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Chapter 1
"Define 'weird', sir"... Sidney Overstreet had taken just about all the crap he was going to take. Sidney had always been different. His speech, mode of dress, overall demeanor… all ten degrees removed from his peers. Practically every aspect of his life occured outside the mythical bell curve of predictability associated with the average sixteen-year-old boy.
Over the years, he'd learned to accept the criticism and scorn of his classmates and the majority of the teachers who made up his world, not that he cared. Experience taught him that if a situation reduced itself to conflict, simply do nothing. Had there been a magazine called Whipping Boy Monthly, Sidney would be the centerfold.
"Well, Sid, I guess, by 'weird', I think that some of us- correction, most of us might take the position that the use of the word "Balzac" as an answer for question 13- a fill-in-the-blank question reading, 'The pouch containing the male genitalia is called the _________', is weird! Wouldn’t you agree?"
The room filled with snorting and giggling, forcing Mr. Renton to hold Sidney's paper in the air and scowl at the class, his signal for order to be re-established. Then, he peered over the top of his frames at Sidney, maintaining a self-assured smug posture, his right butt cheek on the front of his desk, his left foot on the floor. To Sidney, he resembled a post-apocalyptic Statue of Liberty.
"I assure you, Mr. Renton, it was just a play on words... I was not casting aspersions on anyone’s family." The class erupted in laughter.
The middle-aged Biology 2 teacher now frantically waved the paper back and forth in the air, in the time-honored 'Shut the Hell up!' gesture. Nearly-inaudible titterings from the back of the room provided the only break from total silence as the man fought to maintain control, both of the class and of himself. He sat Sidney's paper on the desk, removed his glasses, and began to wipe them with his handkerchief as he continued.
"Well, then, Mr. Overstreet, am I to infer from your answer and gracious comment, that I should associate your poor attempt at a pun with the possibility that you really do know the answer, and therefore give you credit for 'Balzac'? Or, in the alternative, am I to assume that you give me the great honor of sharing the same genetic lineage with the esteemed French author, simply because you couldn't come up with the word 'scrotum'?"
All eyes shifted to Sidney. His shoulders slumped a little as he sat quietly, his hands folded on his writing desk and his eyes fixed on the floor. Then, Sidney looked up at the teacher, looked back down again, and started to speak.
"Actually, there is a third possibility."
"Oh? Is that so? Well, then, by all means enlighten us."
The instructor inserted the earpiece of his glasses in his mouth, attempting to look dignified and intimidating. In a gesture of mock supplication, he held his hands out in front of him, palms up, "Well, go ahead, Einstein, you've got the floor".
"I'm sixteen years old, Mr. Renton. For ten or eleven of those sixteen years, I’ve been teased and put down. I've always known that I'm not like you, and lately, I'm comfortable with it."
All eyes watched Sidney as he stood up and walked to the back of his room. His voice, clear and resonant, sounded as if it contained artificial amplification.
"Never have I raised a hand to anyone, even in self-defense, Mr. Renton. But, I've now reached the conclusion that you will never change. I can forgive these kids, they only parrot the attitudes they've learned from you since they first started school."
"Yes, well, I think-"
"Shut up, man! It's my turn to talk now. You asked me a question!"
An uncomfortable silence fell over the room. No sounds violated the rules. Sam Renton's fixed gaze now trained on Sidney.
"You, however, are paid to make a difference, Mr. Renton, and you have failed- miserably. You couldn't challenge a monkey to eat a banana. You won't tolerate any kind of free expression of thought because someone might ask you a question you can't answer! Then we'd all see you for who you really are, an insecure little shell of a man who steals his paycheck from the taxpayers!"
Sam Renton exhaled audibly, signalling his disdain. "Yes, well, are you about finished, Sid? Some of these people are probably getting bored with your little performance. I know I certainly am." The sudden redness on the back of the teacher's neck symbolized his rage and frustration. No student ever talked to Sam Renton like that.
A sneer broadcast from Sidney's face, more threat than joy, as if it had been painted on. He walked slowly toward the front of the room and stood inches from Sam Renton's face.
"I'm leaving now. Balzac was a freedom fighter of sorts. He dared to challenge that which he couldn't accept. From this point on, sir, if you feel the necessity to talk to me at all, please address me as Balzac."
Sam Renton glared at his young adversary, straining to keep his composure. Sid's eyes, fixed and dilated, stared right back at him, but they'd lost their emotion- and the smirk had also vanished, to be replaced by a steel mask which had fallen over his face. Now, the teacher felt the intimidation. Later, he would remember thinking that he hoped Sidney Overstreet didn't smuggle a pistol into his backpack. There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that the boy would use it.
"Well, it seems as though our time together has come to an end, for today. Please pass your test papers to the front. Over the weekend, read and understand Chapters 13 and 14 in the book, and be prepared to discuss them on Monday." Lord, just get me through this.
"Phhhhh...." Sidney shook his head in mock disbelief, walking away, then stopped-- pointing his finger at the teacher. "Hey! How's it feel to be Sidney Overstreet?" Calmly, the boy picked up his books and started toward the door, pausing for a backward glance and smile. Stunned classmates raised eyebrows and grinned at their neighbors. Can you even believe this shit?
Sam looked up at the wall clock. 11:30. No other kids were in the halls because he had just dismissed his class twenty-five minutes early. Perspiration poured from Renton's body. Never could he remember feeling so helpless. I froze.. No one stopped at his desk, and no small talk accompanied the kids' departure from the room.
Renton sat down at his desk, folded his hands in front of his mouth and overlooked his classroom. Oddly, he saw none of the trappings adorning the walls and common spaces of this science room. All he saw was Sidney Overstreet's face, and all he heard was ‘insecure little shell of a man’. Sam Renton, varsity wrestling coach and former Marine, sat trembling.
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