Upon the start of fourth grade, I was on my fifth school in four years. I’m sure that track record puts a bunch of military brats to shame, but alas, I knew that this was the final shift until the one mandated at the end of eighth grade. Initially, that was exciting, and I remember the first day of school at my neighborhood school as one full of nervous energy.
All the hallways seemed huge, decorated with posters, handmade signs, and tile from the 1950s, and the air was burning with the smell of hand sanitizer, surely helped by the less than adequate AC system. For the first time, I was going to have different teachers for different subjects, and as a result, I’d begged and pleaded with my mother to buy me a “fancy” rolling backpack from the clearance section at JCPenney’s. She gave in, and I rolled up on that first day feeling like the hottest shit. Literally, because I had never had to wear a uniform before, and that polo and khaki combo was surprisingly heat-retaining.
Oddly enough, fourth grade is the last period of time where I’m able to remember more discrete events as opposed to general situations. One of those moments came a few weeks into the school year. After receiving a writing assignment that day in class, I went home, worked on math and science homework, and then tucked into dinner, TV, and sleep. I’d totally forgotten the writing assignment, and the next day, when our teacher asked us to take them out and hand them in, I’d been slapped with the horrible realization that mine wasn’t done.
Our teacher was firm, but kind, and so, for the rest of our Reading period, the kids who finished their assignments were allowed to free read and go over to the side of the classroom with a big group table, while the rest of us finished our assignments. But, after getting out my half-finished paper, I couldn’t write. I couldn’t even pick up my pencil. I just stared at it. And I stared. And I felt the lines on the page get up and wrap themselves around me, pulling my heart further and further into my stomach, until it felt like I was being consumed from the inside out by some mysterious force.
I just stared. I stared for what felt like an eternity. My ears were ringing with screaming; screaming at myself for having been so stupid that I forgot to finish this assignment. Screaming at myself to prepare for the screams that would greet me when my parents got the progress report from my teacher, with which she threatened us non-compliant students. Screaming at myself for not being a smart student anymore. Screaming at myself to make up for the screaming all the other students weren’t doing at me. Just screams and screams and screams.
All of the guilt and shame piled on top of me, sitting in my usual spot at the front of the desks, just off to the right of the teacher, and I knew how conspicuous I was. I crumbled into a pile over the blank paper, and silently started sobbing. Staring, sobbing, and silently screaming at myself, that was what I’d been reduced to, while all the other students either entertained themselves, worked on the assignment, or goofed off. No one was hurting like me, and it made all the pain worse, to the point I was paralyzed.
Eventually, my sweet and kind teacher came up behind me and tapped me on the shoulder. She seemed shocked when I pulled my head up from on top of my folded arm on the desk, and my cheeks were flushed and eyes full of tears. Slightly recoiled, she told me gently to go to the boy’s room and splash some cold water on my face. Somehow, being told to do something restored the function to my body, and it sprung into action, silently walking out of the classroom, trying to draw as little attention to myself as possible. If I could’ve been an ant walking into the hallway, I would’ve done that. My teacher was right behind me, and actually escorted me up to the restroom door.
Upon being by myself for the first time since this whole mess started - no more than 10 minutes ago, mind you - I cried openly for a moment. Not very long, but enough to let out some of that pent up anger. The anger, frustration, fear, guilt, shame, and confusion. I blew my nose, and came out to my teacher, who was clearly just as confused as I was. She gave me a hug and put her hand on my shoulder while leaning down to face me at eye level, where she told me I wouldn’t be given a progress report. Some of that residual pressure lifted at the words, but I still felt a pang of… something. I didn’t know what. But the worst was over.
My teacher asked me if I still needed a second outside, and I said yes, just wanting to have some quiet around me for a moment. She let me wait in the hallway for a few minutes while I calmed down; during this cool down, the teacher next door, a lady who reminded me of my mom, saw me still silently crying, and invited me into her classroom. She had some fruit snacks and let me sit with her class and read for a little while. She let me feel normal, even though, for the first time, I had been sucker punched with the gravity to which I knew that was just an illusion.
That moment was a pivotal one, not really for how it made me feel then, but for how it became part of the whole. That year, the toll of having been Nicholas Provenghi went into collections. Making friends was tiring, especially when most of the people I wanted to know were isolated from me. From seeing how close they’d all gotten already, having had the chance to grow up together before I waltzed through the doors of their place. Sure, all the teachers loved me, but I was an afterthought to most of the kids. I was tired of trying. I was tired of feeling scared all the time. I was tired of screaming at myself every day for every mistake I would make during the day. I was getting tired, and I couldn’t keep it up for long. So, I drifted.
At my school, each grade was broken up into three or four sections, depending how large the class was that year. Most of the kids who I wanted to get to know more were in section 4A, while I was in section 4B. My classmates were alright, I can’t remember any of them, save one. There was another boy who seemed adrift. Maybe his story was similar to mine; he might’ve bounced around from school to school, too. He might’ve been unable to explain why he felt scared all the time. He might’ve left behind friends and memories, too. He might have been different in so many ways, just like me. Hell, he had a patch of white hair just above his forehead, clearly he was different, right?
Ultimately, all of those predictions ended up coming to pass. But this kid wasn’t me. He wasn’t like me at all.
In class 4B at MacArthur Elementary Intermediate School, I met my best friend, Michael N., and he’d eventually end up abusing and raping me over the next four years. That, I had reckoned, was the toll I had to pay for being Nicholas Provenghi.