Beginning without an end

I have lived life for fifteen years, eleven months, and four days. What do I have to say for it? I could tell you that I have achieved straight A’s on every single report card, with the exception of the third 9 weeks of seventh grade, when I lost my father’s father, a man whom I had never met, yet kept me up late into the night teary eyed for two months. I could tell you that I have white blond hair that has been cut once a month since I was five, except the last three months I didn’t bother to go to the barber, so now it hangs over my eyebrows and I have to flip it out of my eyes. I could tell you that I live with my mother and my sister, two women who claim to know me, even though I have shoved them away from me anytime they came close, yet I have no doubt that both would leap into a bullet to spare me. I could tell you these things, and you could try to figure me out with those few hints. You could form judgments and repeat my words to others, although you wouldn’t hold in your eyes the secrets that I do, and my words would become misleading. So why don’t I tell the story? That way everyone will hear it directly from me. And if, then, they make wrong judgments, I will be the only one to blame for not showing my own self through my words. Then again, why should I even bother telling the story, if no one cared enough to listen to it then, why would they want to know it now?

I would probably be better off to begin the story with my secret, after all, that is the only reason your reading this. But if I told you it now, that would spoil the ending. It’s like eating a tootsie pop, everyone knows that the only reason you eat it is for the delicious tootsie roll in the middle. If you had been given the tootsie roll on the outside of the pop, there would be no reason to eat the not so sweet lollipop. For that reason, I will start at the edges, and we can work our way inward until the gooey goodness in the center is revealed. There is no other way to get to that sweet tootsie, without first waiting as you lick through all the other stuff surrounding. Unless of course, you crack it and break it. But if you have never tried that, I can guarantee the tootsie won’t taste nearly the same without the leftover lollipop stained with bright colors onto your tongue. There really is no way to taste the soft bit of heaven, without eating through everything else. Which is why I can’t tell you the secret now, and you cannot skip ahead to it. You have to know the entire situation, before the secret can taste satisfying on your lips.

Sunlight streamed through the windows on the March day, and my fingertips quivered on the sleek paint of the pencil, itching to be anywhere but here. First block, Mr. Washington, a man who could drag the body of a 500 pound bear through a forest of rugged trees and bramble, but instead chose to teach English at a small town high school and dress in loafers, ironed khaki’s, and a soft pink polo shirt, with thin blue stripes running around and around his muscular torso. His hair was buzz cut, military style, and something about him just seemed all wrong. This macho man wore clothes like his mother still dressed him, even though we all knew the story of how his mother was lost in the same plane crash that killed half of the band Alabama. He was tipping six foot five and his arms stretched the sleeves of his polo, yet he’s gentle with his touch. He could kill a man with his bare hands, but I have witnessed him set free a trapped butterfly with a touch so careful that it flew back and kissed his cheek before returning to it’s rightful home. His voice rolled like ragged mountaintops, but came across as smooth and sweet as honey. He had the body of a convict, with the heart of a young girl. Rumor has it that he had grown up with the army lifestyle, and his Dad treated him as one of his soldiers, doing a hundred push ups and running through obstacle courses daily. Supposedly, Mr. Washington had run away when he was seventeen, and still had kept contact with his mother (until she passed), although his father believed that he was dead because quote, “The boy had the body, but never had the head to make it in a real world.” That’s why he teaches twelfth grade English and works out six days a week, to secretly prove to his long lost father that he could in fact be both. Personally, I think Mr. Washington’s eyes shine far too bright to be hiding any such secrets, and his laughs billows far too loudly to have ever been mistreated by a man whom he has never spoke of. No matter what the true story is, he is a likeable teacher with real world knowledge, and he has a way of communicating with his students unlike any other adult. He does not preach to us the things we don’t know, but instead explains to us the things that we have thought we understood for years, but really knew nothing of. His students admire him, and his fellow teachers wished they had what he possessed; the ability to command the attention in the room, even from the rowdy boys in the back that pretend to be uninterested, but are unusually quiet. The kids simply relate to him, and that in itself is all that we ask. That is why when I had too much inside me to hold back any longer, I went to him to slip the tiniest little detail and I got the help that I needed, but I had not expected the outcome I got. (However, this occurs later in the story.) I suppose the truth isn’t always the most important thing. I don’t need to know Mr. Washington’s history to know that I can trust him, and even if he himself is a lie, even if he is really a woman that has gone through surgery to look like a man, well, that wouldn’t even matter anymore. The only important thing is that he was there when I needed him. He gave me the help that I asked for, and nothing more, no questions asked. So maybe even if someone is a complete lie, if the person they are pretending to be is the person that you need, then what does it matter? Does the truth ever really matter? And would it ever change the way things are going to turn out anyway?

Today, however, not even Mr. Washington can hold my attention. I have a math test next block on calculus equations that I can’t even pronounce. I don’t have any lunch money today, for the third time this week, and I will have to spend lunch period in the bathroom again, to avoid the questions from classmates and teachers; I have never been able to tell a convincing lie. The girl sitting behind me has leaned forward in her chair so much that I can smell maple syrup on her breath every time she exhales. But no, the thing that has attracted my attention lies through the glass of the school windows. I stare desolately into the tree limbs, high, out of this second story window. My mind is far beyond the tree, focused on something so intriguing that not even Mr. Washington’s commanding voice pulls me away. It takes four stern calls of my name, and a jab in my side by the girl with maple breath to bring me back into the classroom, where the tall black man stands in front of me, with a questioning and slightly irritated look. I shrug and look up at him, waiting for him to repeat the question, knowing he will never let a student off without answering, and I am surprised when he turns and walks back toward the chalkboard. If I had blinked I might have missed the tiniest wink that he sent me; certainly no one else detected it. Unsure of what he was thinking, I dragged my wandering mind back to his classroom, only to be suddenly jolted by the abrupt sound of the bell, ringing all too loudly in my ear. Startled, it takes me a minute to gather my things, and I am the last one left in the classroom. “Mr. Walker,” Mr. Washington says, addressing me in a teacher-talk tone, “I’m sorry to have interrupted your deep thinking today.” I walk quickly away, wondering whether I missed the sarcasm in his voice or if his words were honestly sincere.