In the middle of a sad town, in the middle of a sad street, sat an unnecessarily large house with a dusty, overgrown backyard—the kind of backyard that was home to discarded flat tires and tumbleweeds—that contained one algae ridden, Grecian style swimming pool (the reason my father had purchased this house), and a mammoth avocado tree that seemed somehow able to throw its unwanted fruit into the deep end. Here, in Santa Ana, California I was thrust into my third, and not my last, school for my sixth grade year. Willard Junior High School is located near downtown Santa Ana, and offered grades sixth through ninth, and the students were giants in comparison to my gangly twelve year old self.
At Willard, I became an avid runner. As the last bell sounded, I would burst forth through the doors at top speed, my white Keds gripping the hot asphalt to the best of their ability, attempting to out run whom ever had decided that I would be their target for the day. I would run the mile back to my house usually with one or two kids in tow. Kids that if they caught me, would knock me around a bit, and then steal whatever meager amount of cash I had on me. Kids that hated simply because I was awkward and new. I use the term “kids” loosely as I am not sure how old any of the people who tormented me after-school actually were. The girls all looked like they were in their early 20’s, their bangs cemented straight-up in some gravity defying miracle that required equal parts Aqua-Net and sheer determination, eyebrows plucked until there was only one or two hairs left and then miraculously drawn back on with a pencil at odd angles and points, and a wardrobe that always contained the whitest of the white shirts ever made. The boys tried to look like they were in their early 20’s but instead had that awkward haven’t-quite-figured-out-puberty thing happening, greasy, matted hair, oddly shaped peach fuzz mustaches that seemed geometrically impossible and looked more like dirt than an actual mustache, and the most vile of all vocabularies—vocabularies so crass that truck drivers, construction workers, and even strip-club aficionados would have blushed if within ear shot.
The after school marathons grew exhausting and after a few months of non-stop torment, I took it upon myself to extend my weekends by skipping multiple days of class each week, which was actually quite easy to do. Willard Junior High had so many students that their truancy department (yep, they had an entire department) did not seem too concerned with the authenticity of a note from a parent—if you gave it a moderate effort, they would excuse your absence. I had my father’s signature down pat, even his trademark swoop of the S in his first name (Steven).
During the first few weeks in our sad new home, my father had hired a maintenance staff to care for the malaria ridden pool in the backyard, as well as landscapers to mold our desert wasteland into a tropical oasis; but what he had really done was provide me with the most luxurious of spaces to lounge while not attending class. I spent hours in my watery refuge floating on air-mattresses, practicing cannonballs, mastering freestyle and butterfly strokes, and my favorite pass time, diving for the avocados that had sunk to the bottom of the deep end; I could hold my breath for what seemed like hours.
It was during one of these underwater retrieval missions that my father caught me playing hooky. I had not heard his car pull into the driveway; I was searching for that one elusive avocado that seemed to be intentionally evading me. I am not sure how long he had been home before he noticed the sliding glass door open. I do not know if it was my hot pink cassette stereo playing Depeche Mode that gave me away, or if he had happened to walk into the house just as I had jumped into the pool. But I saw him as I looked up from the bottom of the deep end. His body swayed and shimmered through the several feet of chlorinated water. If I stayed under the water he could not yell. If I stayed under the water I would not have to explain why I was not in school. If I could just hold my breath for just a little longer.
Stig Severinson, holds the current world record for holding his breath underwater for twenty-two minutes[1], I lasted for maybe two before my lungs felt like they were going to punch their way out of my chest and swim to the surface of their own volition. But something amazing happened once I emerged from the depths of the pool with that last tricky avocado in my hand; my father did not yell or scream, he simply asked me why. And I told him. I told him about my daily race home. I told him about how scared I was all the time. I told him everything he had failed to notice since we had moved into that sad house, on that sad street, in that saddest of California towns. That night I made us guacamole to accompany our dinner on the back patio, it would be one of our last dinners at that house. We moved a few weeks later.
[1] http://www.guinnessworldrecords.com/world-records/1000/longest-time-breath-held-voluntarily-%28male%29