of being hurt by a classmate?"
I thought about it for a moment. I remembered a couple of incidents here and there in kindergarten—Ricky Beal hitting me in the head with a wooden bat, Marcy Galvin dumping paint on my head in art class, even Edward Garcia stealing my crayons and subsequently eating them—but they were just floating bits of memory, incidents I remember happening but nothing more.
The fight with Timmy Jentson, however, marked the first time that I began to think that violence was just how people dealt with things. Not just my parents, but everyone. I remember the day vividly because it was the first time I began to wonder how I was going to survive in this world. I didn't want to fight anyone. I didn't want to hurt anyone. But I couldn't seem to get away from the violence. Mom had already given me my share of beatings by that point in my life. Now I was getting them at school, too.
Doc was still waiting for an answer. He opened the Chronopod and sat down. "Not the first time I was hurt," I said, taking a seat beside him, "but I'd say it was the first time I began to feel like an outsider to society. I'm sure I didn't think of it in quite those same terms at the time, but I know I felt like I didn't fit in with anyone anywhere."
"I see," Doc nodded, placing the steel crown on my head. "Then let us go and see exactly how it all began."
My troubles had started early that day, so the Chronopod arrived safely outside the schoolyard while parents walked their children to the entrance on the far side of the field. I knew exactly where to find my past self; Mom always dropped me off at the same place. Walking me to the door was a hassle she didn't want to have to deal with, so she'd just let me out by the curb at the bottom of the hill leading to the parking lot. The first aeromobiles had only hit the retail market a few years earlier, so most people were still using old-fashioned cars. Doc and I got down there just as she was pulling up.
She was very much like I remembered her, if only a bit smaller. Her blond hair was a mess, sticking out at different angles. Obviously, she had gotten home very late the previous night. The tiny orange glow of the cigarette in her mouth pulsed as she pulled to a stop. I couldn't help but feel at least some pity for her, especially given the circumstances of her eventual death. But nothing changed the fact that she didn't love or want me, and that pain overrode everything else.
"Get goin," I heard her yell as Herbie opened the door. He was wearing the clothes I remembered well; a pair of sweat old sweat pants and an unwashed sweatshirt with a giant chocolate stain splattered across it. She always told me that once a piece of clothing was stained, there was nothing that could be done about it. And I, being a naïve little boy, believed her. Now, of course, I know that it was just one more chore that she was avoiding.
Herbie climbed out of the car in his little worn sneakers. No laces, just velcro. Teaching me to tie laces would've been another chore. "I love you, Mom," Herbie said.
She took the cigarette out of her mouth long enough to yell "Shut the door and get going! I'm holding up traffic!"
Herbie nodded and closed the door. I shook my head in disgust as he waved goodbye. She ignored him and sped off, a trail of smoke rising from the driver's side window.
Doc and I were far enough away that we didn't need to hide our voices. "How stupid was I?" I asked rhetorically. "How could I not see that she hated me?"
"The innocent mind of a child is an amazing thing sometimes," Doc replied. "They instinctively believe that their parents are their teachers and protectors, therefore anything they say or do must be in their best interest. They don't worry about anything because Mommy and Daddy have things under control."
Herbie trotted up the steep incline toward the parking lot with his little blue knapsack slung over his shoulder. Doc and I followed. "I was so small," I murmured. "How did I ever lug that thing up this hill every morning?"
"It looks like he's about to be intercepted. Look to the left."
Three young boys stood in the grass on the far side of the path, all staring in Herbie's direction. I couldn't remember the name of the first, a stocky boy with orange hair. The second was Gene Olitz, a known troublemaker but also a known coward. That's why he always traveled with the third boy, Timmy Jentson. Built like an ox, Timmy was the first person chosen for every game played in gym class. He was solid and strong, but he was also a brat and a delinquent. "That's him on the end," I said to Doc. "Timmy."
"Hey Herbert!" Gene yelled at little Herbie. "What's the matter? Couldn't figure out where to put the ice cream?" That got a laugh from Timmy and the other boy.
"Shut up," Herbie yelled without stopping. "Leave me alone."
"You got a problem with us?" Timmy yelled. "We'll beat you into the tar, you little weenie!"
Ah, the maturity and creativity of elementary school insults.
Herbie kept going without looking back. I wish he had, because Timmy and his friends started to follow him. They didn't back off until Herbie reached the crowd of parents and children near the school's entrance.
"What's on your mind?" Doc asked me. "How does it feel to be back here?"
I was honest. "Nervous. Worried. Afraid."
"Afraid of what? Being discovered?"
"No, I don't think so," I said. I lowered my voice as we approached the crowd. "It's actually very similar to the feeling I had when I was a student here. It's an unyielding anxiety that something bad is going to happen."
"Because you know what to expect this time?"
"Perhaps," I admitted, "but why should I be worried about that? I already know how it turns out. There are no surprises waiting for me."
"True, but that doesn't eliminate empathy."
"I guess. Are we following him inside?"
"I think we should," Doc answered. "But it is entirely up to you, of course."
I hadn't come here just watch me walk from Mom's car to the school. "All right, then. Let's go."
Walking into Richard Crawson Elementary School once again was a surreal experience. The traffic in the halls was thin enough that Doc and I could walk along without worrying about anyone bumping into us. I saw dozens of familiar faces in the classrooms we passed—student and teacher alike—but I only remembered the names of a few. The school custodian, a friendly old man named Gus, was rolling the mop bucket down the hall when little Herbie passed. "Better get to class, young man!" he said. "Don't want to be late!"
Herbie just nodded and continued on his way. My first grade classroom was on the second floor at the end of the hall. The teacher, Mrs. Selner, stood in her usual spot at the door as students entered each morning. It was how she took attendance.
"Was she nice?" Doc asked, his voice barely audible.
"Nice enough. But like most of my teachers, she didn't really know how to handle the bullies of the class. You'll see what I mean."
Inside, I saw the twenty-two faces I'd long forgotten, tucked away in corner of a memory I didn't even know was there. Most were sitting quietly in their seats, though Stacy and Jillian were whispering back and forth. Herbie had to pass between them to reach his desk, and they both pointed at his shirt. "Ewwww!" they exclaimed in unison. That, of course, attracted the attention of more children who produced more cries of disgust. Red-faced Herbie looked back and yelled at them to shut up.
"Who pooped on your shirt?" Stacy asked, scrunching her nose as though it smelled.
"It's not poop!" Herbie snapped. "It's just chocolate."
"Yeah, right!" a girl named Susan chimed in. She sat to Herbie's left. "That's poop. I can smell it from here!"
Herbie mumbled something under his breath and sat down, stuffing his knapsack under his desk. Doc and I moved to the back of the class and stood near the lockers where we could observe from a safe distance. Mrs. Selner came in a few minutes later. "Good morning, class!"
In unison, the students responded. "Good morning, Mrs. Selner!"
She went over her usual morning routine, choosing a studen
t to read the time, another to read the calendar, and yet another to write all that information on the blackboard. Herbie was chosen to read the calendar, and at the time I guess I was having trouble knowing when the letter C should sound like a K and when it should sound like an S. Because I read October as Ostober. Eric, Rasheed, and Jillian all laughed out loud while several others snickered softly. Mrs. Selner ignored their reaction and corrected me.
"The letter C has a 'kuh' sound," she said. "Like a K."
"Then why isn't it spelled with a K?" I asked. Even today, I still say that's a perfectly valid question. More laughs despite the fact that I'm sure none of the other students could've answered the question.
Mrs. Selner went on with an explanation about the Latin origins of the alphabet and when they should sound like one or the other. If you ask me, the English language is far more complicated with its spelling than necessary. October should be Oktober, Knife should be Nife, and Phone should be Fone.
Sorry. Not important, I know.
Anyway, I would've liked it if she'd called on one of the children that had been laughing at me and asked them to explain the difference. It would've taken the smile off their faces and justified Herbie's confusion. But she went right on with her lesson, apparently unable to hear the laughs or see the looks being sent in his direction. I could tell from the look on his face that he heard and saw every bit of it. And he couldn't