Markers - Part 1, The Shame of Breaking

I don't drive. I tried once, back when i was sixteen. The ensuing ordeal made me decide it wasn't worth it. It's also the reason I have a police record. Sometimes I still have nightmares about my stepfather demanding to know where the blood came from.

Everybody is different. We're taught that before we can read. At least in America. Little motivational children's books that tell you that it's okay that you're short, or tall, or pudgy, or stupid. Everyone is better than you at something, and you're better than them at something. That way we can all feel special.

But no matter how different you feel, there are some rules that you can never break. Even if nobody tells you that the rules are there. Especially if nobody tells you that the rules are there. Some of the most important rules are never talked about, never discussed.

I didn't realize that until I was five or six, whichever age it is that they pack you up and drop you into first grade.

My mom left, and I turned around to take in this new place that I would have to brave on my own. The walls were plastered with laminated caterpillars and anthropomorphic school supplies, all of them wearing identical loopy smiles with blushing cheeks and triple-lashed eyes. The floor was beige tile, but most of it was covered with giant semi-soft puzzle pieces. On a shelf I spotted Lincoln Logs, some tiny plastic pigs of every color, Tinker Toys, bean bags shaped like frogs with googly eyes, a plastic bowling set, and a box of Marble Works. The air smelled of paste, and tiny tubes of macaroni were tucked away wherever the janitor couldn't reach.

Most of the kids were already playing and talking. There were seven boys and nine girls. One of the boys was a still person. I'd never been around girls very much before, and I was nervous. At that point, all I knew about girls was what I knew about my mother, and so I expected them to want me to wash my hands frequently and keep my elbows off any tables. But they didn't seem to have much interest in my hygiene. In fact, they weren't interested in me at all. They weren't interested in any of the boys. They were off in a little group by themselves, chattering away in an intimidating and very pretty way.

All of the boys, except for the still boy, were already inspecting the room's toys. I was an only child at the time (I have a younger brother now) and my mom and I lived in a house at the end of a long lonely road. There was no neighborhood for me to play in; no neighbors to make friends with. Still, I was more comfortable with boys than the girls, so I moved to join their inspection of the oversized checkers mat and the box of Connect Four.

A spindly blonde woman intercepted me.

"You must be Parker," she said.

Her voice was like melted butter. I eyed her suspiciously.

"It's good to meet you, Parker. I'm Mrs. Scottsdale. I'm your teacher."

"Hi," I said carefully.

"Maddie!" Mrs. Scottsdale shouted, her voice suddenly sharp. "Stop pulling Sarah's hair!" Then she turned back to me, and her face softened. "Why don't you come and take a seat on the floor, Parker. We're about to get started."

I moved to where she pointed and sat down on the floor next to the still boy. The still boy wasn't sitting, though. Like all still people, he was standing quietly, his shoulders hunched and his head down.

"I'm gonna be a pirate," said the still boy to himself.

I looked up at him.

"Avast," he whispered.

I smiled.

"All right everyone!" cooed Mrs. Scottsdale. "Come have a seat in the middle of the floor. We're going to play a game!"

The boys reluctantly detached themselves from the wall of games, and the girls moved their babbling circle to the center of the room.

"Have a seat, have a seat," said Mrs. Scottsdale.

Boys and girls settled on the soft puzzle pieces all around me.

"Have a seat. Jeremy, that includes you. Sit down, please."

I looked up at the still boy. He was still standing.

I remember thinking that this was going to be interesting. Maybe Mrs. Scottsdale didn't know that still people never sat.

"I'm gonna be a pirate," whispered the still boy.

But Mrs. Scottsdale didn't care. She seemed to understand it was best to just not bring attention to it. "Okay children. Settle down, settle down. We're going to play a game that helps us get to know each other. It might be a little scary, but I know you can all be brave. Here's how we're going to play, okay?"

I looked around. Everyone but the still boy was watching Mrs. Scottsdale attentively.

"First you say your name. I'm Mrs. Scottsdale. Then you say what you want to be when you grow up. I want to be a school teacher. See? Then I want you to walk around..." Mrs. Scottsdale moved into the cluster of seated children, "...and pick someone--it doesn't matter who--pat them on the shoulder, and they have to go next!"

Several hands shot up. "Pick me! Pick me!"

Mrs. Scottsdale placed a finger on her chin and surveyed the volunteers. "Hmm..." she said. Then she walked over and patted a heavy black haired boy on the shoulder.

The boy rose mightily to his feet. "I'm Gregory Thomson," he said excitedly. "When I grow up, I wanna be a firetruck!"

The other boys murmured in approval, but some of the girls giggled. Gregory looked around the room and studied the uplifted faces with the greatest seriousness. He lumbered through the group, and kids jerked their fingers out of the way to avoid having them stepped on.

He patted me on the shoulder.

I swallowed.

"Avast," whispered the boy at my side.

Nervously, I stood up next to him as Gregory found a new place to sit.

"I'm Parker Lindsey," I said. Some of the boys snickered at my last name, and my legs felt like Jello. I knew I had to compensate. I had to pick the coolest profession I could think of. "When I grow up," I said, "I want to be a quantum physicist."

Silence.

I stood in the spotlight of attention shivering like a naked eskimo.

"I wanna be a pirate," whispered the still boy.

I figured someone else had probably heard him too, so I tried to shift the heat off of myself. I looked at him. "You know pirates aren't really around anymore, right?"

Silence.

"Pick someone else, sweetheart," said Mrs. Scottsdale.

I felt my face growing hot. "Well," I said, "I'm sure we all know what you want to be by now, but you get to go next anyway." I patted him on the shoulder.

Silence.

"Avast."

I glanced at the boys and girls sitting on the floor. They were staring at me like I had a squid on my head.

I swallowed hard, my hand still resting on the still boy's shoulder.

I abandoned the joke and tapped the boy sitting in front of me instead.

He stood instantly. "I'm Jason Swick," he said proudly.

I sat back down on the floor, and my face burned in shame. I felt like I'd crossed some sort of line, joked about something that wasn't to be joked about. I'd broken a taboo, and even though I was sitting down, I could still feel some of the other kids' eyes on me.

That day was the beginning of understanding.