Abbey Road record, his eyebrows arched, waiting to see whether anyone could identify it. I raised my hand, along with one other boy.
“Only two of you?”
Mr. Noakes scanned the room, savoring the moment before blowing our innocent minds. He looked giddy as he approached the record player and worshipfully slid the black disc out of the sleeve, being careful to keep his fingertips to the outer edge of the vinyl, and lowered it on the turntable.
This could not be happening. The Beatles were private between Dad and me, not something everyone could just have for free. Playing it in front of the whole class would be like prying into my life, and Mr. Noakes had no right to do this to me. I helplessly watched him put the needle on the record, knowing that a terrible secret was going to flood out of me, something that I was not allowed to talk about at home, something that I was ashamed of, something that would separate me further than I already was from my classmates. I looked to the door and wondered if I could make a run for it.
The first notes of “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer” swelled from the speakers, took hold of my body and shook it. I felt heat ripple up from my stomach, rise up my throat and collect behind my eyes. I didn’t hear Paul McCartney; I heard Dad’s voice telling me to go to sleep, to finish all my peas, promising he would always be my dad. It was as if he had materialized in the room, but when I tried to look into his face, it kept slipping out of focus, like he had stepped behind an opaque screen. I panicked, trying to remember what he looked like. All I had left of him was my memory, and I was starting to lose that, too. I looked around and saw that the students were engrossed in the strange, perky song about three murders, laughing and pretending to clobber one another with a hammer. I would never have pure joy like they did. I hated them for being so effortlessly happy.
I could feel tears gathering and willed them to go away. I couldn’t afford to add a meltdown to my growing list of social transgressions. I squeezed my eyes closed and hummed, trying to block out the song. When that didn’t work, I put my forehead on my knees so my jeans would absorb my tears. A few sobs slipped out, and I tried to make them sound like hiccups. My chest heaved, and snot ran down my upper lip. By the time the song ended, the only sound in the room was my weeping.
Mr. Noakes hastily dismissed the class, and I stayed curled in a tight ball. When the room was empty, he knelt next to me.
“What’s wrong?”
The sound of a man’s voice only made me shudder harder.
“My dad...” was all I could get out.
“Oh man,” Mr. Noakes said under his breath. “Don’t move. I’ll get the nurse.”
She appeared in the room, huffing from a run. I let her lift me off the floor and wrap me in her thick arms, and I melted into her big bosom. Hugging her was like burying myself under the bedcovers, and I stayed there until I’d stopped snuffing. She held my hand and walked me to her office, where I sat on her cot and tried to tell her why I was upset. It was very hard to explain.
“My dad,” I repeated.
She handed me a tissue. “Where is he?”
“Rhode Island.”
She blew out her cheeks and paused a second before pulling out a metal file drawer. She rifled through manila folders and lifted one out. She held it open in one hand, and asked me her next question without looking up.
“Do you live with your mom?”
“Yes. No... I live at Granny’s.”
She tilted her head, like she was trying to figure out what I was not telling her.
“Who should I call to pick you up?”
I told her that nobody picks me up.
“I walk home,” I said, pointing east.
She pulled a pen out of a cup on her desk and scribbled a phone number on a notepad, tore it off and handed it to me.
“Give this to your grandmother when you get home, and tell her to call me,” she said. I nodded.
“Do you need to rest awhile before you’re ready to go?”
I declined. I’d had enough of this day and was ready for it to end. When I gave the