Obediently I turned off my desk light. Beneath my door, the rim of light would vanish. And then a few minutes later when I calculated that my aunt and uncle were safely in bed I turned it on again.

During the day (most days) I was afflicted with sleepiness in waves like ether but at night when I was alone my eyes were wonderfully wide-open and my brain ran on and on like a rattling machine that would have to be smashed to be stopped.

On my homework papers Mr. Sandman wrote, in bright red ink—Good work!

My grades on classroom quizzes and tests were high—93 percent, 97 percent, 99 percent. Because I prepared for these so methodically, hours at a stretch. And because of the secret tutorials.

It was true, I had no natural aptitude for math. Nothing came easily to me. But much that passed into my memory, being hard-won, did not fade as it seemed to fade from the memories of my classmates like water sifting through outspread fingers.

My secret was, I had no natural aptitude for any subject—for life itself.

Keeping myself alive. Keeping myself from drowning. That was the challenge.

THEY WOULD ASK WHY. BUT LIFTING MY EYES I CAN SEE THE synthetic-shiny American flag hanging from the corner of Mr. Sandman’s blackboard, red and white stripes like snakes quivering with life.

Listening very carefully I can hear the chanting. Each morning pledging allegiance. (But what was “allegiance”? We had no idea.) The entire class standing, palms of hands pressed against our young hearts. Reciting, syllables of sound without meaning, emptied of all meaning, eyes half-shut in reverence, a pretense of reverence, heads bowed. Five days a week.

Our teacher Mr. Sandman was not ironic now but sincere, vehement.

Pledge allegiance. To my flag. And to the Republic for which it stands. One Nation, indivisible. With Liberty and Justice for all.

Under his breath Mr. Sandman might mutter as we settled back into our seats—Amen.

EACH TIME WAS A RESCUE. NO ONE WOULD UNDERSTAND.

Boys had been trailing me, calling after me in low, lewd voices.

Not touching me. Not usually.

Well, sometimes—colliding with me in a corridor when classes changed. Brushing an arm, the back of a hand across my chest—“Hey! Sor-ry.” At my locker, jostling and grinning.

Kerri-gan, Kerri-gan.

Rat!

In a restroom where I’d been hiding waiting for them to go away after the final bell had rung I’d asked a girl, Are they gone yet?, she’d laughed at my pleading eyes and told me yeah sure, those assholes had gone away a long time ago. But when I went out they were waiting just outside the door to the faculty parking lot.

Shouts, laughter. Grabbing at the sleeves of my jacket, at my hair as I fled in panic.