My Life – Part 4: High School

My mother’s foray into pharmaceutical fatality didn’t really come as much of a shock for some reason. My grandfather got his wish; while mother went to talk to some people in white coats I went to live with them full time. With that change, came a change of schools. I completed my middle school years in Frankfort and began high school at Clinton Prairie out in the middle of the Clinton County boonies. I was ecstatic at the change. Finally, I would be able to ditch the baggage I’d accumulated in Frankfort and start over with the added bonus that I’d also be able to shower on a regular basis.

The first day of high school I stepped onto that bus with some trepidation but in generally high spirits. Today was the first day of the rest of my life, after all. I reasoned that since I was changing schools between 8^th and 9^th grade that I’d just be one of many new faces around. I had gotten it into my head somehow that many schools must feed into this high school so most people wouldn’t know each other. Imagine my horror then when the bus pulled up and I saw ‘Clinton Prairie High School’ and attached to it… Clinton Prairie Middle and Elementary Schools. There were no ‘other’ new kids. These people had all been going to the same damn school their entire lives. This was the worst possible outcome. I’d been dropped into the middle of a class of 60 kids that had been going to the same school together since kindergarten.

Utterly deflated, it wasn’t long before I was again a target for the outgoing. For one thing, I was a shy kid anyway so my weakness made a good target for rambunctious high school kids. Secondly, and possibly more importantly, was the ‘perfect storm’ in which Spanish class, English class and Health class all somehow managed to come together in the perfect way to crush me. How, say you, kind reader could this be? Well, do read on.

My grandparents convinced me to take Spanish class over Latin. For them, it was a matter of practicality. One of the things they do in Spanish class is give you a Spanish name. Well, we already had a ‘Roberto’. Heck, he’d been Roberto for 9 stinkin’ years in that school so I wasn’t about to displace him. Apparently the next choice after Roberto is Beto, Spanish for Bob. That’s pronounced ‘Bay-Toe’, this’ll be important later. Concurrent with this one of the English classes was working on letter writing. One of the things one learns in letter writing class is how to proper address people. You’ve got your Miss and your Mrs. And your Mr. and of course for boys you have ‘Master.’ Ah, so now you may see the point already. Someone got into their head to wonder, “How would someone address a letter to that new kid in Spanish class?” and of course the answer comes back, “Ah, of course Master Beto!” So with the help of health class I was known forever as “Master Beto” which I must tell you was a hilariously funny moniker to carry around high school.

Things went on this way for three long years with little change. My timidity kept me from really getting to know anyone and nobody really cared to know me. I was so shy that I never actually ate lunch in the cafeteria for my entire high school career because I wasn’t sure about proper lunchroom procedure. So when my grandparents moved back into town during my Junior year of high school my emotions were decidedly mixed. On one hand, I wanted to get the heck away from these Clinton Prairie kids but on the other I didn’t want to go back to those Frankfort kids. I started my senior year of high school back in Frankfort once again and ready for the worst.

Surprisingly, that final year at Frankfort I recall with enough positive memories that I wished I’d never had to leave in the first place. In whatever way these things become known, it had become common knowledge that my home life had had some issues. During that year I actually made a few friends that I wish I still had contact with. Oh how easily we lose the things most precious once we find them.

Stepping way out of character, I took part in a play… in front of actual people. (Yes, that’s difficult to imagine I know.) I as on two (count them, two) academic teams. To put it mildly, my senior year at Frankfort was the closest thing I’d had yet to normality in my life. For once, I was sad to leave a place and head off in another direction altogether.