Sophomore year of high school. It was the year it all blew up. Beverly and Dad would separate. I would pick up our home phone, the one plugged into the wall, and call 911. Because if I didn’t, the woman who gave birth to me decided today she was going to break down the door to our house, come in, and either beat Dad to pulp, or try to, or kill him. At 16, in 1987, this was last thing I expected to see. What I didn’t know back then was a lot of the kids who looked like their lives were perfect and pristine, weren’t. Some had alcoholic mothers. Others had abusive fathers. Some had parents who ignored their existence because that’s what our Baby Boomer parents decided was best. Seen and not heard. I heard that a fair amount growing up. We could be there, just not actively involved in whatever the adults were into.

I hated school. Sort of. I loved the social aspect of it. Coming and seeing what fashions would be worn by the preppy girls, how high the rocker girls would tease their hair, what new concert t-shirt some of the boys would wear, resulting in their suspension. You knew which kids had money because their clothes matched the lifestyle of the rich and famous, narrated by Robin Leech himself. Boat shoes. Miami Vice wayfarer sunglasses. Clean, crisp, button-down shirts. Izod polo shirts and shorts. Guess jeans. The girls wore what would now be considered ‘mom’ jeans; high waisted and cut just above the ankle. Like teenage girls had to worry about hiding any kind of stomach!

As for me, I didn’t fit in. My clothes were less than and trying to convince Beverly or Dad to buy button-fly Levi’s? It finally did happen. But I honestly think there was a sale. It’s the only reason it happened. Even back then, Guess was running around $100 a pair. My Levi’s? I think they were $35-40.

To say I was the one kid that stood out wouldn’t be accurate either. There were other kids who did that better than me. One kid thought he was a martial arts expert, better than Bruce Lee. Then there was the girl who was bigger than all the others, and I’m not talking about being overweight. I’m talking about above the waist, the place all men look first. And then of course there were the weird, strange, and awkward kids who wore thick glasses, or headgear all the time, or spoke with a lisp or some other speech impediment. I didn’t fit any of those categories, so I was frequently ignored, dismissed, or forgotten completely.

I was good at a few things in high school, however, which brought me attention in class, these things some of my teachers zeroed in on. Mrs. Sheldon found two.

Homework wasn’t my thing, not because I hated the work. I was bored. I’d read information and process it faster than most of my classmates. I think there were a few people who saw that, but a model student? That wasn’t me. I liked to cautiously break the rules. I loved to see if I could get away with it. Frequently I did. But when I did get caught, I owned it. Sometimes. It depended on how badly I was caught.

Sheldon’s class was no different, especially considering I was very creative, both in artwork and creative writing. Back then I had a gift. I could write anything. Quickly. Admittedly editing it along the way because Dad wrote in his work, writing film scripts, proposals, and other things requiring structure and discipline. So I often let him edit my stories. He would catch mistakes, misspelled words, and other things requiring a redraft. And a red pen or pencil, showing me what needed work. By the time I was 16, I avoided those red marks, correcting myself long before he read it. Now, when he did read it, there would be one or two things I missed. More about sentence structure, not grammar, spelling, or mixing two different ideas into the same paragraph.

Mrs. Sheldon loved my creative writing. I never got less than an A on any writing assignment. Which meant I could get away with one thing our class hated more than anything else: the grammar workbook.

Each day we were required to finish two or three sections and then we’d review them in class. Grammar was something I was really good at, not because I understood all the mechanics, but because I wrote by listening to each word, often reading aloud, helping me understand where each part of speech existed in the sentence. And I hated that book as much as the rest of the class. I often wondered if Sheldon picked the book because of the lavender color, which, coincidentally, matched her hair color.

At home life was chaotic. The separation happened halfway through the year, like early springtime. That’s the time when the hills of San Ramon, Dublin, Pleasanton, and Livermore start turning green. Not algae green or moss green. But the color you get when the balance between blue and yellow is perfect. After the brown of summer, fall, winter, this was a welcome change. With Beverly moving out, we spent a few hours on the weekends with her. Dad felt it was fair to her. It wasn’t fair to me. At least that’s how I felt.

In class life was less chaotic, more predictable, and in English? Easier. Teacher’s pet? Not exactly. She’d get onto me too. Once or twice. Mostly I kept to myself, two desks away from hers, Shelly in front of me, and Lisa in front of her. She assigned the girls the two front seats because they frequently interrupted her class. They were in trouble a lot. Which made it tricky for me, especially when I wasn’t doing my grammar. Oh. I almost forgot. Right behind me, at the very back of the class, the last desk? Mike. Not a skater, although his haircut said otherwise. A big Metallica fan. Motley Crue. Wore band t-shirts, ripped jeans, and a jean jacket to school. Typical late-80s fashion.

Our school was so small, and our sophomore class had two home rooms, 30 kids or so in each one. Roughly 60 kids total, almost half the school’s 120-130 total student body. That meant our classroom size was smaller, more one on one attention from each teacher. English had, I think 10 or 12 students. Me, Shelly, Mike, and Lisa were a part of this English class.

“Take out your grammar workbooks and start working on,” she said, standing in front wearing a brand new jumper or overalls. I really wasn’t sure what it was, or how you’d describe it. I can tell you Shelly and Lisa were giggling about it. “Something funny, ladies?” She singled them out, as she often did.

“Um, no,” Lisa said, with a slight hint of embarrassment, that sound you make when you’ve almost been caught; but not quite.

Shelly smiled, still giggling because she actually made the comment. The good students in the class, they already had their books out, heads down, studying each part in silence, pens furiously scribbling in the correct answers.

Not Shelly. Her purse sat heavy on the floor. Full of all the things teen girls carry with them. A full-size can of Aqua-Net. Makeup, I assume. An assortment of different kinds of gum, typically something minty, based on the smell emanating from her bag. A hairbrush, visible because of the handle. And a curling iron? I saw the end of a black cord and what I thought might be the handle-thingy. The one thing she didn’t have with her in that bag? Her grammar book.

“Ms. Coleman?” Sheldon had a way of calling you out, using your last name as a way of highlighting your offense and embarrassing you all at once. My classmate’s face turned a deep shade of crimson.

“I don’t have it,” she said, doing her best to close her bag, keeping anything from falling out of it. Sheldon had a reputation for making sure girls in her class never put on makeup or did their hair or nails in class.

Meanwhile, I was doing my best to ignore all of it. I seriously didn’t care, going back to drawing a maze or some cubist-style artwork that would embarrass Escher. This wasn’t unusual for me in this class. I rarely did any assigned work, unless it was a creative writing project.

“Why does he not have to do grammar?” Lisa exclaimed, giving Shelly a bit more time to close her bag. I was curious why her bag needed to be closed, but not enough to look. I kept right on drawing, adding another line to the maze I was constructing. “That’s not fair.”

Sheldon, crossing her arms, scowled at Shelly and Lisa both. How she managed that, I don’t know. I looked up long enough to see it.

“Let me see your book.” She snapped her fingers at Lisa, tapping her foot. Lisa hesitated, an almost act of protest to hand it over. But she finally did. “I see you haven’t done anything in it since the last assignment.” Sheldon tossed it back to her, landing on the flat easel shaped desk with a fwap. “I’m expecting you to have it all done, up to page 65 by next class.”

Lisa’s mouth hung open. The whole class waited for a retort. It never came.

Sheldon walked over to me, checking on my artwork. “May I?” She took the unfinished maze from me. “Very impressive, Joe.” She spoke to me like she would another adult, or teacher. “Have you considered adding a section here or here?”

My reply, without missing a beat and looking her in the eyes: “No. And I won’t.”

She smiled and nodded. Maybe because she knew art was subjective. That no one can tell you what will work. It’s yours.

The buzzer sounded.