A brisk autumn wind combing through my hair and the early morning daystar barely peering over the roof of the brick high school building at 7 o’clock. The day, three years ago in the tenth grade, seemed so much like all the other days. If only I knew that my experience that day would change my insight of how the world operates, at least the small world I was living in at the time.In rural areas, it is common to see underage drivers cruising down the road in a beat up pick-up truck. To see a boy at school with a pocketknife was even more common. Well, it just so happened that I was a boy with an Uncle Henry pocketknife on that ordinary fall day. I, and everyone else, knew that it was against school policy to have a weapon, even a pocketknife. No one said anything because no one cared. I used my pocketknife as a handyman’s apparatus. I used it to cut, open, pry, screw, or whatever else. It was my tool, and I usually didn’t go anywhere without it. However, I wished I had left my multi-purpose gadget at home that day.The day started going bad when an enemy of mine, an upper classman, Justin, was hanging out in our territory. He and I never really got along. He was thuggishly leaning up against the brick building in his shoddy tennis shoes, faded Levi jeans, and an un-tucked, tacky-worn shirt. Just the sight of him made me want to bruise him up a bit.He broke the silence with what seemed like an eruption from his benighted brain. “How come you get here so early?” he asked, with an unnerving grin remaining on his face. Plainly, almost in monotone, I replied, “I have to. My mom has to go to work early.”He questioned me again, “Why don’t you get a job and buy a car?” He was already getting on my nerves, so, I replied sharply, “I don’t even have my license. And where can I work around here? I can’t drive to work anyways.”He then started the tr...
