Childhood disappointment can last a lifetime. This is one of two Christmas stories. The other is “The Exiled Elf.”
I had spent the last six months sleeping on floors wrapped in a single thin blanket amidst a platoon of thumb-sucking bed-wetters whose idea of social grace was to shove first, ask your name later. Now I looked forward to my first full year of real education with an anticipation usually reserved for Christmas.
But as the doorway shut behind me leaving me incomprehensibly alone, lunch pail in my hand, I felt a deep apprehension as I surveyed the room. It was a world I had never seen, one I had only dreamed of, one that was filled with tiny desks and peopled by unknown personality types. It was infused with bright colors and overflowed with variety. Its inhabitants were all similarly attired and my age and they all were staring at me in wide eyed wonder.
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A very old woman with strands of gray in her otherwise shoulder length red hair turned to me and made a presentation gesture with her hand.
“Class,” she said to the thirty or so strangers abruptly silent looking up at me from their seats. “This is Jeremy. Jeremy is going to be in our classroom this year. Would someone like to share their desk with Jeremy?”
An array of hands immediately shot up. It seemed almost everyone wanted to be my friend.
“Please, class. You may share only if you have room at your desk. Everyone who has a seatmate, please put your hand down.”
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