When we last left our hero...

November 30, 2001

I don't remember being upset about the move to California. I doubt I even understood what it meant. I knew that it meant not seeing Jan, Tonya, Heather, Jeremy, or James ever again. But I didn't feel it.

But I was seven then, and I remember things as if I was seeing it through a vaseline-smeared camera lens. Perhaps because a kid just doesn't know what is important to remember. But I don't need to tell you that; you've been a kid before.

So I arrived at Sierra Vista Elementary School, a newcomer, in third grade. I wandered the playground, trying to think of a way to make my mark in the school, to be noticed, to be popular.

And there was only one way to do it; a fight. But I was the good guy, and good guys don't start fights, unless it's against a bad guy.

I asked the small kids who was the school bully, and they pointed him out, a chubby kid a foot taller than I was. I don't remember his face; I probably never even got a chance to see it.

I think I pushed him, or something. Told him off. I probably didn't even make any sense. I don't remember what I said.

I do remember his fist slamming into my stomach, and me doubling over and crying. I supposed I cried 'cause it hurt. But also because, hey, this wasn't supposed to happen. This was real fighting, not like TV, not like North Carolina.

I think the guy called me an asshole for trying to start something with him. And I realized that I wasn't the good guy, the hero, the main character any longer.

The rules had changed.