I've always made friends easily in life, just usually not the ones I was supposed to. The first school friend I can remember making was Donny in 1st grade. I was so short people often thought I was still a toddler and I could already read and write so I ruined the class dynamic right away. Donny was black, deaf and retarded. I had been learning sign language with my mom over the summer while she tutored the deaf for her college. So when I actually saw someone my age signing I was thrilled to have someone to "talk" to and he felt the same way. I honestly can't remember much about our friendship. We both liked Batman and playing on the swings at recess. I quickly began to doubt the "retarded" diagnosis. He was a little slow sometimes, but he was just like any other kid out there. Most perplexing was the praise I was given for being his friend. He didn't tease me and I didn't tease him, that's all you need for friendship when you're 6.
By the time I made it to 4th grade I had really hit my stride. All the short jokes the kids could come up with had already been done over the years and I was finally getting attention from a teacher who didn't punish me for being ahead of the class. Her name was Miss Funk. She had a great teaching style that only a new graduate can bring: a combination of kindergarten togetherness and participation along with an adult amount of respect and interest. We'd build chains of paper that represented strands of DNA. We acted out short stories and then sat in a circle and discussed them. Even multiplication tables were done with a couple of game show buzzers and bite-sized candy for prizes. But then, the divorce happened. All I had left of my favorite class was a giant piece of butcher paper in my favorite shade of robin's egg blue. "We'll Miss You, Dorian!" it said in a big rainbow of color across the middle. Everywhere else in black marker were words of encouragement, compliments, and goodbyes. "You're so smart and funny." "Make lots of friends at your new school!" And underneath Miss Funk's pep-talk were four words I had heard but never put together before: "Don't worry. Be happy."
But those words were easier said than done. Especially in this new town. The school consisted of two separate buildings, each one a long hallway with classrooms on either side. The smaller building was for the Kindergarten and 1st grade classes, and was were my sister went to school. The bigger building had 2nd-5th grade classes, generally with just one or two teachers to a grade. There was also the cafetorium, where good students were allowed to eat on the stage with the principal during lunch and the library, with one of the nicest librarians I had ever met. The two buildings ran parallel to each other until the kindergarten building ran short. The remainder of this space was filled with the playgrounds and the new PE building. I quickly learned that the main difference between an inner-city school and a small town school is viciousness. In the city, kids weren't too concerned with your problems because they had plenty of their own. But here everyone knew everyone. Unless they didn't know you, in which case you were not to be trusted. But somehow, they still had a knack for finding out your personal business. "See that short kid? He lives down the street from the school." "I heard he was too smart for The City to teach him so they had to move here." "If he's so smart, why hasn't he already learned cursive?" "His grandma goes to my church and my dad says he's from a broken home." "I heard he doesn't even have a mom." "No, he does, but she lives with another woman." "My dad says that's evil."
The boys of my class all played together under the rule of Trent and Hunter, the two "cool" kids who always knew what was best because they were the best athletes. The boys played soccer during recess and when I turned down the offer on my first day I became an instant outcast. So I spent much of my recess reading books from the library and sitting in places where other kids weren't likely to bother me. Today I was in the middle of the merry-go-round reading Ramona the Brave. I'd already finished all of the Roald Dahl I could find, and since I told her that Matilda was my favorite the librarian had lead me to Beverly Cleary. Deep in my book, I was surprised to find two blond pigtails reading over my shoulder.
"I have that book! Do you like it?"
I was still in a state of shock, but when I realized it was just Elizabeth from class and not someone else I relaxed.
"Yeah, it's really funny. This is my 3rd Ramona book so far."
She looked over at the blacktop nearby where several other girls were waiting, including Amy and Amber who I recognized from class. They must have been waiting for Elizabeth to scope me out because they quickly joined us once she waved them over. The merry-go-round had 6 handles and was divided into 3 colors: red, blue, and yellow. I sat in the middle with Elizabeth on the red slice behind me, Amy sat down on blue, Amber on yellow and a few more girls filling in the gaps who I didn't recognize.
"Why are you reading a girl's book?" Amber asked just as she sat down. I clutched the book to my chest for fear they might take it, "Just 'cause it's about a girl doesn't mean I can't read it, too!" Amy let one of her legs drag through the dirt as the wind lazily spun us.
"Why don't you play soccer or basketball with the boys?"
"Because boys are stupid. And I hate sports."
"But you are a boy!"
"So? I'm not stupid."
This proclamation seemed to hang in the air just as Trent scored a goal over at the soccer field. The boys all cheered, despite the fact that there was no goalie and no actual "goal" to speak of, seemingly proving my point.
"Do you want to help us push?" Elizabeth was off the merry-go-round, her hands on the rails and ready to go.
"What do I do with my book?" I asked. The girls giggled until Amy replied, "Why don't we set it down over here where it can't get dirty?" indicating the edge of the dirt-box we were in.
"Okay."
We spent the rest of recess running, spinning and laughing, particularly at the boys. For the next few weeks life was good, on the playground at least. I couldn't do anything that was strictly "girls only" such as eat lunch together or hang out after school, but I was the only boy they ever allowed to play with them and I took it as a great compliment. I was always willing to be the dad when we played house, I was the best at hopscotch, and I knew just as many clap-songs as the rest of them thanks to my sister, such as "Miss Mary Mack", "The Baby in the Bathtub" and the mildly explicit "Hell-o Operator." Of course, none of this went unnoticed by the boys. Now I was the short sissy kid who read too much and played with girls.
Something was bound to happen.
