While my mind and body caught up with one another, there was another aspect of my life that fell into place in eighth grade. I couldn't help but notice that one boy never joined the laughers. After I read each day, he looked at me sympathetically. At first I dismissed him as just another kid, but he turned out to be much more than that.

Thomas Robert Reynolds was always ready with a quick smile. He was totally non-threatening, no bigger than a minute, a towhead with vivid blue eyes. I ignored his overtures at first but he had this way of turning his chin up into his armpit and looking at me upside down from one row over and one seat forward, and it always cracked me up.

I came to see Tommy as someone whom I could trust and it was the best judgement of my life when I lightened up one day and smiled back.

Within a few weeks we were meeting for lunch and walking each other to this class or that, always talking, talking, talking. It was then that I realized Tommy and I were friends.

Between the first and second quarters of school, while still being singled out by Mr. Warnock each day, when Tommy took me home to introduce me to his four brothers and sister. That's when I became sure we were friends, although it wasn't something we talked about. It just was.

I walked Tommy home from school 'most every day. I had to be home for dinner by six, which gave us plenty of time for playing ball up until the time the weather became too cold to walk home. Then, each time there was a break in the cold, the bus was forsaken for a trip to Tommy's.

Inside the small house was chaos and confusion. I'd never been around such upheaval but with a half a dozen to a dozen kids talking over each other and doing what teenage boys do, it was pretty outrageous. As much as I dislike disruption, while I was with Tommy, we had little or no trouble finding things to do that filtered out the mad house affect.

It was while on the way home from one of my visits to the Reynolds' house that I decided I had to find a way to let Tommy know just how much he meant to me. He was my best friend after all. I was passing through the Census Bureau parking lot on my home from his house one Friday afternoon, when the idea came to me out of the blue.

Why don't I write a story about Tommy, his brothers, his sister, and me, something heroic and adventurous?

My first adventure in creative writing came about that Friday evening. I wrote all night and into the next day and most of the next night and all day Sunday. "The Martian Disaster" had been born. Even I was impressed with my ability to put down words that celebrated people I was coming to adore. The spell went unbroken until I was done Sunday night.

On Monday morning I was the last kid in his seat. There was a plan and I wanted to be the last student seated. Mr. Warnock looked at me curiously because Tommy and I were always the first ones in our seats, talking away until the very last second.

"Morning, Charles," Mr. Warnock smiled as I nodded in passing, no longer being afraid of the man but holding the manuscript so that he couldn't see it.

I worked my way up the row between Tommy's desk and mine. While passing his desk, plop, I deposited the composition book with the forty some pages down in front of him. Of course he knew something was up, because I had carefully avoided him all morning.

He looked at me first, at the composition book, and me again with a most quizzical expression on his face. He opened it to the first page.

HOOKED!

He was immediately reading the story. He turned back to look at me and smiled broadly to let me know I had succeeded in impressing him. It was only then that I realized the flaw in my otherwise flawless plan. At the same instant Tommy had begun to read Mr. Warnock had begun to teach.

Mr. Warnock was a no nonsense kind of a guy. He knew when he had the attention of his class and when he didn't, and so he was immediately drawn to Tommy, who was otherwise occupied, thanks to me. He called his name two times.

No response.

Tommy had already climbed deep into the fantasy world I had created for him. Mr. Warnock came to our aisle and called his name again.

"Thomas!"

Mr. Warnock recognized the uncharacteristic behavior and so I must figure it was as much curiosity as anger that carried him down to Tommy's seat. He immediately seized the preoccupied student's reading material.

Tommy wasted no time, whirling in his seat to point the fickle finger of fate directly at me.

"It's his," he confessed.

Given up by my best friend. Life can be so cruel, but Mr. Warnock never gave me so much as a second glance. He had seen me with the document when I entered his class and he knew my handwriting, so the origin of the story was never in doubt. He knew I was the transgressor.

His stubby little fingers tore at the pages as he read on the way back to the front of the class. He turned once he reached his desk. He had the undivided attention of his class as we waited for an edict to be handed down.

It was then that he looked up the aisle directly at me.

"You wrote this?" he asked, knowing the answer but still curious about the document's origin.

I eased myself down in my seat so the kid in front of me blocked Mr. Warnock's view of me. After all the time and struggle it took to get on his good side, I was getting what I deserved for showing off for my friend.

"Charles, come up here," he said in that mild and pleasant tone that made it sound like you really weren't going to get it, when I knew I was.

I stayed glued to my seat and all eyes in the classroom were on me, making me feel very much as embarrassed and exposed as I had for all those weeks I had been learning to read. I wanted to escape with no more humiliation than I was already feeling.

"Charles, come here. I want you to read this to the class. It's quite good."

Yeah right, what kind of a fool did he take me for? I had grown to trust him and I even sought him out for approval and praise. Who was he trying to fool? I knew you didn't disrupt his class and escape unscathed.

"Charles, come up here. I'm not telling you again."

This time the invitation was stern. I was trapped between not wanting to be punished any further and not wanting to make matters worse, and so I pushed myself haplessly up out of my seat.

Why did I do this kind of thing?

He'd taken the story. Wasn't that punishment enough?

I was in no hurry in my journey to the front of the class. Tommy looked up, giving me his most apologetic and embarrassed look as I passed.

It wasn't his fault.

I was met with Mr. Warnock's stern blue eyes as he handed me the composition book when I emerged from between the desks. He moved his chair off to the corner of the room by the windows. He sat down. I stood facing the blackboard and his desk, holding the evidence.

"Read," he said succinctly.

I looked down at the penciled scrawl and over at Mr. Warnock for clarity. He waited patiently, arms folded across his chest. I turned while nervously staring down at my words.

"The Martian Disaster"

"The landing went badly and by the tilt of the craft, Tommy knew it would never fly again. The closest rescue would be three months or more out but the air and food would be gone long before that. He looked at the monitor for evidence that the mountainous terrain might support human life. It seemed barren and the hopes of long term survival were bleak at best."

I stopped and looked to my right at Mr. Warnock. He was listening carefully. I looked out over the class and had their undivided attention. I took them all with me on a journey into space.

Mr. Warnock led the applause once I finished. Everyone seemed pleased to have the break from our usual class assignments. It left me feeling unexpectedly good about myself. When I looked at Tommy, he smiled broadly, and I felt even better.

Mission accomplished.

"You're a fine storyteller, Charles. I want you to write more and I'll let you read them to the class. Thank you."

"Yeah," came a chorus from the class.

My story was a hit and he was a man of his word. I wrote two more stories that year and Mr. Warnock stopped class each time I showed up with one, pulled his chair to one side, and listened with the rest of the class. It was a potent power I'd found in words. They'd been the source of anguish for so long that this gave me an even greater appreciation for them, and once I left Mr. Warnock's class I often wrote for my own pleasure.

It was a lovely time for me to be alive. I could do no wrong. Little did I know how short-lived happiness can be. It's not that things could ever go back to the way they were; it's just that life can become complicated fast and without warning. Just as everything was perfect, it all changed in a day and you never know where change will lead.

I only knew I hated the changes as much as I had ever hated anything. I had found my place in the world and nothing could tear me away from it. Nothing short of the Prince George's County School Board, that is.

My biggest ally would break the news to me. Mr. Q., the man who started it all, would be the one to burst my bubble. Gym was the easiest place for me to be, because of Mr. Q's attention.

So it was inconceivable that Mr. Q would be the bearer of bad tidings or that he would announce to me that there were ill winds swiftly and deliberately blowing my way. Along with the bad news, he further complicated things by asking me to make him a promise.

It was after class on a rainy May day. He intercepted me as I headed for the locker room.

"Charles, see me before you go to your next class."

"Yes, sir," I said, hanging on the words and his somber invitation.

I dressed without a shower and headed toward his office. Had I done something wrong? He directed me to a door that led to the outside.

I didn't like the intrigue.

"You've heard the news?"

"What news?" I replied.

"I should have known. Come here. We need to talk," he said, moving me out into the rain and toward the athletic field that separated Suitland's senior and junior high schools.

This did not set well with me. Where were we going? Why didn't he just say what he had to say? For the first time I didn't want to talk to him. A very strange feeling took hold of me. His arm was over my shoulder as he moved me closer to the athletic field, out beyond all the teachers' parked cars as the rain soaked my hair.

What was going on?

"Charles, I want you to promise me something," he said, turning me so my eyes were looking into the deep brown of his eyes and his nose was almost touching mine.

I knew this was how he made sure I was paying attention to him.

"Yes, sir," I said, not wanting to commit to anything just then.

"When you get up there," he said, turning me by my shoulders so I was facing the high school that loomed in the distance. "Once you get up there, Charles, I want you to promise me you'll run track."

"Up there? That's a long time from now. I don't want to promise anything that far away, Mr. Q," I said, feeling the bottom tumbling out of my stomach, feeling as if I might suddenly be about to plunge into the abyss.

"Why?" I asked, looking back at him over my shoulder and not sure if I wanted to know why.

"Our time together is almost done. I want you to make use of that speed. I need you to promise me you'll run track up there. Promise me, Charles!"

Mr. Q. was usually subtle and all smiles. He never made me do anything. He always asked me to try something. He always gave me instructions and helped me understand the principles of the activity. This wasn't like any of that.

In fact, he had never asked me for anything. He'd given me the benefit of what he knew and he asked me to do no more than apply it to what I did. Now he wanted a promise that was meant for years down the road. I wasn't even done with the eighth grade yet, and he wanted me to make plans for the end of my tenth grade year.

What was going on?

"Why?" I asked, needing an answer if not wanting one.

"You're going to the new junior high school next year. Stoddard something or other. I checked the list this morning. Your name is on it. You won't be in my class next year. You'll have new gym teachers over there. That's the way it is."

"I won't go!" I exclaimed loudly. I want to go here. My friends are here. My teachers are here. I won't go to another school," I said, sounding like a ten-year old wondering why he was being betrayed.

"You will go because that's the way it is. You are on the list and I want you to promise me that when you get up to the high school, you'll run track. Promise me. I know you'll keep a promise."

He held my shoulder fast so I had to look at his face. I suppose he could see he had just fractured my world. He seemed sympathetic but determined to get the promise.

"I promise, but I won't go to that new school. I'm coming here."

He seemed satisfied with that. He walked me back toward the school. The gentle rain had dampened my hair and hid my tears. It was a silent slow walk.

"I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you. You know I wish you were coming back here, but you aren't. You'll be fine at the new school. You'll make new friends and find new teachers to help you out. Give it a chance, Charles. You'll be fine. Right now, you're going to be late. If anyone says anything to you, tell them to see Mr. Q."

"Yes, sir," I said, humbled by the new burden I carried.

Tommy was the first person I told about the new school and he took it as hard as I did. He immediately had to go to confront Mr. Warnock with the news. We got no relief because his comment was exactly the same as Mr. Q's.

"It's the way it is, Charles. We'll miss you but you're going to the new school. It's written right here. You're on the list."

Losing Mr. Q and Mr. Warnock was tough enough but losing Tommy was intolerable. We talked about ways to get together, and we did, even after I started ninth grade at Benjamin Stoddard Junior High School, where I could walk to school. We didn't see each other often but we weren't going to allow our friendship to end.

I decided to apply myself to getting straight A's. I'd started the previous year as the class dunce, so it was a long reach, but I became known as "the brain" in my new school. It was strange. I didn't feel very smart but my grades were all (As) with a single (B) denying me my goal on each report card I received in the ninth grade. While a mighty improvement over the (C's) and (D's) of years past, I failed to reach the goal I had set for myself.

At the end of the year my parents started looking for a house so we could get out of the apartment we'd lived in for years. The search started in Morningside and up toward Suitland on both sides of Suitland Road. I even rode along to check out the prospective homes. Anything that got me closer to Suitland was fine with me. I had no thoughts that I was about to be hit with another broadside that would almost surely sink any chance I had of returning to Suitland and the people I trusted.

It was in March when my parents turned my world upside down. The new house would be in Clinton. I got no vote in the matter. Clinton was not in the Suitland school district. I would be going to Surrattsville.

This couldn't be. I knew life could be cruel but just as I was about to get back to the place I belonged, it was pulled out of my reach. I was now more than twice as far from Tommy's house and our friendship was at stake. I wasn't about to stand by silently while my world came apart.

Once we were in Clinton, my father drove me to and from Stoddard so I wouldn't need to change schools yet again. This started me thinking and I created a plan to use my newly found intellect as leverage. It would be tricky and, if not handled carefully, I'd be shot down, leaving no hope for me to get what I wanted. My father was already driving me back and forth to school. It created long days. We left the house before six a.m. and rarely returned before 6 p.m., but it set a precedent that I would use to my advantage.

My parents weren't people given to stretching the rules. It was mostly by the book. If I was supposed to go to Surrattsville that's where I'd be going unless there was a pretty good reason for my return to Suitland.

There was another advantage I found in riding to and from school with my father. We started to talk. We'd never had much to say to each other before this. He asked about my classes, my grades, and my interests.

Just before the school year ended, I made my pitch.

"Dad, I've really applied myself this year. I was expecting to go to Suitland and run track. I kept my grades up with that in mind. Surrattsville doesn't have a track team. It doesn't seem fair that what I was most looking forward to in high school is now taken away from me."

My father certainly remembered the bleak years of bad grades and unfavorable teacher's comments, as he stared at me, listening to my plea. I knew how things worked at my house, and if I dwelled on it, I would be shot down at once. I had presented my case. It was up to my father to present it to my mother. There was no way she'd agree on my say so. That day he didn't say if he'd consider it or not, but he had listened.

By August I'd given up all hope of going to Suitland. If he remembered my request, he never let on. I wanted to talk about it. I would beg if I thought it would do any good, but I didn't dare bring it up for fear of sealing my unhappy fate.

It was one night as he stood at the stove preparing dinner that the answer finally got to me.

"I talked to your mother about what you asked. She talked to Aunt Regina and we can use her address. I'll take you in each morning, like we did at Stoddard. Make sure it's what you want."

"Yes!" I yelled, and my father gave me a look back over his shoulder.

It gave me everything and more. Aunt Regina lived two blocks from Tommy's. I'd be at his house every morning. We'd walk to school and we'd walk home together where I'd spend my afternoons.


Send Rick an email at quillswritersrealm@yahoo.com

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