August 2017 . . . .

“The Head Librarian”
     Not a big boy, not a bully because he was larger or older or stronger than other boys. Dark hair, untrimmed. Underwashed, but not grimy. Rather, dusty. like a child gets when playing in the attic. Deep-set eyes, bruised looking. A bully — thick of mind, surly and bored — that used to choose me out of all of the classrooms full of boys to be the target of his ire. I was the teacher’s kid. So, of course.

     I was running home from school. I remember that I used to time myself, out the back door from school, across the yard and down the hill path through the woods. If I left early, I could be first to the crossing guard and then run all the way home. But sometimes I was behind, and then he and his . . . minions would be in front of me.

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