mmmmci

Divvy Democratically

“Even Stephen!” Or is he
a Steven? Look how each
kid hovers over their divvy.

“I made you a lunch you
can’t smack!” Tim thinks
his mom says before he

walks out the door on
his way to school. Then,
“Hurry up, slow-pokes, or

you’ll be late for band
practice.” She knew
neither of them played

an instrument, threw a
flag or did any percussive
click-ticking, at least with

any official objects of per
cussion. Tim had banged
his head so hard jumping

into a bus once that he’d
woken up in a hospital bed
with a concussion. Which,

he’d think, from time to
tine, “How unfair!” Because,
you see, he’d never been

banged up in such a way
that he’d have a permanent
souvenir, or at least one that

might last as long as a
plaster cast that could be
signed by all of the class

mates who didn’t speak
to him. Which were all
of his classmates. He’d

always gotten along better
with his teachers. He’d
hear all too often the

nasally screech “Teacher’s
pet! Teacher’s pet!” Which,
at this point, was not a source

of pride, but an excuse to turn
red with embarrassment. Oh,
that was his favorite. But even

at his age, which was whatever
age fifth graders were at the time,
he had within him enough of a

kernel of empathy that he felt
a bit guilty or bad or was it
perhaps even a bit of comp

assion for his younger sibs
who, for whatever reasons
such things occur, had such

troubles within that red-
bricked institution most
people remember as where,

during the daylight hours,
their trip from post-toddler
through pubescence trans

pired. If they remembered
anything at all. So his kid
brothers and little sister had

their troubles in school, never
able to get the scores that
Mom or sometimes even

Dad might deign to congrat
ulate, pridefully imagining a 

son or daughter who might

grow up and, what, escape?
“Aren’t you Tim’s younger
brother (or sister)?” they’d

often be asked as homework
was returned with frowny-
faces, or worse, throughout

the day. Or “Why can’t you
act more like your big brother?”
said before sending one of them

off to the principle. So, in retro
spect, being teacher’s pet was
not that horrible, Tim supposed.

Rather than return home to attend
to the cows and the dogs and the
cats and the horses like his younger 

siblings would, each claiming one 

or more of the beasts as their
very own, their “pets,” Tim would

flop onto his bed, dig out the
book he’d nearly finished or per
haps had just begun, and read.

This he’d do until dinner was
called, and then back he’d go
to his bed and his book after

he had eaten, reading more,
until all of the kids were
ordered to bed (this would

occur for many years at
around eight in the evening).
But Tim, having a small pen-

light, would continue to
read after that, curled under
his covers, well into the night.

And then, usually around the
time he began to hear Johnny
Carson in the distant living

room, and his dad’s occasion
al belly laugh, he’d doze off,
jerking away momentarily

shortly thereafter just to
turn off the pen light.
He didn’t mind being

that different than the rest
of the group of humans with
whom he lived, those folks who

were, and he’d sigh as he
thought of this, blood relatives.
Sure, it was all a bit exasperating

at times. But, all in all, he didn’t
have many complaints. He simply
preferred his way of being over theirs.