Corner of my Eye

Prologue

Have you ever had this happen to you?

You think you see something or someone out of the corner of your eye, but when you turn to look at it full on, there's nothing or no one there.

Some people experience this as deja vu.  For some people, it's an expression of a deep-seated fear - like seeing a bug on the wall or a stranger standing in the doorway.  Almost everyone puts it out of their mind as soon as they find a rational explanation:  the bug turns out to be a scuff mark or the person a shadow.

Not me. 

I know something is there.  Or to be more specific, something is somewhere.

Just not in the same reality.

I learned at an early age that the paths our lives take can turn on the smallest of decisions.  Leaving five minutes late can put you in the path of a drunk driver, or out of his path, for that matter.  Deciding to give up your seat on the bus can put you next to a pickpocket or earn you a silver dollar, depending on the day.  But every time you make a choice, you create a new reality, and one that continues along the path created by the "road not taken."

When I see something out of the corner of my eye, I don't look straight at it.  Lots of times, I don't even acknowledge it.  If it's interesting, I kind of sidle up to it.  Then I can slip into its reality, using tricks taught to me by members of my family.  See, they can do it, too.

This thing I can do is really strong in me, because both my parents can do it.  It's kind of passed down through families, like having blue eyes (which I do) or being able to roll your tongue (which I can't). 

When I was a baby, my family noticed that I would often stare off into space, like I was looking at something that no one else could see, like I was daydreaming.  That's when they knew.  When strangers commented on this, my grandma would say that I was looking at angels, which seemed like a whimsical, folklorish explanation.  And people would "ooh" and "aah" like they do around babies anyway.  The real explanation: That I was watching something that existed in an alternate reality would probably have earned my family some strange looks, if not a call to Family Services.

*****
Chapter 1

My first day of sixth grade started out just like every other year.  I go to a small school in a small town and there is only one classroom for each grade - not like some schools where you have three or four sixth grades.  I've been stuck, more or less, with the same group of classmates since we were in kindergarten. 

Some people will tell you that this is a nice way to grow up.  Me?  I think it kind of stinks.  Classroom stereotypes (a word I learned over the summer) start earlier and just get more ingrained (another summer word) each year.  First impressions are lasting impressions.

Once in a while we get a new student, and for a few weeks you get to try yourself out on someone new.  But that person eventually rises or falls in classroom popularity and you find yourself back at square one. 

Square one for me is somewhere towards the bottom of the classroom caste.  You see, I'm different.  While I have good hair, a nice smile and my parents have not-embarrassing jobs (my dad is a college professor and my mom is a writer), I'm different.  If you were a kid you'd think I was dorky, a brainiac, and definitely not cool.  My mom says I'm a dreamer.  I like writing poetry.  I like thinking about things other than video games and the latest slasher movies.

Part of it is related to my parents treating me like more of an adult than a kid sometimes.  They always answer my questions directly (sometimes a little too directly, if you get my meaning) and talk to me about things like politics and religion. Everything has a proper name, not some made-up name that some adults use to explain things to kids. There are no words off limits in our house, but I'm not allowed to say things that are ugly and hurtful.  Words only have the power you give them. I wish other parents would raise their kids this way.

Anyway, the first day of sixth grade started out just like every other year...

"Hey, Dork!"  This, from Billy Samuels.