He wasn’t fat or skinny or ugly or smelly. He wasn’t dumber or smarter than the rest of us but Zimbo called him Moosehead, and for some telepathic cruelty understood only by fifth graders, the moniker stuck. Paul was constantly tormented. Mme. Bisnaire finally snapped, sent the wretch out of the classroom then spent the rest of the lesson reaming us out. Being good Catholics, our collective guilt led us to welcome him back with crocodile arms. Even the St. Clair Beach girls invited him to skip rope. But only that afternoon. The next day it was torture as usual. Image based on Skipping Vinegar Girl by flickrsquared.
No comments:
Post a Comment