Hindrance

When the most subtle of attempts at being disinterested are perceived and remembered.

"They seem upset. Don't they seem more worked up than usual? Elbert! Elbert, come here. I think there's something wrong with the chickens. They seem agitated. Don't they seem more agitated to you, Deana? They definitely seem upset about something." 

No one else spoke, save for the distorted clucking of the feathered fowl. 

My mind cleared so I could see the throngs of people gathered about me and the designated applause rhythmically offered up overtook the recollection of annoying racket that so occupied the attention of such an unimpressive individual.   

I glanced about and took note of when I may want to acknowledge why we were there. I had some time to spare, so once more, I slowly bowed my head and closed my eyes. 

And I remembered. 

Memories journey only as far as we let them, only as far as we are capable of taking them. I was always such a self-centered figure, perhaps that was why I recalled so much going back so far. 

I never really felt challenged for attention early on. I seemed to deduce no one else mattered as did I. Obviously I was in such error in that regard. I valued the presence of those around me more than anything else I was given. Mother told me this. I guess I didn't realize it until later on. One day, I was locked in a church nursery with toddlers, much like myself, I suppose, while my team was playing on the playground. As soon as I saw them, I began climbing out the window to escape. I must be where they were. It was always that way. 

They would nickname themselves after cartoon characters, usually quartets, leaving me the odd one out, and I just couldn't care. I delighted at their being together, interacting with one another, talking, commenting. And they were mine. 

When our father left, I watched them cry, especially the three eldest. I didn't shed a tear. I would never grieve for anyone who hurt my squad. 

But still we followed the procedure as expected of us and enrolled in public school. Slowly, one by one, they each departed my presence after another year, until finally I and our mother were the only two people left in the domicile. When it was my turn, I didn't want to go back the next day, I was told I had said, but little did I realize, or any of us comprehend, how foreboding my feelings would be. 

A year progressed and summer followed suit, to be joined by the return in the fall. I was a year older, so a grade higher. 

"They have a little girl, just about Sam's age," I heard the proclamation about new residences in a dwelling up the road. My sisters giggled as though this meant something to me, but I gave no hint of what they were alluding. 

We were the same age, we were in the same class and we rode the same bus, so of course I spoke to her. 

She was Deana. Deana Mardon.

Since we lived so close, after school, we would play together. Cars and drivers and animals, truly the important things in life. 

Deana liked to go home when Molly Moose reruns came on in the afternoons, so we'd get in what we could of playtime.  I had already watched all of the episodes, so I didn't need to see them again. There would be the summons from up the road. 

"Deana!"

Deana would look up. 

"Ma'm?"

"Molly Moose is on." 

"Okay." 

We might make plans to continue playing after Molly Moose or we might just end it for the day, with Deana taking her cars and animals home with her. 

There was more applause. I opened my eyes once more and looked around. 

Molly Moose. What would Patricia say when I told her I was thinking about Molly Moose when I was waiting to hear her name called. I slightly chuckled to myself. 

It wasn't about Molly Moose, but that seemed to be a focal point. Where something began. Molly Moose. 

"Deana!"

"Ma'm?" 

"Molly Moose is on!" 

This time, as I drew the chalk line on the pavement for the road, I didn't look up, but heard no immediate response, only the sound of the plastic wheels on the toy car Deana held being spun about as she contemplated what to say next. Then Deana spoke again. 

"I'm playing!"

"You don't want to watch Molly Moose?"

"No, ma'm. I'm going to keep playing." 

"O-kay!" 

As Deana reached for her own piece of chalk to make a design of some significance on the sidewalk for her car, I moved the horse over to the chalk square I had just made and leaned back, raising my head up, in the process looking in the direction going up the road.

She still stood there. By the mailbox. I watched for a split-second more, then reached for the cow. 

"Moo," I said. 

I shot another glance and now she was making her way slowly back to her house.   I put the cow in the back of the truck and proceeded to play as well. 

At a later time, we decided to venture over to the Mardon's to play. I had never really gone over there when the previous child lived there, but I thought, we don't always have to go to my house. 

We walked around the back. I looked at the rows of vegetables in the garbden. We had one of those so I wasn't impressed. Mr. Mardon was busy in his garden, quietly tending to his duties. Walked in the barn. Went to the back and looked at the lake. On around to the other side. 

Past the chicken coop. 

There was nothing fascinating about our playtime, it filled an afternoon, so now we were going to look into other directions to explore.  Assisting in the garden, Mrs. Mardon now appeared. Deana and I came circling back around the lake to the sounds of the chickens clucking. Mrs. Mardon seemed transfixed by the noise the animals were making. 

"They seem upset about something," she said. 

Deana and I said nothing. 

"Don't they seem worked up about something?"

They seemed like the same noisy chickens we had, but I remained quiet. 

"Elbert! Elbert, come here. There seems to be something wrong with the chickens. Nothing's been bothering them, has there, Deana?"

I remained silent. 

"No, ma'm," Deana answered. 

How do you sort out the little machinations of attempts to insinuate a truth that you want to perceive? Deana would never lie to her mother if there had been someone or something bothering the chickens. And clearly Deana and I had been together the entire time I was over there with her. But oh, the evidence was just too obvious what had happened. But Deana wouldn't back her up. Deana wouldn't tell her what she wanted to hear so badly. Deana and I had done nothing wrong, so we continued on our way, leaving the chickens to their fascination for Mrs. Mardon.    

Months passed into years, time passing for all of us. I still talked to Deana, we walked home from school, maybe bike-riding, but she was learning the ropes of the neighborhood and school, so she was finding other outlets besides me. And truthfully, I was glad about that. With Deana not around, I was able to focus more on drawing on the sidewalk with chalk, colored or white. I actually preferred white. I would draw tv soldiers, funny people, animals. 

I would even draw Molly Moose. Anything my young mind could think of drawing, if it wasn't too hot. 

As it was, on this day, it was hot, so I stayed inside and drew in the tablet. As I connected lines and made shapes, I thought to myself, I should draw on paper more often. And it was actually nicer drawing indoors. On this particular day, at this particular moment, I set the paper aside and walked into the family  room to see Josie, my dear Josie, looking out the window. Before I could ask what she was doing, she turned to look back at me, a huge smile across her face. 

"It's the new neighbors," she said. We'd had yet some more neighbors come into the area, moving in right next door to us. I stepped up to the window to look outside with her. Whispering, Josie caught me up on the events.

"Deana came over to see the new girl. Her name is Takwanda. Deana said something to her and made her mad, so Takwanda took the newspaper from her and threw it under the house. Deana didn't want to go get it with the dog in the backyard, so she went home and told her mother, and Mrs. Mardon got Tawkanda's mother. She told Takwanda to go under the house and get the Mardon's newspaper." 

Josie was smiling the biggest smile at all the disarray. Sometimes Josie really could enjoy the meanest of things, but then so could I. Takwanda's mother brought the newspaper to Mrs. Mardon and handed it to her. Takwanda's family had just moved here and I guess this seemed like a lovely way to meet some neighbors. 

"I didn't want to go into the backyard because of the dog," Mrs. Mardon repeated with a nervous chuckle to Takwanda's mother. Josie had been right. Takwanda and her mother seemed to walk away, back to the opening to the crawlspace, perhaps to close it back up, leaving Deana and her mother standing in the neighbor's driveway. 

From my place inside the window, I just watched and listened. 

"Don't you ever come over here again, young lady, do you understand me?" Mrs. Mardon said to Deanna. 

Odd thing to say with two little girls in a new neighborhood. Who else would they have to play with? Mrs. Mardon scolded Deana a bit more, then the mother and daughter departed with the newspaper. 

No sooner had they left than here came Takwanda and her mother, seemingly taking center stage now with an audience of one.  

"Only going to tell you one time, Takwanda, you better behave yourself if you know what's good for you. Do you understand me? Don't you ever, . . . " 

I let the scolding trail off from my ears. How odd, I thought, even at that young an age, that each mother was angry at her daughter in the same location and I stood there watching through the open window. Almost like it was on tv. 

This was when I realized Josie had wandered away from the scene and ventured elsewhere into the house. 

With the next round of applause, I opened my eyes and observed. I listened to hear what name was called. At this moment, I thought of Deana and Takwanda again, and how for the next six years they went to school together, before Takwanda left to go to a private school, the two girls never became friends. Because of a newspaper. Because of a dog. Because of the mother. 

Another scorching summer came into our lives and each of us made his or her way through it. Deana found other directions to venture with other friends or other interests. She and her family were settling into the neighborhood. 

Same for Takwanda and her clan. I suppose it didn't hurt that Mr. and Mrs. Mardon were involved in all sorts of social activities. They were both now in position to teach at the high school and share their intellect, and were pillars in their church. Just totally outgoing figures for all to see. And I suppose Deana was right there with them. 

Weekends were the only time to really focus on my own personal needs and on this Saturday, I decided it was time to walk to the local convenience store and do some grocery shopping in the guise of a soft drink, chips, candy bar, whatever this allowance would cover. I trekked up the street in the bright sunshine, the soul occupant on this country road. The neighborhood was quiet of all sounds, nothing to be heard. I had ventured a couple of driveways onward, then a voice called out to me. 

"You going to the store, Sam? How about buying me a cold drink, buddy?" 

It was Mrs. Mardon, working in her garden, her husband nearby. He said nothing. 

I heard her words, but gave no response and kept going. She must be kidding, I thought to myself. I ventured up the road a bit further, then crossed the grassy field shortcut and made my way through the trees, and just at the corner, I saw a raft floating out in the lake on the Mardon's property. And there on the raft sat Deana, her legs crossed, just looking around. 

I didn't slow down my steps, nor did I call to her. She never heard me either, obviously, as she never turned and looked, not that she would have seen me clearly through all the tall grass from her further vantage point. 

Having gotten to know her after a couple of years or so, when we were together, we had to do what she wanted to do, and I had to listen to her criticize my ideas. Even if I didn't know where she learned it from, my dear sisters were reaching a point of indicating Mr. and Mrs. Mardon were essentially the same way. Likewise, our mother didn't care for their need to offer helpful, unsolicited advice whenever they spoke to her about how to raise children in a single-parent home. I wondered what made them think they were experts? 

I continued on to the convenience store. 

Shopping for myself was as predictable yet as endearing for me as it could ever be. I bought a drink, candy and a comic book, latest issue. How bright this weekend from the here-and-now was looking to me. I ate some candy, then looked at the hero on the comic book. I popped open the can and took a cool, carbonated drink from it. 

Lot going on that comic book cover, I thought to myself. I'd read it more thoroughly when I got home. I took another drink from the can and sure enough, heard my name called again. 

"Hey, Sam. How about that drink, buddy?" 

I didn't even lower my soft drink to hide from her as I casually walked by now going in the opposite direction. I gave absolutely no response. 

Did she think I was her manservant? Was I to fetch and carry for her as she saw fit, with no regard to what I was focused upon? She should call to Deana out on that raft and give Deana the money to go buy her refreshments.

She proceeded to labor in her garden, while I continued on my way. 

Or maybe she felt I owed it to her, for not pursuing with me what really upset the chickens that day. It was just too apparent as far as she was concerned. 

She probably thought, how rude of me to not answer her like that, deducing it was because of my single mother's inability to properly supervise her children. I, on the other hand, thought it rather impertinent to ask such a small child to pay for errands for her. She knows these summer days of gardening are hot. She's a grown woman. She should have prepared better. 

"How about that drink, buddy?" 

I heard the words in my head as I once again sat up and slowly opened my eyes.  

"I think there's something wrong with the chickens, Elbert."

"How about that drink, buddy?" 

I entered my home, made my way to my room and read the comic book, eating the candy as I did so. Upon completing it, I reached for the crayons and a sheet of paper and began doing my own drawing of what I had read, a more complete image, from a different perspective shown in the comic book. I was drawing. It was awful, awkward, and I continued to draw. 

And still the seasons progressed, interests moved beyond Molly Moose and plastic animals driving cars to anticipating driving cars of our own, but we were not yet at that stage either, but we were building up years of energy to one day give way to conquering such an open road. Undeniably, time had moved on, but in other ways, it remained still.  

This was truly one of the rare moments when I followed my brother Mark over to the Mardons. They wanted to play football, but oddly enough, I was the only one not interested. Didn't care for sports. Might damage my drawing hand. 

It was just as well, because Mark decided he would play two-on-one against Mabel, Deana's older sister and Deana herself. Both girls were athletic and full of sport.  I don't know if someone was liking someone else there, Mabel to Mark, Mark to Mabel, Deana to Mark? 

Well, nobody was after me so I wasn't concerned. I just observed from the make-believe sidelines.

Mabel gave Deana instructions on how to run interference, but Mark seemed a bit too fast.

"Dee," Mabel yelled, "I told you to get over in front of him," she gasped as Mark took the ball. "I told you to give it your best!" 

Deana stepped toward Mark who suddenly ran around both girls. She stopped dead in her tracks with her eyes closed. 

"I tried my best," she said virtually deadpan. I broke into laughter. I had never seen Deana submissive to someone else like this. Now Mabel tore into her. 

"You didn't try at all, Dee!" Mabel said, her face going red with anger. "You could have kept up with him, but you didn't." 

Mark was far away holding the football. 

Deana didn't say anything, but remained with her eyes closed and facing downward. 

"You just don't want to try!" Mabel yelled. "Hold your head up!" she scowled. 

Deana raised her face upward to look at the sky. Once again, I could only laugh. I was never aware how Deana got along with Mabel. Mark and I fought like brothers, but there was something different going on here. 

Mabel continued on, "if you're not interested in playing football, . . . " 

"I didn't say that," Deana responded. 

This was when we heard a voice call from the Mardon household. All four of us were quiet to hear what was being said. 

"Mabel, if you and Deana can't play properly with Mark and Sam, so they aren't just laughing at you, then they need to go home and you and your sister need to find something else to do!"

Like ice cold water was thrown over us in a torrential cloudburst. If we were going to be scrutinized in such a manner, none of us was really interested in anything here anymore, so we parted ways. It wasn't our fault her daughters weren't good at sports. I wasn't good at sports either, but that didn't mean I should have been out there doing a lousy job of it, like Deana and Mabel were. 

I sat up with this recollection. I have never connected the football game with Mabel to any of the other incidents. Why hadn't I? What was different this time? Was it because someone in my family was there? Because Mark was with me? I didn't know. 

There was a speech being made. I took a deep breathe and stared forward. 

Except for Josephine and myself, everyone else seemed to be pursuing sports in one regard or another. I couldn't have cared less. I was drawing. I had to draw. That was my competition. That was my excellence, ever since I bought that comic book. Where was that comic book? Did I still have it? 

I was having to explore other artistic avenues and that meant drawing Molly Moose and those animals driving cars; all sorts of aspects of moments in my young life. See what you saw, then allow yourself to see what you will see. And expand on it. Drawing the memories of what always mattered to me. 

I hardly spoke to Deana anymore. Rarely. Once in a blue moon. Just as well. Like all the other girls, she was busy pursuing Al. The new figure among us. From day one, he held the fascination of all. They seemed enraptured by him, enchanted, even envious. 

And Deana, my dear childhood friend, Deana, all but seemed like because her parents were now prize teachers, that entitled her to decide if she wanted Al or not. She became infuriated if another cheerleader even looked at Al, and insisted the cheerleader was goading him on if he looked back. It was all just accumulating into one disturbing mess of self-importance and pandering that just left me wanting to stay out of the whole thing. They actually began dividing the school up once between Deana and her competition Al had spoken to, and all the while everyone behaved as tho their opinion was the correct one and someone who didn't agree was just working against the morale of what was best for all the students. 

Around this time, I heard a couple of girls and even a teacher left the school, and this was also when Takwanda left. I had actually gotten along much better with Takwanda than I ever did again with Deana, and suddenly Takwanda wasn't there anymore. I thought about  Deana and Takwanda and that newspaper and how now, having the Mardons for neighbors across the street, there was still no need to assist in keeping Takwanda enrolled in the school and turned the proverbial deaf ear and blind eye to her departure. And around this time, there was very faint rumors starting up about still other changes, tampering, some might say. Unfairness. If you wanted to excel in school, you had to be Deana's friend. And there I was having experienced her as a childhood friend before everybody else.  

When an opening made its way for me to have access to a vocational drafting class, how could I pass that up? Half the day spent off in another location, away from this school. 

I all but sensed Mrs. Mardon wasn't going to be a capable teacher, not for me, anyway; no matter what I strived for, it wasn't going to be good enough in her book. Josie was all but confirming that to be the case. She insisted Mrs. Mardon was a very strict teacher.  Patricia never had that problem. As she was the eldest, she had a different teacher before Mardon took over. No matter how hard Josie, who had always been an excellent student, tried, she couldn't make the grades with Mardon. 

Couple of years later, I sat in Mardon's class and basically ran into the same thing, but gave it no mind. I was absorbed in the drafting class. Just drawing. I was doing very well in the class, maybe too well. I was slowly approaching the star student. Another fellow was better, but he had other personal matters to concern himself with or something, so I was free to contribute in any way possible, to the subject and the class. 

Toward the end of the year, a competition was brought to my attention by the drafting teacher; competing at a regional level to see if I could advance to state competition. I relished the thought of doing so. How could I pass this up? Drawing had always been my thoughts, my ideas, my ambitions, strongly brought into a better focus when . . . . . . I bought that comic book. 

"Sam, where's my drink, buddy?" 

I dismissed that thought from my mind. There was no way I could prepare for such a competition, this was who I had been practically all of my life. Nights turned to days and back to nights, until finally the day-in-question arrived. I was ready. 

I entered the conference center where throngs of students were assembled for various topics and fields to pursue, from all sorts of schools all around the area. There was subjects in business, reciting, performance, delivery, mathematical equations, science, among others. 

And there was Al, standing right in front of me, smiling. His eyes appeared red and seemed to waver a bit. I had no idea why that would be. 

"Are you in the drawing event, Sam?" he asked. Of course I was. I had never said much to him, but Al knew I was always drawing. Others had told him. 

"So am I," he replied. I never knew Al could draw. First I'd ever heard of that. I looked over Al's shoulder to see off in the distance, there was Deana, several other classmates I gathered were on her side, but I knew better than to say anything like that here, and of course, there was Mrs. Mardon. She was heading up the students participating in these events (practically everything but baking biscuits), and here I stood, as an entry from the vocational class. 

Outside the school's jurisdiction. 

As usual, I had very little to say to anybody as I never officially joined team Deana. I wasn't required to stay here in the presence of any of these people, the significance of this I would not realize until much later, so I made my way elsewhere to speak with other persons I was more familiar with. 

Drafting students. 

We didn't get to sit and say much when suddenly it was time for the artwork competition. We all filed into the room and sat at individual tables and waited. Then, we were given our instructions as to what we must draw, and told, "begin." 

I tossed the words of the instructions around in my head, sorting them out as I began making the lines on the paper. Nice paper. Is this what I have to draw with? Take in each word of the slogan, the instructions, balance them out. It was so difficult drawing what someone else wanted, but I had this. Now apply the necessary shadow. 

I didn't like shadow. Made it look cliched. Want to enhance? Try some enhancement. Bringing all images together so the picture will be viewable as one, so each depiction will bring the eye around to the next depiction. 

Done. My mind said done. My illustration was complete. I had almost twenty minutes left, but I was done. I looked at it and my thoughts declared, no more. It is time to leave. I turned the drawing over, put my name and class on the back, stood up and departed the room. I never realized Al was still sitting in there completing his entry.  

I walked about some more, got a coke. I was thirsty. The winners of the competitions would be announced later in the day. I wandered about some more, listened to some other students talk about their chances in their fields, I even made my way to Marden and her bunch, but hardly spoke to them. Didn't speak to Deana at all. I walked the span of the halls around the classes and looked in on the drafting students. 

Al was still in there. I took off walking down a stretch of empty hallway and began to sing John Mellencamp. 

"And the walls, come tumbling down, yea, the walls, come rumbling, tumbling, and the walls, come tumbling down, . . . "

An African-American girl walked near me and she began tapping out a rhythm to my singing. I looked at her, continued singing and she kept up the beat. 

I needed some air. I went outside. 

It was now time for the winners to be announced, so I ventured back inside, sat with a group of my fellow vocational classmates, and we listened to the announcements. Subjects were read out and names of schools were called out. On this ordeal proceeded. 

A school would be called out and screams of delight would overtake the auditorium. More milling about. 

"Attention, please. Let's get quiet." 

Every now and then, I glanced over to Mardon and her clan. I really couldn't pay attention to what they were doing. Other than Al, I really didn't know what any of them were pursuing or entered in. 

Even louder girls screamed with hysterics. A topic for one or two of my fellow vocational students was called out and passed. They didn't win. More applause for the winners. 

Now the top five illustration graphic competition were going to be announced. We grew quiet and listened. My drawing, my lifetime of drawing, with chalk on the sidewalk, that comic book. 

Cheers broke beside me. I looked at the girl in my group as she smiled broadly. 

"You won, Sam!" 

Yep, that was me. I stood and made my way through the crowd of people to receive my certificate and retrieve my drawing. Once I had both in my hands, I turned and gave a brief glimpse to the vocational instructor and those with her, and I turned and walked out the exit. I definitely needed some air now. 

I got outside and inhaled in the bright sunshine. I needed to get away from all the commotion and furor going on in there. I looked at my drawing, then looked at the certificate. With my name on it. I had placed in the top five. Now on to state competition, I thought. If I smoked, I would have definitely lit up. 

For the time leading up to the state events, I would not realize no one in the school from Mrs. Mardon's group said anything to me about my placing. Not a word. Not even Mardon herself. And it would be twenty-five years later before I would realize significance in that one. 

Once again, there was no preparation I could do for this event. I had been laboring for so long, there was just no way I could "draw more" or "draw faster." I was already there. I knew what I could draw and what I couldn't draw, and how it would all look. 

State competition rolled around, I drew, attended the ceremonies the next day and didn't place. Well, that was devastating. 

To make matters worse, the old man attempted to contact some of us. Patricia wouldn't speak to him, Ryan was angry with him, but didn't want to confront him, and Josie became very upset. Slightly overweight, it  was around this time, we learned Josie was a diabetic and had high blood pressure, and she never told anyone how she was feeling. It was only by a chance examination held in the school that how high her blood pressure was became known. And year after year, she sat in classes with Mardon and had her grade point average marred lower and lower, for punctuation placement in how close it was to the word. And she took it all in.  

Mother became very distraught and very angry about our father trying to contact us. I didn't regard him as such. It was an effort to settle her down and see Josie taken to the doctor. What a routine. 

It was my final year in high school. I was done with all of this. I was elated. I literally just went through the motions. Woke up with no alarm clock, came home. Nothing to focus upon. Just emptiness. 

Halfway through the year, and still in my drafting class, I learned there would be another competition, much the same as my previous year. Well, wonderful, I thought. The only plans I made was to simply wait for the date to roll around and went from there. 

Same building. Same room, and once again there was Al. We were both now seniors, as was Deana and all her other little friends here. And of course, there was Mardon, still not speaking to me about anything. 

As it was, I didn't want to speak to her either. Just didn't like being around her. 

The competition was held, another drawing, and how short does this part of the story need to be made? Everything played out exactly the same as before. I placed in the top five, I got a certificate with my name upon it, I attended state competition and didn't place. All exactly the same as the previous year. What I didn't realize that had also played out the same was Al lost, both years. Didn't place at regional, as I had done. 

As days wrapped up and my final year of this whole astonishing experience was coming to a conclusion, I never once pondered what any of it had been about. I was totally lost as to what this whole idea of high school had been for. I had no direction in life, I had gained nothing but alienation and isolation. It seemed to me now I would leave here and begin working toward starting a life for myself. So what had all of this been about? 

Officially now, we were through. I had senior day to attend, then a couple of weeks later, there would be graduation. We held senior day in the auditorium, same dwelling that had been there all my years in this place. I sat on the stage toward the back, dear sweet Deana was on the front row. She was our outstanding star student, every which a way around. 

When we arrived and were seated, there was a booklet, Our Senior Memories, sitting in each chair. I picked it up and began thumbing through it. It read like total fiction. 

"So thankful to our beloved teachers, especially to our Mrs. Mardon, . . ."

From there was more how Deana had achieved so much, cheerleader, grades, popularity. 

I then turned to jokes and began reading. Smartest, Funniest, Nicest, and two people's names, then these were followed by less impressive subjects, such as loudest laugh, biggest feet, most bashful. I scanned over the categories and couldn't believe this had been sanctioned, but knew dear Deana thought stuff like this was fun. She always did. 

Not surprisingly, Deana's name never came up under any of the 'mean' topics, or funny ones, if you will. 

Then there was my name: biggest nose. 

I sat there, a high schooler, to see I merited the most votes for biggest nose. I slowly closed the book in my hands and raised my head to just look forward with silhouetted shapes illuminated by overhead lights, making it difficult to clearly see anyone. As I turned my head to see what I could, bring some things into focus, I glimpsed to the quiet backstage area to see our wonderful class sponsor, who no doubt sanctioned this class day book, because her daughter Deana knew it would be enjoyable for all of us in this senior class. 

Biggest nose. 

Standing to the side, behind the curtain so the student body seated out front could not see her, there was our dear Mrs. Mardon. My  neighbor, mother to my childhood friend who now didn't even speak to me. This whole experience was over. 

I looked toward the first row out front before the stage, which I couldn't directly see, but recalled when we sat there as first graders and watched a play. What was that play? The Prince And The Pauper. Deana and the Mardons hadn't moved to the neighborhood. They weren't in this school yet. One whole year without a Mardon. 

I wasn't listening and an introduction was given. 

For Al. 

I didn't know what he had done. Mr. Class something. I watched as Al moved toward the microphone and just out of view of the audience, because she had to keep everything going smoothly, there was Mrs. Mardon. 

Al got to the microphone and cleared his throat. The audience of teens began to laugh, that doggone Al. He was such a cut-up. 

Mardon seemed to think the moment should be more somber and immediately gestured for him to cease such antics. Gradually there was more laughter and even some of the seniors on the stage chuckled. 

Mardon turned to look at us and gave us the death glare, as tho destroying our merriment would ricochet back and have a similar effect on the outer audience. She stood and worked her overwhelming disapproval across us, like some black wave of shame. 

Regardless, the laughter dispersed anyway, in spite of her conduct, and wanting to listen to Al, I was disappointed when he was already through and I didn't hear a word he spoke. I was distracted by that Mardon woman's countenance and realized that would be the final expression we, the graduating students this year from this school, would receive en masse from a member of the faculty; that icy frown of resentment. How apropos, I thought to myself. 

Then, we were done. We departed.

Josie entered the hospital. She was too big for having diabetes, then our father wanted to see her, and she refused, further upsetting her. I was later told she had a heart attack and did pass, but was revived. At the time, she was only 22 years old. 

Mother became incredibly overwrought with Josie's situation, so as the youngest, I stayed home to help her out and help them both out. Any pursuits of any kind of artistry were put on hold, and quite honestly, the last thing I wanted to do was sit in another classroom of any kind. 

Ryan and Mark, on the other hand, pursued work and school, if able. I think Mark went after more classes, night school, something. 

Patricia seemed to go furthest with her education. More power to her was all I thought. She deserved it. 

Josie, on the other hand, was hitting every obstacle around. Her blood pressure was giving her all sorts of problems when she didn't properly take her medication, which was far too often. She tried losing weight when she met a young man she felt suited her fancy, but when the relationship ended, so did the weight loss and scheduled medication applications.

Ryan had an automobile accident, which nobody needed. 

I began putting on weight. 

The old man sought to visit again, feeling only he could help us, and that really upset everyone. Josie was rushed to the hospital, possible attempt at an overdose. Had to determine if it was intentional or accidental. 

Mark got married. The old man showed up at the justice of the peace. The police were called in. 

I managed to get a better job, as well as a part-time job, and helped out as I could. 

Mark had a nervous breakdown. His marriage ended. They tried reconciliation. 

Patricia decided she was going after her Doctorate degree. She returned to school to begin working toward this goal. 

Josie was once again rushed to the hospital, after having a seizure of some kind. 

Father showed up yet again, insisting we were the ones hurting Josie, and saying Patricia was selfish for not helping her own sister. 

I developed gray hairs, then more gray hairs and then proceeded to lose them. Whatever I remotely thought I could do in a drawing career vanished with the horizon.  I submitted artwork whenever I could, just anything I thought might be required, might be what they were looking for. 

And still I put on more weight. 

Then the old man died. Heart failure. I didn't go to the funeral. I honestly made a last ditch effort to go, but auto trouble deemed otherwise. I just wasn't meant to be there to support them, if nothing else. They had to determine how they felt about all this man had done with them on their own. 

I went to a movie. Josie went to the hospital yet again. We'd stopped hearing from Mark, for whatever reason. 

I became disabled on the job. Health issues. Josie was already on disability. 

And now arrived the moment of all moments; the internet. Everyone was able to communicate with everyone else if they were just too far away, and we could all get in touch once more. 

In a pig's eye. I didn't even look up anyone from school or anywhere else. I hit the art sites, seeing what was popular. That's what is popular? 

I engaged in email chats, discussions that often saw me branded a troll, and I would be removed. Well, I thought, I guess that's why I haven't managed to do much of anything in this designation. I was far too unruly for others, it seemed. 

But nothing else to do, I persisted with exploring the arts. I had to change my online name a couple of times, even make up a whole new email. 

Finally, I decided to venture forth into the website of connections and communications. What harm could it do? 

Sure enough, in no time at all, I had connected with scores of those people from decades gone by. Long, long ago. I had virtually no memories with any of them. I friended up with Takwanda, even Mabel and finally Deana. We said absolutely nothing to one another. 

Well, Tawkanda's parents still lived next door and the Mardons were still in their home. 

I checked us all out. We had all aged. We were all bigger. Grayer. Balder. 

Then I wondered about Al. Where had he gone? Did he pursue the arts with better luck than myself? What was his last name? 

Al. 

Sometimes I just couldn't stand poor Al because everybody seemed to love him so much and nobody was giving me any credit. Deana loved him too, and not that I was jealous, especially in looking at Deana now. Had to be glad I never ended up with her. And incredibly, she did marry up with someone it seems. A couple of times, tho now it appeared she was divorced. 

She had been Mrs. Al Stevens. She had married Al. I couldn't believe it. Sure enough, there was a wedding pic, couple of other pics. No, that one was still in high school. Then she married this other fellow it seems. 

Well, well, I thought. I wondered how the Mardons enjoyed that. Their brilliant daughter having failed marriages, one of them with everyone's beloved Al. 

Al Stevens. 

I decided to look him up and typed in his name. The list came up and there, unmistakably, was his picture. Like the rest of us, he was older, heavier. 

I clicked on his name and began reading posts. 

"Oh, Al, so sorry to hear," and "hate it has come to this, Al". 

Something happened? The posts were dated about five months ago. I scrolled down some more to see a heading. I clicked on it and read. 

"Shoot Out With Police, . . . . . hostages held in a drug den, . . . . police had dealt with Stevens before, . . . . an extensive record, . . . . " 

I froze. What had happened? 

Everyone's beloved Al, with all that promise and opportunity, made endless bad decision after bad decision. I thought back, to what little I ever had to do with him, so very little, because I didn't want to be his friend if I had to be Deana's friend or have Mardon's seal of approval. 

Every bad decision imaginable. I read some more. 

After graduation, he had gone into pharmaceuticals. And then he was doing drugs? You've got to be kidding. 

But this was Al. Everyone's beloved Al. Deana's Al. They were married about three years. The golden boy of my high school years. All the girls pursued him and all the boys wanted to be like him. 

I recalled his wavering eyes during that drawing competition. When did he start doing drugs? Obviously he was on them then. he was doing drugs, and Deana, Mrs. Mardon, they all just looked the other way. They liked Al. 

I stood up from the computer and raced to the back room. I hauled out a large red plastic tote and pulled the lid off. I began to sort through all the papers, doctor's notes, bills, everything I had kept over the many years and there they were, the two documents from the art competition I had placed regional, two years in a row. 

And I beat Al. 

I had shown Mardon we weren't a bunch of damaged children who weren't worth her valuable time and didn't need the likes of her. I had bettered them with who I was and what I had done, the youngest child raised by a single mother and no father, and I could do better than what her gifted, talented daughter from such a loving home could ever choose. 

And I never knew it. 

Mardon made sure I was never recognized for anything, never included, never complimented because of my unhappy home life that saw me be such an undisciplined child around her and could possibly have been a bad influence with her precious Deana. 

But I could get biggest nose. 

Everything went dark and silent. When I finally opened my eyes, I was looking at the ceiling and the right side of my face hurt. I went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror to see a bruise forming on my cheekbone. I had hit my head as I blacked out. 

A lifetime. Virtually an entire lifetime of struggling and uncertainty, striving to do well, to do better, overcome the unpleasantries of a homelife, and all the while, there were professional fixtures for a youngster's guidance present with my upbringing who were doing all they could to keep me hindered. 

The phone rang. I answered it. Josie had died. I heard nothing else. I went to lie down and try to rest from having just knocked myself out already. 

My dear Josie. Your life had been an endless struggle. You couldn't figure out why you had made good grades and suddenly in your final years, everything you did warranted a lower grade. You believed it was because Mardon was such a strict teacher, but actually she was determined to have us branded incapable children of doing anything worthwhile because of our unloving home. She and her husband decided this. Because the Mardons were such intelligent people who could so easily perceive the failures in the lives of others. 

No doubt, as she had done Al when he married Deana. But I couldn't think about that now. My beloved Josie was gone. I had lost one of my foursome. 

Five weeks later, Patricia completed her Doctorate degree. 

And I happily took to the information highway to share the news with all. 

Mr. and Mrs. Mardon weren't on the website, but Deana and Mabel were. From those who knew Patricia and Ryan and the rest of us, congratulations were responded. 

Deana and Mabel, however, never did. 

"Miss Patricia Smith!"

I clapped as she made her way across the stage. The firstborn child of our mother, who sat to my left. I glanced at her to see a woman staring brightly as she applauded. Ryan was on the other side of me. He clapped as well, even called out her name. 

To think that my parents could have a child who could receive her Doctorate, while the sensational Mardons never could have an offspring receive any such title. 

And the one sibling in my family, Patricia, would be the very child to excel at education and never sat in Mrs. Mardon's glorious room, and was thereby spared her personal prejudice toward us, however it was decreed. 

Mrs. Mardon passed away two months after I posted online about Patricia getting her degree. She just couldn't bear it. All her teaching accolades and the one child in a family she never taught academically achieved something, more than her own children ever had. 

It was Patricia's honor, but deep down, I knew I was thinking the same thing as Patricia. 

"This is for you, Josie."