The Extraordinary Life of Sam Hell(12)

“Well, I know I care,” my father said. “Santoro’s it is.”

I pushed Cheerios around a bowl until it was time for my father to leave for work. He embraced me in a long hug. “I love you, son,” he said and quickly turned to leave, though not before I saw a tear run down his cheek.

My mother did her best to calm me with details, explaining that OLM had two first-grade classrooms, 1A and 1B, each with twenty-three students, though I now would make twenty-four in class 1B. “An even two dozen,” she said. “That has to be lucky.”

I failed to see why.

“Father Brogan said you’ll be in 1B. That’s Sister Kathleen’s classroom. I hear she is a very good teacher. Finish up, Sam. We don’t want to be late your first day.”





14

As my mother drove down Cortez Avenue and parked on the street below the red steps leading up to the gated entrance, I noticed mothers and schoolchildren in their uniforms standing on the sidewalk. I didn’t know if this was usual or not, this being my first day. Then I noticed Dan standing alongside them and another man holding a large camera on his shoulder. A third man held a notebook and pen. I had the sense this was definitely not normal.

“Let’s go, Samuel,” my mother said, opening her car door. “Punctuality is a sign of respect for your teacher.”

When I stepped from the car, I felt the eyes of every mother and every kid staring at me. Mothers held their children’s hands as if to prevent them from venturing too close to a stray dog. The man with the camera was pointing it in my direction, and Dan looked to be directing him where to film. I was grateful when the kids began to climb the stairs until I looked up and saw Sister Beatrice in her black habit unlocking and opening the gate. My mother walked me up the steps with the other students, and that was the picture I would later find in her scrapbook, cut from the front page of the local newspaper, along with a short article on my admittance. Whether my ascent up those steps also aired on the evening news, I do not know, though I assume there was some follow-up story. We never again watched television in the kitchen.

Sister Beatrice stood inside the gates, as rigid as the white stone statue of the Blessed Mother in the courtyard behind her.

My mother nodded. “Sister.”

Sister Beatrice set her gaze upon me. “Samuel, welcome to Our Lady of Mercy,” she said. “You will be in Sister Kathleen’s classroom.” She pointed to her right. When my mother attempted to step forward, Sister Beatrice slid into her path. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Hill. No adults are allowed past these gates without first obtaining a visitor’s pass from the office. It’s procedure . . . to protect the children. I’m sure you understand.”

My mother smiled in that way I’d seen before, closed lips, no visible teeth. Then she bent and arranged my shirt collar. “You have a good first day, Samuel, and mind Sister Kathleen. I’ll be here at three o’clock sharp to pick you up.” She straightened, and the two women again locked gazes. “I’m certain you will have the best first day of any child who has ever attended this school.”

I watched my mother descend the steps just as an ear-piercing bell clattered in the courtyard. The students scattered and disappeared into their classrooms. Sister Beatrice walked off. When she looked back, I took that as my clue to follow. Sister Beatrice never broke stride, and she did not otherwise acknowledge me, but I heard her loud and clear above the fading din of the bell. “Arrogance is a sin, Mr. Hill. God punishes the arrogant. Humility will be taught, and it will be a hard lesson learned.”





15

I spent much of that first day in dread of the cruelty and mistreatment that was to come, but not a single student even approached me. I caught just about every kid in my class staring at me at one point or another throughout the day, but not one said a word to me. Since I did not raise my hand to answer a question, I also did not speak. Sister Kathleen seemed content to leave me be.

At recess and at lunch I ate while sitting alone on the bloodred bleachers that separated the upper playground from the lower playground, which was where the older students played. Mothers called “lunch ladies” dutifully watched over us to prevent any “horseplay.” They also would not allow us to leave those bleachers until they had inspected our lunch boxes to ensure we did not waste food that could otherwise feed the starving children in Africa. I would have been content to remain on my bleacher the entire lunch period, but there was apparently a rule against sitting, because a lunch lady instructed me to “go get some exercise.”

I wandered the playground aimlessly. When I did muster the courage to approach my classmates playing kickball or wall ball, they either treated me as if I were invisible or took the ball and ran to another area of the playground. Once or twice I heard a whisper behind me. “Devil Boy.”

The entire week went pretty much the same as that first day, which was problematic, because each night at dinner I was expected to provide my parents a detailed accounting of my day—something, I could tell, they awaited with great anticipation. Not wanting to disappoint, I did what any six-year-old would have done. I lied.

“I made another friend,” I said Friday evening when my father asked how the day had gone.

“Another one?” My father lowered his fork. “My word, but you’re popular.”