Trying to Float Read Online Free PDF Page B

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    My cure did not, however, convince my classmates that I was normal. In addition to thinking I was retarded, they found my false sense of superiority (from my father), the rumor that I was murderous (the pool incident), and my bangs cut at an odd angle (my mother) incredibly distasteful. So there I was: a murderous retard with a bad haircut.

STORMÉ
    MY STATUS AT school slowly changed from being a kid who was ignored to one who was bullied.
    This was not easy on me, as it was not easy for the others locked in that same cage (the slow, fat, unattractive, and shy), for no matter what you did—how nice you were or how much you pretended that what the other kids said didn’t bother you—you would never be released from their taunting. The sound of it was in your head when you went to sleep and there again in the morning.
    The effects of this must have shown on my face, because one day, returning home from school, I heard a voice call out to me from across the lobby of the hotel.
    â€œCome over here, baby doll.”
    I knew the voice. Its owner, Stormé, was a regular in the lobby. She was someone my parents liked, but we’d never spoken.
    I had been taught that children should address adults by“Mr.” or “Miss,” and since it was unclear which Stormé was, I had decided it was better to avoid Stormé than insult Stormé. That day, for example, Stormé was dressed in military pants, a work shirt, and an opal-and-turquoise necklace.
    There was the additional puzzle of Stormé’s age. Her face was soft and lineless, but her hair was silver; she had an athletic build, but struggled with the crippled gait of an old person.
    Then there was Stormé’s race. The skin was whiter than any I’d ever seen, and yet Stormé’s hair had the texture of a black person’s.
    I had met others who were hard to identify by age, sex, or race, but never all three at once. Stormé was a mythological creature.
    I crossed the lobby.
    â€œHow you doin’, baby doll?” The voice was gruff.
    As uncomfortable as Stormé made me feel, Stormé struck me as the sort who would be sympathetic to someone who was being bullied.
    â€œThe girls in school are making fun of me.”
    â€œYou tell Stormé why, girlie.”
    â€œThey think I’m a murderous retard.”
    â€œDo you know what Stormé has down there?”
    Stormé glanced toward the lower half of her body.
    â€œI’m not sure. I’m still a child.”
    Stormé tugged on the left leg of her pants.
    A pink revolver was strapped to Stormé’s ankle.
    â€œThat, baby doll, is my best friend. And if anyone gives youtrouble, you just give Stormé a call, and my friend and I will come down there and take care of it.”
    â€œThank you, Stormé, but I’m not sure my elementary school allows guns.”
    â€œWell then, young lady, Stormé will just shove her boot right up their little asses.”
    From that day on I went to bed knowing that I had a sexually ambiguous and incredibly violent eighty-year-old woman watching over me. And with that knowledge, who really needs to be afraid of a couple of prepubescent girls?

BUT NOT THE FISH
    I LIVED WITHIN a twenty-minute walk of my elementary school, but despite my daily vow to arrive at school early, something always went wrong. And that something was usually my father.
    My parents insisted on taking me to school. It was not that they were helicopter parents. They were the opposite. They had nothing else to do. They were like balloons that had escaped a child’s grasp—pointlessly floating.
    â€œFocus!” I would plead with my mother as she took a twenty-minute detour from making me breakfast. And my father was forever jumping from one obscurity to another. By the time he and I got to know each other, his life had become a diversion from a task long forgotten.
    Each morning began with the intention of getting