As I played with the cartridge of my fountain pen I listened to Sr Maria rant about some mindless English grammar. Verbs and nouns. I was thinking about GI Joe Action figures. I was tired and hungry. My mind wondered back eight hours before as I watched the drift of snow on the window sill. It looked beautiful and peaceful out there but it was cold. As freezing as our house.

Dad beat mom up again. He was drunk. Mom was drinking too. If she has a few beers she answers back. It gets real ugly when that happens. I didn’t know how to feel because I still thought it was somehow my fault because I wasn’t good enough. If I was, then dad would have stopped drinking when I was born like he said he would. “If you give me a son Connie, I swear to God almighty I will stop drinking until the boy is eighteen years old.”  I was the son who would stop this madness. A son, and he would never drink again. I would hear this every day of my miserable little life. The headliner of every argument. I would pray while hiding under the bed. “Please Jesus kill me. Maybe the next son would be better and mom wouldn’t have to suffer.” He never answered.  I also thought if I was maybe an A student and everyone liked me then Mom and Dad might get along and we could be like the Browns across the street. They ate together and took vacations. Maybe I’d finally be able to sleep in a bed instead of under it.

As I was in my little dream world of “My Life is good” I smelled her. It was the cleanest freshest rosiest God scent.  I will never forget it. I immediately sat up in my seat at attention. I closed my eyes trying my best to be invisible. Then I heard my dreaded name being called. “Okay Mr. Reidy” I looked up fear running from my eyes to my toes. “Yes sister?” I said this as innocently as I could.”First Mr. Reidy, as you can see outside that window, it is not summer out.” All the other children laughed. “Quite,” she shouted at them. “Roll down your sleeves.” I rolled the left one down slowly as the dirt on my cuff became visible. I was devastated.  By now she was hovering over me. Her beautiful black sweet smelling veil draped my right exposed elbow. She was tapping a long ruler in her hand and then sharply smacked it down into her palm. It made me jump.

I would rather take a beating from her then be mentally tortured like this. It was the unknown that affected my brain. A beating aint nothing but a beating, because in a short while the pain goes away. I liked the beatings much more. “Mr. Reidy.” She taunted. “Tell your mother cleanliness is next to godliness.”  “I already did that last week sister.” Her hand smacked the back of my head. “Quiet. Don’t you dare talk back to me.” I thought about the broken washing machine that sat in our apartment for years with the rats running behind it into the hole in the floor. That’s when the ruler came crashing across my shoulder blades. Whack. The tears leaked out of my eyes, but I would not give her the satisfaction of letting her hear me make a sound. She continued to walk the aisle to the front of the classroom.

I was relieved to know that the mental and the physical abuse was over for today when she spun around like a gunslinger and yelled “Ok dirty cuffs. Stand and open up to page 54 in your history book and read from the second paragraph to the class.” I stood, I was in serious trouble. “Let’s go Mr. Reidy we don’t have all day.”  I was shaking like one of those guys in the park that my moms said were junkies.

I turned the book to page 54 and went down to the second paragraph and started to read a few words. “Jimmmm  walkkked  toooo  theeee.”  “I said page 54.”  I looked up at the corner of the page, and it read 54. She rushed down the aisle to me, jerked the book out of my hand and said. Not 45, I said 54. “I thought it was 54 Sister.”  “I didn’t ask you to think Mr. Reidy. I asked you to read.” I wondered, how can someone who smelled so good be so evil?

I read the first sentence and the words were jumping off the page. I was making mistakes. I was shuddering and stammering. The kids were laughing. “Start over Mr. Reidy? Forget how to read Mr. Reidy? ” Trying again, the words got all jumbled up. Someone yelled, “Spit it out.” Everyone laughed. After the third try I closed the book. I sat down. If I had a gun in my hand I would have shot her.  She walked over to me. “Stand Mister.” I did what she said. “What’s wrong?” She demanded?  “I’m sick, I want to go home.” Home was bad, but I could handle it better than this. I wanted to jump out the window and run. “Fine. Go be sick in the principal’s office” I moved slowly. I tightened my back waiting for the smack of the ruler again but it never came. “Move” she said. “Sr. Dorothy Ann’s office.  “Tell her how reading makes you sick.”

Walking out the classroom I heard the snickering behind me.  I walked the long sweet smelling pine scented hallway. I knocked on the Principles door. A nun answered. “Sister Dorothy Ann please.” I was ushered into her office. I was greeted with a “What are you doing here.” “I’m Sick. I need to go home.” “What’s your name?”  “John Reidy.”  “Sit outside, she crowed.” As I sat there I vowed to God that I would never read aloud again for the rest of my life.