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khakis. He wore loafers and those Woody Allen glasses that he was never seen without. He was also the only African American Gerard knew of that spoke with an off-Spanish accent. Technically, he was the only African American in the school. As soon as Gerard sat down, Edison took a calculator out of his backpack. IT was the latest, most comprehensive, scientific calculator.
“I got this from my Aunt who lives in New York. Actually, she gave me two because it was a buy one get one free sale. I’d never be able to afford even one on my own.” He said stroking the calculator.
“Um . . .” Gerard began.
“The other one is for you, since you REALLY need help with math.” Said Edison taking another calculator out and handing it too Gerard.
“Thanks. These things are really cool.” Said Gerard half heartedly as he looked at the calculator in his hand. There was no way in hell that Edison could have afforded one of these. His family struggled with money constantly. Maybe that was why Edison dressed so geeky. Class began, Gerard put away his calculator, and took out his notebook.
He stood there alone after school. He stood there with no one around. No one in the art studio, no one on the track, no one on the football field, no one in the library. Nobody watching him. He liked it that way. No one to criticize him or to bother him. He ran his hand through his long jet-black hair. What he wished he could do was leave forever and never come back.
He didn’t want to have to deal with almost every single person in school hating him. He leaned against the wire fence that surrounded the football field. What was the point of even having a football team at all if they never won? Not that he really cared. It just seemed stupid. The only sport that he liked was croquet, and anyway, that wasn’t a real sport.
Gerard stood there in the chilly fall air staring listlessly across the football field. People had dumped trash there, paper cups and newspapers strewn around everywhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a football lying there amongst a large pile of rubbish. He went over to it and picked it up. He kicked the football as hard as he could, sending it flying to the other side of the field. That was exactly what he wished he could do to everyone who made fun of him. He watched it hit the ground. Gerard felt someone staring at him, and he turned around, coming face to face with an angry looking football player.
“Listen you weasel,” he said to Gerard, “that was my football. You have no right to touch what isn’t yours. Go over and get it for me now!”
Gerard glared back and clenched his fists. “I didn’t know it was your football. Go over and get it yourself. I’m not your servant.” He snapped.
The football player punched Gerard’s arm. “When I tell you to do something, you better do it!”
In response, Gerard sat down on the field and looked up at the football player. He crossed his arms defiantly. His opponent kicked him and told him and told him to get up and get his football. He kept on kicking him in the shin and the stomach. Gerard stood, or rather, “sat“ his ground. He didn’t whether he was right or wrong in not getting the guy’s football, but he refused to give in to this jerk.
Out of nowhere, the football coach came running up . “What are you doing, Thomas?” he asked the football player.
Thomas looked surprised for a moment and then grimaced again. “Gerard took my ball and kicked it to the other side of the field.”
Gerard was surprised that Thomas knew his name, and wanted to know how he learned it. “How do you know my name?” he asked.
“Everyone knows who you are.” Said Thomas smirking nastily.
The pot bellied coach looked at Gerard. “Did you take his football and kick it?” he asked.