Fourth grade. He hated the fourth grade. Dad's job had transferred him to this little po-dunk town, no skate board park, no video arcade, not even a McDonald's.
Flynt Darrow liked his teacher well enough. Mrs. Abernathy was pretty and always smelled like a bouquet of freshly picked flowers but the kids in her class were horrible and mean. They all made fun of him. Well, almost all of them. A couple of the girls never said anything, never acknowledged him. It was meanness in a way, he supposed, just not quite as mean as the others.
The young boy assumed small town folk would be more forgiving than those in big cities but he was quickly learning this was not the case.
You see, Flynt had a lazy eye. Both were a bright green, almost a lime green but one, which included a little brown fleck, tended to wander. Classmates at his old school in Edgar Hills didn't seem to mind. He'd had lots of friends there but here, in Perzigan Falls, things were much different.
"Say it, retard," the boy everyone called Copper growled.
Flynt had never asked but figured the nickname was due to the heavier child's shock of reddish-brown hair; that moniker was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.
"You're a retard, aren't you, Darrow?" Copper growled again as he bent Flynt's elbow behind his back and ground his face down into the dirt.
"No!" Flynt yelled as he spat dust from his mouth. "I'm not. Leave me alone!" He closed his eyes tightly, willing himself to be somewhere safe, warm and comfortable.
When he next opened his eyes, Mrs. Abernathy was pulling Copper from his back. Every other child quickly dispersed, some whispering, some giggling.
"Are you okay, Flynt?" Mrs. Abernathy asked as she wiped brown clumps of earth from his dishwater blond hair and smoothed his wrinkled, grass-stained khakis.
"I'm not a retard," Flynt stated as he rubbed his raw hands together. "I'm smart."
"I know, Flynt." Tears filled Mrs. Abernathy's eyes. "I know you are."
Flynt's good eye looked upward toward blue skies and sunshine. "I hate it here. I wanna go back to my old school." He sniffed but wouldn't allow sadness to escape his small body.
Pulling a wadded Kleenex from the pocket of her light blue sweater, Mrs. Abernathy dabbed at the nervous perspiration on her upper lip.
"Come with me, Flynt. There's someone I'd like you to meet."
The fourth grader followed silently as whoops and hollers sounded across the playground. An aide had already marched Copper Emerson into the school, probably to the principal's office.
Heels clicking across the sidewalk, Mrs. Abernathy led her student between and behind two buildings; one held classrooms, the other held the library, cafeteria and music room.
A large trailer-type structure sat in the far north section of the parking lot.
"Have you met Mr. Donovan yet?" the young teacher asked.
"No, I don't think so." Flynt reached back into his memory and thought over the events of the past week; the name didn't sound familiar.
"Olin Donovan teaches a special class here at Perzigan for six graders. Personally, I think every child from Pre-K on would benefit from his teachings but the school board has only approved it for that grade."
"What's he teach?" Flynt's eyes swirled in opposite directions as he looked from Mrs. Abernathy's solemn face to the metal building.
"It's not a required course but it's a combination of social studies, tolerance and manners."
"Okay." The boy was a bit confused. Why did he need to meet this Mr. Donovan or whomever he was supposed to meet? He wasn't a sixth grader, they had social studies in fourth grade and he had good manners. Did Mrs. Abernathy want him to just tolerate Copper and all the other kids picking on him?
"This is his off period now. C'mon, I'm sure he'd be happy to meet you." She lightly touched Flynt's shoulder and began to move forward.
"Why is his class out here and not in a class inside the school?"
"The school board thought it best to house Mr. Donovan in this temporary building because the class is an elective but he is a certified teacher and has free reign of any school property just like all the other teachers."
Flynt increased his footsteps in order to keep up with the woman yet he was still confused.
The wooden ramp leading to the entryway creaked and swayed with the duo's added weight. Mrs. Abernathy's staccato knock was answered with a soft welcome from within.
The bottom of the rusty door scraped against warped floorboards.
"Olin?" Mrs. Abernathy said in an apologetic tone. "Do you have time to meet a new student? A fourth grader?"
Flynt saw the back of a man's dark head facing the far wall and a wide chalkboard. He was sitting at his desk.
The man turned slowly, his head cocked to the side. It looked awkward and uncomfortable atop his long, slender neck. Both dark brown eyes rolled lazily; wildly behind thick, black frame-rimmed glasses. A large angry red splotch eked across his left cheek and faded out on the bridge of his pointed nose. A scar, about eight inches long, slashed across the man's Adam's apple and beyond.
"Oh, hello, Willa," the man said haltingly. His crooked grin was a little creepy but somehow warm and inviting. He placed his palms on the desktop and began to hoist his slight body from its chair.
"No need to get up," Willa Abernathy protested.
"I need to move around anyway," Mr. Donovan explained as he retrieved a silver cane with something that looked like a claw on its end.
Rounding the corner of the desk, Flynt noticed the tall man's right foot was bent inward, severely; painfully. He watched in silence as the man winced, the smile still on his face.
"So who do we have here?" he asked.
Flynt thought the teacher was looking at him but he wasn't sure.
Mrs. Abernathy explained about the children in her class teasing the newcomer and the incident on the playground. Maybe the youngster could benefit from a new friendship.
"Well, how thoughtful of you, Willa. Have you told this young man about our situation?"
"No, I thought I'd let you do that."
Leaning against his desk, Mr. Donovan began to weave a story that Flynt Darrow would remember the rest of his life.
Olin Donovan was born four months prematurely and with numerous problems. Scoliosis had been corrected for the most part. Poor eyesight got worse over time. Three heart surgeries left him weak and weary but still alive. Plastic surgeons agreed not to remove the nasty-looking birthmark spreading across his face for fear of causing irreversible damage.
Childhood memories held sadness, grief and fear. Children could be so cruel. He had been so grateful for the many rescues, kindnesses and just plain ol' hugs from his big sister. She had always been his confidante; his rock.
When he turned sixteen he reached a bit of independence. With his first car and his parents' blessing he was able to tool around town on his own. Just like other sixteen-year-old boys, Olin Donovan had needs, desires and dreams. He wanted a girlfriend, to hang out at the Dairy Queen or to be invited to a party. None would ever come to fruition. A mere two weeks out on the road in his used Pontiac, the teen crashed into a guardrail, flipping the vehicle and sustaining severe injuries. He almost choked to death on his own blood. A sliver of broken glass had cut his throat from practically one earlobe to the other. A broken ankle had never healed properly.
Yet, he survived.
"I was very bitter for a long, long time," Mr. Donovan explained. "I didn't understand why these things were happening to me. Why me? Then during one of my hospital stays I met a girl with far more problems than my own. I didn't think it possible. She told me of the cruelty of others; children and adults alike. She told me to always keep my face up instead of my face down. I started doing so that very day."
"Olin went on to college, became a teacher and has been telling his story for several years now," Mrs. Abernathy continued. "He has tried to teach compassion, tolerance of those who are different from ourselves and he is an amazing activist against bullying."
Silence hung in the room.
"I couldn't have done anything without Willa." Mr. Donovan twitched a thumb in the woman's direction.
She smiled.
Flynt looked from one to the other. "Brother and sister?" He pointed at each adult. They both nodded.
"See. I'm not a retard. I'm smart." His lazy eye rolled onto the side of his cherubic face as the other twinkled.
***
Today, Flynt Darrow is founder of "Face Up," a non-profit organization for children with major and minor disabilities. He offers self-esteem, creative writing and art classes as well as special summer camps.
Each and every child is unique and smart in his or her own way.
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