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September 3, 1975

SEPTEMBER 3, 1975

The first day of school had been on my mind for weeks. What kind of reception would I get as the new kid? Because I wasn’t just the average new kid, I was the new kid that had found skeletons on the beach. I was the new kid whose brother was murdered. I was the new kid that had killed his own father.

I walked into homeroom, hoping to see a friendly face or two from my days at the beach, but life isn’t always that kind. Sure, I recognized kids I’d seen around town or in passing at the beach, but nobody from the gang I’d gotten to know.

Mrs. Caldwell walked in and began roll call. She paused briefly at my name, and I felt the questioning eyes of a few kids, but that was all. The rest of the day was more of the same. Some curiosity, but no cringing or hostility. I sat with Mary and a few other kids from the beach at lunch. We talked about classes and teachers and how we wished summer wasn’t over, normal stuff.

I walked Mary home after school and asked her if she
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