A Rain of Frogs

After a few days, the newness and novelty of grade five wore off, to be replaced by an atonal sameness of routine typical of any classroom. There was some initial excitement cause by the fact that I was the only person in the class that could not write in cursive, but it was agreed that I would be allowed to continue to print, so long as my printing was neat and legible, and “representative of a quality of work attributable to a grade five student.”

The schoolwork was not difficult. It shortly became as normal as the drone of the air conditioner. My transition to grade five was more or less seamless in maths, sciences and english. French proved to be a challenge, as I had missed the introductory classes that most students experienced in grade four, but some diligent studying with my sister quickly compensated.

After the first two weeks at school, it became clear that grade five no longer hated me. Sister Maria Corvi didn’t hate me, she simply thought I was “too big for my britches” and “too smart for my own good.” There was no doubt she believed I should never have been skipped. My continued success in her classroom merely infuriated her.

While the workload of grade five presented no real challenges, the social landscape of grade five seemed too complex for me to travel. While most of my classmates were more than happy to ignore me, Jay continued to resent me for reasons I could not understand. His motives were impenetrable. His cruelty was profound.

No week went by in which I wouldn’t hide the purply-green bruises on my arms, marks imprinted on my skin in a near-perfect fist shape. His cronies would chant profanities at me. Even when I was far away from their taunts, the words and the hurt would float across the school yard, and the wind would whisper them in my ear.

Once he stole my sketchbook, and scribbled obscenities across every page. Another time he tripped me during a class basketball game. It looked harmless enough – an accidental collision – but his knee met my crotch and left me dazed on the floor while the good Sister screamed at me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get up.

And each time he would watch me, the gleam in his eye daring me to tell someone, to try and get him in trouble. And each time I remained silent.

Sometimes I believed he would really hurt me, do something permanent.

“It’s easy. They hate you because you’re different” she said from behind my sketchbook.

I had forced it on her, for her to practice her drawing. She claimed to have no artistic ability, but gentle coaxing had brought out a clumsy yet unique style that I secretly envied. If she wanted, she could be great.

Her pencil scratched over the cheap paper, an almost crystalline scraping sound bridging the silence between us.

“I don’t understand.” I said. “ How am I different? Why would they hate it?”

She giggled and continued sketching. “How about this? You tell me.”

I sighed and settled into Amy’s game. Never a direct answer, never a direct question. Always a riddle. I looked over the sketchbook into her eyes, but they were focused on the paper. I was hoping to see a clue, some indication of where I should start, but she revealed nothing.

“I don’t know. I’m smart, I guess.” I said.

She nodded agreement. “Certainly an understatement. You skipped grade four.”

“I’m good at things.” I felt this was what she was hoping for.

“Yes. Good at sports. Good at music and math,” she said as she lifted the sketchbook for a moment, “and good at art. You’re good at everything, aren’t you?”

“Not everything. I’m no good at fitting in.” I answered.

She just laughed, and ignored it. “You’re good at everything, and you’re awfully cute.”

This time I laughed. “Says you, and you’re obviously blind. What would cute have to do with being different, anyway?”

“It sets you apart. You’re a golden boy. Blond hair, blue eyes, athletic. Terrifically good looking. Smart, good at sports, a gifted musician. A gifted artist. All these things set you apart, make you different. Don’t roll your eyes at me.”

She dropped the sketchbook, but stayed curled up on her chair, knees tucked beneath her chin. I wanted to tell her I could see her underwear, wanted to diffuse the suddenly oppressive weight of this conversation, but she continued on before I had the chance.

“You’re all that. And you’re broody. You think deep thoughts and puzzle them away. They’re like moths that cannot fathom the lamp. They are attracted to the beauty and light, they need to be close to you.”

“And then they get too close, and fear they’ll be consumed, burned away and lost. So they hold you at arms length, close enough to bask in your light, far enough that you cannot hurt them.”

I opened my mouth to interject, to tell her she was wrong, but she pressed on.

“Your nature keeps them from you, and they hate you for it.”

The first day of Grade Five was notable for many reasons. For the first time in my life, I was the shortest person in the class. For the first time in my life, I attended class with a black boy. For the first time ever, I experienced violence at the hands of another student. For the first time ever, I met a nun.

The school year began with a bang. A boy named Jay “accidentally” knocked me over, spilling my books across the floor and drawing the amused attention of every student in my new classroom. At least a foot taller than I was, Jay seem offended by my presence in the classroom, offended because I was so young. Offended by my existence.

When I attempted to pick up my books, he kicked me in the stomach and glared at me, silently daring me to challenge him. No words passed between us, but his eyes made it clear that I was not welcome in his world. As he moved off to savor the approval of his cronies, our new teacher entered the suddenly silent room.

Sister Maria Corvi. Thin as a rail and just as rigid, she had the face of a vulture, happy to feast on the remains of any who crossed her. Her eyes were keen and hungry behind practical, prudent spectacles. One look at her was enough to understand she was married to the Good Lord and Doing His Work, and heaven help anyone who got in the way.

“Boy, what are you doing on the floor?” she demanded. Inside, I withered.

I couldn’t help but feel I would get in her way a lot.

“I fell down, ma’am.” I lied, obeying the secret code of childhood and not naming my oppressor.

“Get up.” She directed me to a seat next to a round, oily girl who promptly stuck her tongue out at me and called me a baby.

My heart sank. Grade Five was only ten minutes old, and it already hated me.

Today she champions over her shadow self and takes mastery of her domain. But at the moment of her triumph she guarantees her failure.

It would be two long months before the everyday sameness of summer would finally be eclipsed by the start of Grade Five.

It wasn’t hard to keep my mind off the impending school year. My parents were staunch believers in the summer camp concept, and so my sister and I were shuttled off to camps and activities – anything that would keep us from being at home during the day. Perhaps my parents secretly believed that keeping us busy to the point of exhaustion would render us too tired to cause trouble.

Windsurfing camp. Cycling camp. Orienteering camp. Camping camp. Swimming camp. Soccer camp. Basketball camp. Music camp. Art camp. With a typically East-European zeal, my father enrolled me in activities that stretched the mind and body, cultured and improved me. Everything had to have a deeper meaning. Everything had to make me a better person. Fun was irrelevant. Rebuilding the machine was paramount. If they had to pay good money to keep me out of trouble, it may as well make me a better person.

I came home spent every night. Spent by physical activity. Spent by mental activity, by the relentless friction of competition. The days flowed into each other, until I couldn’t remember what day of the week it was any more. It certainly kept us out of trouble. Often we were too tired to eat.

Worse still was the grind of socialization. I was picked first for
teams. People would sit with me at lunchtime, ask for my phone number so we could go to movies outside of camp hours. I won awards, was voted honors by my peers. Even though we were only nine, girls would giggle and try to catch my eye. I didn’t understand. This game had rules I couldn’t penetrate.

I was a stranger in a strange land. A goat amongst the sheep. Alien.

This seemingly eternal summer, unremarkable except for its busyness, gave no hint of what was to follow – the most remarkable school year of my life.