Around the age of 11, I left the circle of friends I had in elementary school, namely Russell Dennis, Stewart Howard, and Rodney Michelson. I had been hanging out with those individuals from kindergarten to fifth grade. Then, an I.Q. test was given to the entire school and my score came out as second-highest in the school The score was 162. That was a ratio IQ score. The deviation IQ equivalent is 151. Still, pretty high. Bryan Butler had the highest score, a point or two above mine. I can’t remember his exact score, but I do know that he went on to become a successful scientist, whilst I drifted from one interest to another. That goes to show you that it doesn’t matter what your potential is, the important thing is that you strive to meet it, maintaining focus throughout. Sadly, I have not been able to do that in my life.

My elementary school guidance counselor, Mr. Covington, saw the results of the I.Q. test and felt that I should be with friends who were of the same “caliber” as i, not the “lowlifes” I was hanging out with. So, he managed to change my schedule and that of some others in the school that he hand-picked. There were about half a dozen boys in the group. I can only remember two of them by name, Bryan Butler and Del Espinosa. I don’t think Del scored high on the IQ test. He was just a popular student at the school and a friend of Bryan’s. In fact, all the members of the group were already friends, except for me.

What Mr. Covington did was put us together to do some activities. He hoped this would spawn a friendship between us. I remember one of the activities was playing basketball, (a sport for which I was horrible at, yet loved to watch). The guys were amicable. (Of course, who wouldn’t be!? They were getting out of classes to spend time playing.) However, the bonds of friendship didn’t really take hold. Once the sessions were over, we all went our separate ways.

Mr. Covington wasn’t a total failure at this experiment, though. He did spark something inside of me that made me see a greater potential for myself. I started to see my older friends as undesirable. I felt they were going down a path that would end in their demise. In fact, they felt the same and actually desired it. I didn’t share in their sentiments.

After the sessions with Mr. Covington’s proposed friends, I returned to find Dennis, Rodney, and Stewart utterly possessed with a desire to die. I don’t really know how it came about, as I wasn’t with them during this period, but I remember they talked about it constantly. They would contemplate what would be the best way to die.

Dennis began wearing strictly black clothes and talking about things of an arcane nature. Stewart didn’t take part in that behavior, but did join in the talks about suicide. Rodney seemed to follow whatever course Dennis was going on, merely for the sake of their friendship. In fact, Dennis began idolizing things of a satanic nature and Rodney followed suit. Stewart, again, seemed more hesitant to go down that path with them. I, on the other hand, thought the whole thing was preposterous. I cannot remember ever thinking along those same lines at that time, not even for an instant.

The experience I had with the boys Mr. Covington put me with left me feeling that I could do better than Dennis, Stewart, and Rodney. The talking about evil and death became mind-numbing to me. Eventually, I just wished for them to be out of my life. I remember feeling that if they want to die they should go ahead and die.

One day at school, Stewart came running up to me and said that Dennis and Rodney had swallowed ink from a pen, trying to kill themselves. I remember my reaction was not one that I should have had, but one of acceptance. Strangely, I was elated that they had finally put forth the effort to do something that they had been talking about for a long time. I should have felt empathy for them, but all I felt was disdain. I blamed them for my inability to rise up and meet my potential. I didn’t realize that it was only I who was to blame.

Well, they didn’t die. In fact, I don’t remember if they even got sick from the pen ink. I’m sure if they did, I would have remembered it. But, what I do remember was one of the most loathsome memories of my entire life, what transpired after the pen ink drinking. It is something that I can never forget and something that I will always be ashamed of. This memory haunts me to this day.

Having failed in their suicide attempt by drinking pen ink, the boys discussed alternative methods. One option gave rise above all the rest, hanging. It was felt by the three boys that they could assist one another in their expedited journey toward death, by hanging each other from a tree. In turn, each of them would pull down on a rope that was branched over a tree limb and wrapped around another one’s neck. This was a silly idea from the beginning, because who was going to pull down on the last one’s rope, once all the others were dead? They didn’t think about that, and I certainly wasn’t volunteering.

Shortly after this discussion, I was enjoying a school recess by trying to collect iron with a magnet from the sand in the playground. A classmate came running past me, yelling that Rodney was being hung on a tree at the side of the school. I ran with several other students around the corner of the school to see Rodney with a rope around his neck that was slung over a tree branch and held by Dennis and Stewart. Then, the two boys began pulling on the rope, which grew taut around Rodney’s neck and then suspended him in the air.

Rodney remained motionless for a brief period of time. Then, he began to convulse and thrash about. His hands or legs had not been tied together, as would have been the manner of thinking individuals (which these guys were not at that time). He started clawing at the tree, tearing off its outer bark.

Just then, one of the students came running around the corner, yelling, “Here comes the Principal!” The small crowd that had gathered there quickly dispersed. Dennis and Stewart began lowering Rodney. Something suddenly jumped inside of me, something that I don’t understand to this day. I yelled, “NO!” and ran to the rope, pulling down on it. I really wanted Rodney to die and I wasn’t about to let Dennis and Stewart give up in their efforts. I have no idea why I did that.

Maybe it was out of pity for them, knowing that they had failed at everything they attempted before that. Or, maybe it was out of sadness for myself, feeling this was a way to get rid of one of my many problems. Or, maybe it was out of hatred toward them, feeling that they had caused my many problems. Whatever the case was, it wasn’t a good action on my part – probably the worst thing I have ever done. As I recall, Russell and Stewart gave up altogether as the students scrambled to avoid the Principal’s wrath, while I held in there until just before he came around the corner.

As I took off running from the scene, I could hear Rodney cough and gasp as he took the rope from around his neck. A deep shame came over me instantly. I knew at that moment that I had done something very wrong. I will forever feel the guilt of that occurrence. I feel sorry for having reacted the way I did and have never done anything even remotely close to that since. It was wrong. There is no excuse for what I did, only plausible reasons.

I lost contact with Russell and Rodney later on in junior high school, as they got involved with drugs at an early age and quit attending school. Stewart also took a seedy path, becoming a heavy drug user, but I did have some dealings with him later on in high school. We were members of the same rock band for a brief period of time, both of us playing rhythm guitar.

After my first love left me, at the tender age of ten, I had a rough time. I made an oath to myself that I would never love again. That was the first of many such oaths I have broken in my life. For some strange reason, I just kept falling in love. I guess I felt that someday I’d get it right. Such must have been the case when I ventured forth two years later, at the ripe old age of twelve, and fell in love with another.

However, this time was different. This time I was the pursued, rather than the pursuer. You see, it was common practice for the girls at my elementary school to chase the boys, threatening to kiss them when, and if, they were caught. Eleven-year-old boys don’t like to be kissed, at least not initially, so they dutifully ran away from all pursuing girls. I say “dutifully” because most of them would run away from the girls only to the point where they felt their masculine pride had been satiated. Then, they would feign some dramatic fall or fake being out-of-breath, allowing the girl who was still pursuing them, the one that had kept at it while the others had fallen behind, to kiss them. Then, after granting the girl her reward for being the quickest, a small peck on the cheek, they would dash away again in hopes of luring another would-be-pursuer.

There was a certain girl, by the name of Toni Nielsen, who was always ahead of the pack when it came time to chase me in the kissing game. She had a determination for me that the others didn’t. At first, I felt she was a bit crazy in the head for always running after me. So, I never let her catch me. Eventually, the idea of her always chasing me made me feel good. Someone was actually accepting who I was and wanted to be close to me. My opinion of her lunacy soon changed to one of affection. There are few things better than feeling someone appreciates you. So, I began to slow down when Toni pursued me and gave her a chance to catch me.

Toni did catch me, often. After the obligatory peck on the cheek, she would hover around me for awhile exchanging pleasantries, before running back and joining the sisterhood. In on of those moments of pause, I learned where she lived, uptown. I was a boy from the farmland, on the other side of the tracks. We folk from the Westside didn’t mingle much with the uptown dwellers. In fact, I had no friends east of the railroad tracks. West Kaysville might as well have been its own city for all I was concerned. There was all a boy of my age could want there: fields to run through, horses to ride on, wooded areas to go duck hunting in, and plenty of adventurous pals.

As with many things this far from that time, I am sketchy with the details as to what transpired between Toni and me. I do know that I began walking her home after school on several occasions. I remember holding her books for her on the way and asking for a kiss or two for their safe return on our arrival at her house. Then, it was a long walk to my house, westward over the tracks, through a wooded area, and across several fields, a walk that was well worth it. Even though I almost made her do it, I still felt that Toni’s little kisses were a slice of heaven.

I don’t remember how it ended, our brief after-school rendezvous sessions, but they did. Toni and I remained friends through Junior High School and then drifted into mere acquaintances in high school. I haven’t seen nor heard from her since. Thank you Toni, wherever you are, for showing a disillusioned eleven year-old boy that he could still find love within him.

She was a vision of beauty to me. Mary Cottle was as perfect as a girl could be, at least from the perspective of a ten-year-old boy, me. I found it difficult to express my opinion of her, to her. It wasn’t until my creative juices intermingled with my as-yet-to-be-developed hormonal juices that I found the opportunity to tell Mary how I felt about her.

In that same year, there was an I.Q. test given to all of the students at my elementary school. I scored second from the highest, slightly under Bryan Butler, who went on to become a reputable scientist. I cannot remember my test score, but I was told that it was in the genius level (whatever that means). Because my circle of friends were not deemed as in my same caliber by the school offic9ials, I was made into a project for the school guidance counselor, Mr. Covington. Under his tutelage, I was moved to higher-level classes. Also, he made a special period for me and some other boys to play basketball every day.

Of course, the other boys weren’t from my normal circle of friends. They6 were high achievers, both academically and athletically, Bryan Butler being among them. Even though none of us were thrilled about the idea of someone actually trying to force a friendship between us, we all enjoyed the time away from the classroom to play basketball.

I never did acclimatize to their way of thinking and doing things (the axiom “You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink” comes to mind), but I did acquire a love for the game of basketball. Never actually becoming that great of a player, I always dreamt throughout my life that I would marry a tall black woman with big feet and hands so that my offspring would become great basketball players. Also, I closely followed the happenings of the NBA throughout my youth, being not a fan of one particular team but a fan of the great players, whatever team they were playing for.

One of Mr. Covington’s actions was to encourage me to develop my imagination. He saw potential in me as a writer and arranged time for me to write short stories and skits, something I had done at an earlier age, putting on shows for the neighborhood. I don’t remember much about those shows, as I was quite young, only the fact that I used blankets and a rope for a curtain and involved my neighborhood friends in the skits.

During one writing session that Mr. Covington arranged, I wrote a satire of the cartoon Snow White. My version was called “Snow Black and the Six Dingbats”. The details of the mini-musical escape me, but it must have been funny, because I remember seeing the adult teachers who saw it laughing a great deal. The only thing I can remember about it, other than the main actress being pulled around in a cardboard box made to look like a carriage, ala Cinderella, was part of the song that the six dingbats sang as they marched across the stage area, “Hi ho! Hi ho! We’re off to see a show! The show’s called Jaws and Jaws has claws! Hi ho! Hi ho!” Not really funny, but the choreography and costuming made up for it. As a ten year-old, it was a great achievement to bring all of those classmates together through several rehearsals to finalize the production. I feel that I demonstrated great leadership skills for someone of that age.

After our final dress rehearsal, Mr. Covington had us go from classroom to classroom, throughout the grade school, presenting the show. I remember how well the production was received and how good I felt hearing the applause and laughter during each show. There was a follow-up show, another satire, but it is this first one that I remember most. It was the first time in my life that I felt truly appreciated. I am grateful to Mr. Covington’s efforts. Although his project didn’t turn out the way he had intended it to, he did accomplish many positives.

More memorable than the accolades given to me by the elementary students and faculty was the appreciation I received from the ten year-old girl who played the starring role, Mary. I had spent quite an unorthodox amount of time with her, during the preparation for the big show. I passed it off under the guise of wanting to get the Snow Black character just right. But, what I really wanted was to get my feelings across to Mary just right.

I befriended her, often visiting her house after school. She lived in a trailer home, adjacent to the Hill farm. Her father was employed on the farm as a worker. We played games together on the grounds of the main farmhouse, she, a few of her neighborhood’s children, and me. After all these years, I still remember vividly her shiny brown hair bouncing off of her shoulders as she ran away from me when I was “It”, and her excited smile when she discovered me crouching inside of an empty 50-gallon drum, during a game of Hide and Seek.

I wasn’t the only one vying for Mary’s affection that year. Jason Taylor, a classmate that lived close to her house, visited her as often as I did. He was much better looking than I was, but couldn’t make Mary laugh like I could. And it was my sense of humor that Mary loved. It was my ace in the hole and she paid little attention to Jason and a lot to me.

Mary made me feel special and I tried my hardest to reciprocate. Frequently, I bought her toys and candy. Then, after spending many long afternoons together, with and without the company of Jason and other friends, I gave Mary a Valentine’s Day card and asked her to be my Valentine. To my sheer delight, she accepted and gave me a kiss. It was one of those quick pecks, but it was full on, on the mouth, and it was my first kiss by a girl other than my mother and sisters. I was taken aback, but in a good way. I vowed to love no other from that time forward.

A few months later she told me that her father got a job in Canada and they were moving. Shortly after that, they left. My heart sank. We wrote each other a few times, but Mary didn’t have the zest for writing like I did. Her letters became increasingly farther between, until she quite writing altogether. I mimicked her writing pace and also slowed to a halt. I thought I’d never see her again, until one day there was a knock on the garage door.

It was a weekday and I was, surprisingly, home. I had stayed home sick from a cold. I hadn’t even showered that day, feeling so lethargic from my illness. So, it was with bed-head and PJ’s that I opened the door to greet Mary. There she was, wearing a big purple coat with a faux fur collar and as beautiful as ever. I don’t remember why she was back in town, but I do remember how embarrassed I felt, looking the way I did. She stayed but a brief few minutes, as someone had driven her to my house and was outside waiting in their vehicle. She said she missed me and vowed to write more often. My first love then turned and left through the garage. I never saw nor heard from her again.