of the road: the Scarecrow.
He had his HUNGRY VET, PLEASE HELP, GOD BLESS sign out, but few cars stopped. No doubt the ones that did were like ex-Dad, hurling insults rather than pitching pennies.
The cigarette dangled from my lips as I reached into my pockets looking for change. My wallet was free of pictures, love notes from Nicole, phone numbers, or even unused condoms. Those were stored with the
First Times
DVD deep in my closet. I found a couple of quarters, then walked toward the Scarecrow.
With each step, my make-believe dialogue built. I wantedto say,
Man, how did you get like this? What happened to you?
I had no idea what to do with my life, but I was figuring out pretty fast what I didnât want to be. I didnât want to be some nine-to-five GM jerk like ex-Dad; I didnât want to work at some clothing store like Mom where the world orbited around appearance. I didnât know what kind of job I wanted, and sometimes I wondered if Iâd even get a job. Last year in social studies class with Mr. Daunt, rather than reading about the dead civilizations of Greece and Rome, we read about current events. Mr. Daunt would bring in the
Flint Journal
and open my eyes to what was around me. Flint was becoming a modern city of ruins.
I threw my coins in the Scarecrowâs mostly empty can. The echo of a metallic clank rang in my ears, while my eyes focused on him. He looked back at me, and I felt the urge to flee.
With each slap of my shoes against the pavement, the anger within me raced. I ran past Whitneyâs house, where she was no doubt still laughing at Shelbyâs smackdown of me. I ran past Brodyâs house; no doubt he was still at school pumping iron and building up a thirst. I ran down our vacant driveway and didnât stop running until I was inside. I was out of breath, and drowning in rage. I slammed the door behind me loud enough to rattle the windows.
As I charged through the kitchen, I saw money on the table, a message on the machine, and felt the crushing feelings of disappointment, embarrassment, and humiliation closing in from all four walls. Everyone needed a place to be, but I was still shopping for a place to put my anger. Itwas backing up inside me, deeper and darker. Iâd put my hand into the Bunsen burner this morning, but that only provided a temporary release for this fiery fury running through my veins. I took off the bandage and looked at my burned skin; the pain felt right as I reached for the phone to dial Nicole. I needed her acceptance to save me from my terrible day, or her humiliating rejection to push me over the edge.
Whatâs the most humiliated youâve ever felt?
It was the first and last summer I played little league baseball. I was eight, and it was a strangely cold day with a light drizzle on a late June afternoon. I was waiting to hit, or rather to take three swings then sit down, when I noticed my parents in the stands. I felt stupidâboth of them taking the time to watch me fail at sports. Dad looked bored; I could almost hear sighs from where I stood in the on-deck circle. Mom looked worried, like something other than rain-filled dark clouds was bothering her. I tried to focus on taking my swings, which didnât seem to kill the butterflies in my stomach, it just sent them fluttering throughout my body. When the guy in front of me hit a double, I felt even more pressure. It was the last inning, the score was tied, and there were two outs; a hit
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