And so it was on that Wednesday morning as I strolled casually to Room 65 on my way to my first G.A.T.E. class. I had been placed in the program several days before.

 

"We've decided we're going to place you in G.A.T.E.," my teacher had said to me one day.

 

"Huh?" I responded.

"'G.A.T.E.' stands for 'Gifted And Talented Education,'" he explained. "It's a program for children like you, who have creative impulses stronger than those of their classmates. For instance, the way you're always writing those stories about gangs with self-burning rituals, robots seeking world conquest, or you being the Messiah. The district feels your intellect and ability to weave these tales can be better handled than the way it currently is."

 

"I never made any of that up," I protested. To be honest, I'm not a creative person at all. I merely tell the truth.

 

He laughed and gave me a teacherly pat on the shoulder. "Of course you didn't, Joey."

 

"Klafterus," I hissed as he walked away. If I had been a cartoon character, which I somtimes wonder if I am, steam would have been coming out of my ears.

 

Every Wednesday after that, I was educated by Ms. Kincer in Room 65. It was small and reminiscent of Mrs. Butto's portable. This made me happy. I liked anything that reminded me of Mrs. Butto.

 

I was beginning to get sick of having new teachers so often. It would have made so much more sense to have the same teacher all the way through my education, allowing me to build more powerful connections with my elders and increase my trust in them. Instead, the plan seemed to be to make me fall in love with my instructors and then pull them away from me just when I was getting used to them. I suppose this prepared me more for the real world, but in my opinion, there's nothing wrong with harmless pretending either. If reality sucks, why be realistic?

 

"Welcome, class," Ms. Kincer said with a bright smile. "This is Gifted and Talented Education. The district says you are here because you strive to set yourselves apart from your classmates. As geniuses, you probably don't believe this in the least. So today, as a sort of introductory activity, I'd like you all to explain why you think you are here."

 

There was a nervous exchange of looks between students. I kept my eyes focused determinedly on my teacher.

 

"Parker, why don't you go first?"

 

The tall, stork-like boy who was apparently Parker turned around, startled. "Um... me? Parker W.?"

 

"Yes, you, there's only one Parker in this class."

 

"But... my last name starts with a W. Usually I'm the last one teachers call on for things like this."

 

"If you lack the creative prowess enough to imagine that I might read my list of names back list, you have a great deal of explaining to do," Ms. Kincer shot back. "How about Kim? Why do you think you're here, Kim? And yes, Kim W., before you ask."

 

Kim swallowed as if she had just been about to express her surprise. "Um... well... I'm pretty smart, I think. I really like to read."

 

"What do you like to read, Kim?"

 

"Um... mysteries." Someone whispered something. "And the Harry Potter books," she added.

 

I rolled my eyes. Earlier, some of Kim's friends had been looking at me and laughing, thinking that I didn't notice.

 

"Another conformist," Ms. Kincer said, almost to herself. She moved on to the next student with enough enthusiasm that it was clear she already knew him. "Miller!" she cried. "Miller, why are you here?"

 

Ryan Miller leaned on his chair, forcing it to stay up on two legs. "I'm here because the district doesn't really recognize gift or talent in kids. They just throw the kids who give them too much trouble in G.A.T.E. so they can let someone else deal with them."

 

There was some unsure laughter. I shook my head. Someone had clearly missed the boat: either Ryan for always assuming everything's a conspiracy, or the school district for placing him in the program. Ms. Kincer read down the list through Clayton and Eric and Nina and everyone else. When she finally reached my name, which was relatively late in the activity since my last name began with an H, I was pleased that no one had yet given the answer I was about to.

 

"Why are you here, Joey?"

 

"I'm here because I tell the truth," I announced.

 

Several whisperers were hushed. It was the first time several children had heard me speak.

 

"Interesting," Ms. Kincer commented. "Explain."

 

"I never did anything creative or special. I've just said what's on my mind, and I ended up here."

 

"And what do you plan to do now?"

 

"Make the best of it and bend the rules as much as I can."

 

"Most interesting," she smiled.

 

"In G.A.T.E., we are going to learn to set goals for the future," Ms. Kincer continued when the introductions had concluded. "To demonstrate this concept, I want you all to write an short paragraph on where you think you'll be in five years, and what you'll be doing."

 

It was an fascinating subject to dwell on. I was ten years old, so in another five years, I would be fifteen, a sophomore in high school. Where did I see myself at that point? Far away from my dysfunctional family and elitist school, that was for sure. I tapped my pencil on my desk as I awaited a piece of paper to be passed to me. Then I began to write:

 

"Me in Five Years

 

In five years, I am going to take over the world. I will have departed from this city and made a name for myself across the planet. The global population will bow before me as I set to sort their problems into order. I will overcome all my obstacles, including, but not limited to, death. I will bring peace to all, and end world hunger, and anyone who stands in my way will not be spared. From that day forward, Earth will be known as Klafterus Land. You will one day fear to speak my name. Absolute power shall be mine. I have control over your very soul."

 

"Time's up, kids! Please pass your papers in."

 

After class Ms. Kincer called me up to her desk.

 

"Joey... excuse me, Klafterus," she said. "The essay that you wrote today was quite... ambitious."

 

"A man without ambition is dead," I told her.

 

"A man with ambition but no love is dead," she continued. "Pearl Bailey, 1918-1990. You'll find I have an extensive knowledge of quotations."

 

"As do I."

 

She smiled. "But you needn't worry. I enjoyed your essay. All the other children wrote about maintaining decent grades or building better relations with their family and friends. You're the only one who wrote with true heart. When you write, it is always more important that you believe what you're saying than that the reader does. Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self."

 

"Cyril Connoly, 1903-1974."

 

"Correct," she smiled again at me. "I just wanted to let you know that you show more signs of gift or talent than any student who has walked in this room for many years. The district always places kids in here who merely have a rampant imagination. Anyone can dream something up; it takes intellect to turn that dream into something that makes sense."

 

"I agree," I agreed. "And thank you."

 

"So what was G.A.T.E. like?" Patric asked as we walked home.

 

"Weird," I answered. "Explain something to me: why are we giving the smart kids something extra to do if they're already ahead of everyone? Shouldn't the stupid kids be the ones taking an extra class so they can catch up to us?"

 

"Probably," Andrew reasoned, "except Tyler's brain would fry if he had another class."

 

"I don't get it," Tyler said.

 

The moment I stepped into my house I was on the ground and something was eating my face. I pushed the thing away from me, allowed my eyes to focus, and saw that I had been attacked by a killer dustball. "I suppose you want me to sweep again, Mom?"

 

"Don't be an idiot, Joey," Dave said from the staircase. "That's our new dog."

 

"Um... hi," I said, unsure how to greet a new dog. "My name is Klafterus." He was now trying to eat my shoe.

 

"His name's Gizmo," Dad explained, walking into the front hallway, "because he looks so much like that little gremlin-thing from that one movie."

 

I stared at my father, trying to comprehend why anyone would name a dog after a stuffed animal that spontaneously reproduced when it got wet. After a few days of living with Gizmo, however, it became apparent that he was not as vicious as our initial meeting had made him out to be. He was, rather, tragically misunderstood.

 

"Here, Gizmo, come up here," Dad would say while sitting on the couch watching football. He picked the dog up and turned him over, rubbing his stomach. Gizmo growled like a lawnmower.

 

"He obviously doesn't want to be up there," I told my father.

 

"Oh, that's just the way he talks, isn't it, Gizmo?" my father assured me. Gizmo continued.

 

As the weeks went on, so did my G.A.T.E. class. It began one Wednesday with Ms. Kincer saying, "We are going to be learning about Greek mythology. To introduce you to this concept, we are all going to be thinking up our own mythological creatures." Some of the kids looked nervous, as if they didn't have a creative cell in their body. "It's a common practice in myth," she ignored them. "There are many beasts that are composites of several types of animals, such as the Chimera, with the head of a lion, the body of a goat, and the tail of a serpent, or Pegasus, the winged horse. Today, I want you all to create your own creature, with its own various borrowed body parts."

 

I stared at the blank sheet before me. Of course, the other kids would make up perfectly normal-seeming creatures, with mixed and matched body parts, but still fully functional. I had to find a way to differentiate myself. I was going to be cruel to my creature, giving him a set of appendages that he would not be able to operate with and would subject him to ridicule by all the other mixed-up animals.

 

"All right, why don't we share them out loud?" Ms. Kincer said at the end of class.

 

A panic erupted around the class. "We have to share them out loud?" students asked. "We have to share them out loud!" students answered.

 

"Joey," Ms. Kincer called, fake-coughing after saying my name and then winking at me, "why don't you go first?"

 

I walked up to the front of the room. "My monster's name is Hader," I told my classmates.

 

There was a long silence, or at least, it seemed like it.

 

"He has the head of a housefly, the body of an elephant, the tail of a cat, the eyes of a mouse, the ears of a bacterium, the horns of a rhinoceros, the mouth of a zipper, the forelegs of a rabbit, the hind legs of a Texas kangaroo rat, the wings of a bat, the feet of Ryan Miller..."

 

There was a small response from the class. Some people were laughing. Some were shocked that I would mention another student without his permission. Ryan Miller himself stood up and said, "Hey!"

 

I looked at him. If anyone, I had expected him to be laughing. I certainly didn't think he would take offense to anything someone like me said.

 

He crossed his arms and appeared as though he couldn't decide whether to run forward and beat me up or sit down and cry. "That's... that's not funny!"

 

"Ryan, settle down, it was just a joke," Ms. Kincer attempted to comfort him.

 

Ryan didn't listen. He stormed out of the classroom.

 

I looked at the teacher and then at the rest of my audience. "Excuse me," I said politely as I followed him out the door.

 

"Those are some stinky feet!" I heard Amanda shout as I left.

 

"Ryan, are you all right, dude?" I asked. He was leaning on the wall, facing away from me.

 

"I dunno, how would you feel if I wrote about you?" he answered.

 

"Actually, people do it all the time, I've learned not to care very much."

 

"Well you still should have asked," he said, turning around. "Don't you think?"

 

"I guess so," I thought, a bit frightened to see someone like Ryan so shook up. "So," I said after a stint in the conversation, "you just going to sit out here?"

 

"For a little while, yeah," he told me. "Until I feel like going back in."

 

And so we just sat out there for a little while.

 

"Your birthday," he said suddenly.

 

"What?" I asked, confused.

 

"Your birthday," he said again. "It's May 9th, isn't it?"

 

"Yes," I answered, amazed that he would remember something like that about me.

 

"It's the same as mine." He walked back into Ms. Kincer's classroom. I stared at him, rethinking him every moment. Perhaps there was more to him than had met my eye. He had emotions; he wasn't some desensitized brute, he had been offended when I wrote about him. He also seemed to have some sort of care for other people. Why else would he have taken the time to notice something as trivial as the fact that our birthdays were on the same date? I realized at that moment how judgemental I was. There wasn't really anyone in the world who was completely one-sided. There was redemption even the seemingly heartless.

 

"You guys want me to see if you can sleep over tonight?" I asked my friends as we got off the bus.

 

"Yeah," Andrew replied.

 

"That would be awesome," Patric agreed.

 

"All right, I'll call you later," I waved to them and ran off for my house.