H.S. Publishing Co.

© 2011



All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2011 by Walter Rossie, Jr.


H.S. Publishing Co.

Sherman Oaks, California




Chapter 1 - “We got dope!”

Chapter 2 - Little Lucky

Chapter 3 - “He’s such a good kid…”

Chapter 4 -“That boy’s an asshole!”

Chapter 5 - Dear Son…”

Chapter 6 - H.S. Publishing Company

Chapter 7 - “It don’t hurt unless you resist.”

Chapter 8 - Bobcat

Chapter 9 - Georgia

Chapter 10 - Growing Wings

Chapter 11 - Mind Playing Tricks on Me

Chapter 12 - “Macizo!”

Chapter 13 - La Loca

Chapter 14 - Crazy White Boy

Chapter 15 - A Moment of Clarity

Chapter 16 - A Man of Honor




“Not until we are lost do we begin

to understand ourselves.”

- Henry David Thoreau


Chapter 1


“We got dope!”


It was just after noon when I pulled into the abandoned gravel parking lot to pick up Cocaina and the weed. A thick layer of dust rose in the hot desert air making it difficult to see. Alerted by the jackhammer of my leaking muffler, a weathered padre came out to greet me. He waved his arms in the air with a huge smile and directed me to park and wait. He thought he was helping illegal immigrants gain safe passage into the U.S. He couldn’t have been more wrong about the real nature of our business.

I exited the broken-down brown Camaro just as Cocaina strolled out of the building wearing blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt that obscured his massive muscles. Three ragged looking Mexicans with sun-scorched faces trailed behind. Over his shoulder Cocaina carried the Faberge bag that my dad had given me. It had come free with his purchase of Brut cologne. At one point the bag had contained my clothes and a few toiletries, but instead it now held fifteen pounds of pure grade Chronic.

The first thing I thought of when I saw the Mexicans, was that I sure as hell wasn’t going to drive. I gestured to Cocaina that I wanted shotgun, so everyone piled into the back while Cocaina took the wheel. Immediately it became obvious the man couldn’t drive worth a damn. He kept slamming on the breaks and then flooring the gas while we all lurched forward. As we peeled off onto the open highway back to Tucson, I suddenly noticed we were running out of fuel. “Gas!” I yelled, pointing to the gauge.

Cocaina nodded. We scanned the signs in the distance for a station. While cruising, I noticed a border patrol cop in a green uniform searching the trunk of a vehicle on the shoulder. The Camaro made a racket as we sputtered by, so it was no surprise when the officer yanked his head out of the trunk to look me dead in the eye.

Scared shitless, I gestured to Cocaina by pointing two fingers at my pupils. “He’s seen us.”

Cocaina stepped on the gas and after a mile or so we hit a truck stop just outside the city. Cocaina handed me twenty bucks and I ran inside to pay.

“Seven dollars regular,” I told the attendant. “And a pack of Marlboro Reds.”

I pocketed the remaining ten bucks. I told myself I would need it in jail to buy snacks. When I stepped outside with the smokes, the border patrol cop’s truck backed into the parking lot facing the Camaro. All the blood drained from my face. I knew the jig was up. My heart beat wildly and I had the strong sensation of being watched. I walked over to the pump like everything was normal. I held the nozzle to the tank. It didn’t reach! ‘What else could go wrong?’ I thought.

Cocaina was missing. I got into the driver’s seat and started to turn on the ignition. Just as I cranked the engine, it hit me! If I backed the vehicle up, I would be the driver of the car and responsible for the drugs. I put the car in neutral, got out and pushed the car back the nine or ten inches I needed to start pumping the gas, gas I knew we would never use.

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Cocaina came out from the store and casually looked around. The border patrol cop approached the Camaro. He came up and started speaking Spanish to the guys in back, asking where they were from.

“Mexico,” they sounded off one by one. Then it was my turn. “Texas,” I told him, trying not to make eye contact. “Do you mind if I look in the trunk?” the officer replied.

I nodded, sweating like a pig. He lifted the trunk and within seconds he zipped open the Faberge bag to reveal the huge brick of weed.

“We got dope!” He yelled to his partner.

“Get on the ground!” He slapped a pair of cuffs on my wrists and pushed the Mexicans down on the concrete.

Cocaina broke away, making a run for it, a border patrol agent on his heels in fast pursuit. Sprinting at full speed, Cocaina dove onto his stomach, slid under a fence and was instantly back on his feet faster than a jackrabbit. I had never seen anything like it. He disappeared into the brush-covered terrain, thick with mesquite trees and cacti, while the border patrol agent barked into his radio from behind the fence.

The four of us who were left behind were loaded into the back of the officer’s truck as it began the search for Cocaina. The cop had no trouble navigating the trails, obviously familiar with the territory. I nudged one of the Mexicans who hadn’t been cuffed and pointed to my pocket. He reached in and got me a cigarette, put it in my mouth, and lit it. Even though we were bouncing up and down, we managed to pull it off.

The border agent shouted, “Are you smoking? You better put that shit out!”

I figured it would be my last cigarette before prison, so I was gonna enjoy it regardless of the consequences. I puffed furiously with one side of my mouth and exhaled from the other. Before the agent could stop me, the deafening hum of an ugly bubble helicopter drowned out his warnings. The search for Cocaina now had air support.

After a half hour or so, the border cop got back on the highway and headed for the U.S. customs station. It was a bleak building with long wooden benches that reminded me of church pews. I sat down and immediately noticed a flawless sketch of Cocaina tacked to the wall. I was amazed at the efficiency of the agents: first a helicopter, now this, and all within minutes of the bust. It was Cocaina all right! Big-ass bridge on his nose and everything!

Two agents called me over to the front desk and began to grill me. They had all the information from their computer but they started asking me basic questions anyway.

“What are you doing with these guys?” the older cop asked.

Somehow I had the guts to reply, “I don’t mean any disrespect, officer, but I’d rather wait ‘till I talk to an attorney.”

“No problem,” he said, but he continued to probe me. “Where were you born?”

“Jourdanton, Texas.”

He smiled. “I know where that is. That’s near Pleasanton, isn’t it?” It was obvious that he was trying to build rapport and that they had done some investigating before they started talking to me.

“Look, I’m not trying to be difficult, but I do need to speak to an attorney before I say anything,” I told them for the second time.

The younger cop told me to have a seat. It was time to drill the Mexicans. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but from their body language, it seemed they were playing dumb as well.

The older cop returned and pulled out the bag of dope.

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He threw the brick on the scale and remarked, “Wow, twelve pounds!”

‘Bullshit, that’s fifteen pounds!’ I almost spat back.

But I caught myself just in time. That would have been all the proof they needed that I was involved. Those border patrol agents were smart as hell, and I almost fell for it. Unfortunately there were more surprises. The younger agent unzipped the side pocket of the Brut bag and pulled out a picture of my dad and me.

“This looks like you,” he informed me, holding up the snapshot next to my face. He then pulled out my social security card. It was getting more and more difficult to stick to my game plan.

“I don’t want to say anything until I talk to an attorney,” I kept repeating.

I sat down and was overcome by a sense of impending doom. All I could think of was how difficult it was going to be in prison. I thought back to my warrants in Texas and wished I had just faced my legal issues there. Jail time would have been faster and easier than what I was facing now. I remember lying down on the bench on my back for about an hour, drifting in and out of consciousness while horror-filled images of penitentiary life burrowed their way into my head.

“You don’t look too happy for someone who is going home,” said a voice.

I thought, ‘That’s a cruel joke to play on somebody who just got busted.’ But the agent said, “Let’s go.”

Even as they discharged me from the station, I still thought it was some kind of trick. I was so paranoid that I kept waiting for the agents to recapture me. It wasn’t until I was a mile down the road that I believed I was free. I was still so freaked out at how close I had come to going to prison; it felt like I was dreaming. I had never won the lottery before, but I then had an idea of how it might have felt. I walked further down the street to a small bodega, and with the ten dollars I had left I bought a couple of Mickey’s malt liquor forties to calm my nerves. I chugged back one of the forties in about five or six swigs and kept the other one for later. I threw down the bottle, lit up a smoke, and trudged to the nearest bus stop.

As I waited for the bus, I thought back on my path to becoming a criminal. Life hadn’t always been so complicated. How had I wound up helping a drug-smuggling, car-stealing coyote like Cocaina move his dope out of Mexico?


Chapter 2

Little Lucky


Looking back on my early years, I feel I had a happy childhood. I’m sure some would look at it and say that I wasn’t raised right because I didn’t have a lot of guidance, but I believe that growing up with so much freedom was a wonderful thing for me. Even if I had the chance, I wouldn’t change a thing.

I grew up in Pleasanton, Texas, in a small house with my mom, dad, and two maternal half-sisters. My dad was an Italian-German-Irish semi-redneck who was respected and highly regarded by everyone he came into contact with. He was also known as a great bullshitter. He was a hard worker who always provided for our family, no matter the circumstances. When my mother was pregnant with me, she insisted that he quit his insurance job. Another woman had called our home claiming she was dating my father. He quit the job the next day and was soon hired to unload trucks at a warehouse for a large South Texas grocery store. He started as a forklift driver, but eventually became the dock manager. That was the type of work ethic he had.

I really looked up to my dad and always wanted to be like him. In the seventies he slicked his hair back and drove a white Monte Carlo with a CB radio. His handle was “Lucky Seven.” Later, I earned a similar nickname of Little Lucky after my little league baseball batting average hit .777. This was the highest in the league and it even got posted in the sports section of the local newspaper.

Baseball was one of my first obsessions. My buddy Lando and I played in the street almost every day for hours on end from the time we were five years old. This was why I was able to maintain the highest batting average when I finally played in a league. Lando also become a star. We were a hell of a match and were the best of friends.

My dad had a pretty rough childhood. When he was just a boy his parents dropped him off with his aunt and two uncles and never returned. The three relations were hard-laboring working class people who raised my dad on a farm. In his third grade class picture he was one of the only kids without shoes because his new family couldn’t afford them. But even though he had things rough, my dad always showered me with affection and was involved in my life as much as possible when he wasn’t working.

If you could call my dad the good cop, then my mom was definitely the bad cop and ass-whooper. Mom called the shots in the house, and whatever she said was law. Her looks were much better than her temper though, as she was truly beautiful. Whenever I was with her I would catch men checking her out, and this always bothered me.

My mom had a history of violence. Over the years I learned the family secret of her mean streaks. She managed a beer joint just off the main highway, and it was rumored that she had once stabbed a man at the bar for antagonizing my dad. The man almost died.

I also experienced her cold-heartedness firsthand. On the side of our house in the shade grew my mother’s prized rose garden, and our dogs would often dig trenches there to get out of the Texas heat. Unfortunately for these dogs, my mother loved her roses best. If any of our puppies got caught digging, or did anything else my mother didn’t like, she would take them out for a ride in the countryside to the middle of nowhere, and we would never see the dogs again. She called it, taking them for a ride.

When my mom played Monopoly with family or friends, they would all drink heavily. She was a great sport when she won, but a terrible loser. Anyone who has played Monopoly knows that losers stay losers for a long time. My mom didn’t like this, so on occasion she would fly into a rage, grab the board and throw it on the stove, burning it to ashes. Nobody dared try to stop her. In a way, I guess this was kind of nice for us, as we would always have new boards to play on and brand new, crisp Monopoly money.

After baseball, my next greatest obsession was donut holes. There was a donut shop on the same corner as my school that sold the delicious fried delights for a dime apiece. One day, while penniless and full of donut hole cravings, I came up with the brilliant idea to go door-to-door begging for dimes. This was a momentous occasion, as it was the first of many entrepreneurial endeavors. One woman whose door I had knocked on ended up calling my mom, who sent my uncle to find me. When we got home my mother was waiting on the porch with a belt in her hand. Whenever I saw that belt, fear would run all the way down my spine and make my stomach turn. She proceeded to whip the shit out of me. This wasn’t my first ass-whooping however, and it would definitely not be my last.

Despite these difficult moments, my mother could also be very affectionate. I remember her always hugging and kissing me, and even though I was never told, I love you until later in life, I always felt loved and appreciated.

Another family abnormality was that my mother’s father was a curandero, or witch doctor. I heard he was paid to take care of people’s problems. My grandpa died when I was a kid, but while alive he owned a beer joint with concrete floors and dirty, piss-drenched bathrooms. My grandpa hardly talked to me when I hung out at his bar, though. We were never very close.

My grandfather had quite a few children. A few of them lived in the housing projects called “The Courts.” I would often go visit my aunts there and hang out, but I always felt like an outsider because I wasn’t full Mexican. At the same time, I also felt superior to them because I was half-white. When I hung around my father’s side of the family, however, I always felt like the dirty little Mexican trying to fit in with the white people. I couldn’t win and I stayed very uncomfortable.

My uncle Tommy was the one Mexican who intimidated me. He was one of the few who could afford his own place. I thought of him as a high roller because he made good money as an oilrig truck driver and spent it on a new mobile home. They said he had often dreamt of having a white, skinny wife who would cook him steaks every night. Just when it seemed he was close to fulfilling his dream, something went wrong and he ended up with an overweight woman. She was probably hot when she was younger, but she gained a lot of weight after giving birth to two children. Later these kids became thorns in Tommy’s side because of the child support he had to pay when he split from his wife. I remember hearing that he even quit his job as an oil trucker to make cash under the table breaking horses so that he wouldn’t have to pay as much. After he had become a father, it seemed his life went downhill. He made more than one trip to the slammer for lapses in paying his dues. In Texas, you go straight to jail for that.

His unhappiness was further compounded when his wife moved her black boyfriend into their house. Tommy was pissed. They were from the rural, white, country town of Jourdanton and almost everyone there was prejudiced to some extent. Years after the divorce it came as no surprise when I heard Tommy had been sentenced for murder for killing his most recent girlfriend and her new boyfriend. It seemed a life of heavy drinking and deep resentment finally took its toll.

My sisters were five and six years older than me. When I was four or five, I wasn’t coordinated or smart enough to play games with them, and I definitely wasn’t into dolls, so we were never very close. I was considered the pesky little brother, and by the time I was eleven or twelve, they had already moved on to partying and dating.

My sisters both got married when they were around sixteen, so I didn’t see them much after that. Although I don’t remember it, my mom says that the separation left me out of sorts for months.

Our house in Pleasanton was small, with only two real bedrooms. My room was half the size of a regular room and may have originally been intended as a laundry room. Our bathroom had an old fashioned tub that was at least sixty years old, the same age as the house itself. Most of the time it was the five of us, but my uncle Joe would stay with us for a few months at a time here and there. When he eventually wore out his welcome, my mother didn’t have the heart to tell him to leave, so she had my dad do it.

In our backyard we hung wooden swings with cables of rope from a pair of flourishing pecan trees. There were also a few stumps in the yard that we would sit on if we were feeling lazy. Behind our house we had a little shed that housed my dad’s tools and lawnmower. We called it the cuatito. I would often climb on top of it and hang out after school, the hot Texas sun beating down on my shoulders. Behind the shed was a giant garden with two Freestone peach trees that gave us delicious, juicy fruits, as well as a mouthwatering strawberry patch. My friends would come over often and we would gorge ourselves until we had our fill. There was also a small tree in the front of the house with cat-tongue leaves that produced milk when you broke them. I would often climb on the tree, pretending that I was in a jungle fighting off animals or natives. My mom loved roses, so my dad planted a large flowering bush in front of the kitchen window, blocking the one entrance I used if I ever got locked out.

Pleasanton was home to about seven thousand people, and every year there would be a large town event called the Cowboy Homecoming. This was a big deal for us all and made us very proud of where we lived. In front of the town library there was a bronze cowboy statue with chaps and a cowboy hat that served as a symbol for our values and accomplishments. The plaque under it stated, Pleasanton, Texas, Birthplace of the Cowboy. There was always a big parade and a carnival with chili cook offs and fistfights. Whenever the carnival came to town, I would hardly sleep. It was always a struggle to scrounge up enough money to spend there, so if I didn’t have enough, I would just hang around loafing inside trying to catch a glimpse of other people having fun. B-list country singers would sing on the tops of flatbed eighteen-wheelers. Cowboy Homecoming was the most fun our town had all year.

I loved the river that ran through our town and would often go fishing there with my dad. There was also a pear orchard across the river by the city park. Every spring, the whole family would go on an outing and load up bags of pears. Even though our house was only a quarter mile away from the river, I was forbidden to go there, as I was only a young kid. Nevertheless, I still made the trip.

The river often flooded over the dam, and once while this was happening, I slipped and slid down the dam into the water. My friend’s big brother dove in and saved me, though I was more embarrassed about falling in than I was scared. Since my dad didn’t want to get in trouble with my mom for not paying attention to where I was, he told me never to mention the incident to her, and I didn’t.

I was obsessed with a lot of things as a child, but candy was my first love. I consumed it addictively, much the way I later used drugs. I would often cut the neighbors’ grass and then use what I’d earned to buy candy, like Jolly Ranchers, Tootsie Rolls, Jawbreakers and Fun Dip. Nobody ever showed me how to save my money, so right after getting paid I would just spend every last dime on huge bags of sweets, hooked on that intoxicating sugar high.

I also really liked starting fires. This was another one of those things I wasn’t supposed to do, but did anyway. I got busted all the time. I would come home smelling like a barbecue pit, and my parents would quiz me, “Hey, were you playing with fire?” I was a lousy liar and a terrible criminal, but I think those early failures trained me in how not to get caught later in life.

When I was seven I had a friend named Luterio, who was a year younger than me. He lived a block away by a Baptist church that had a basketball court and a big roof that I loved to climb on. The church also owned a portable building on the edge of Luterio’s driveway. One day I found a pack of matches, so we decided to burn up some cardboard that was lying alongside the portable building. When the fire started going strong, I kicked an elongated piece into the flames. The blaze mushroomed out of control, and that’s when we took off running to our respective homes.

Minutes later I heard the scream of fire truck sirens tearing down the block. The firemen questioned Luterio. He lied to them, although he must have told them that I was involved, as the firemen showed up at my house later that night asking me questions. I too lied through my teeth and the truth was never found out.

I was always getting into mischief. I think I got a rush from it that made me do it more. My neighbor was a pastor who would often take me to church and have long talks with me about being good. I knew God wanted me to do the right thing, but I could never stack up. There was always a desire to do the wrong thing. Deep inside I carried this guilt that I was a bad little kid.

When I was around eight years old I met a kid named Amedor. One day he invited me to go see The Jungle Book movie. After the film, he taught me the art of vandalism. Later, his dad took us to 7-Eleven and showed us how to steal burritos and strawberry shortcakes.

Amedor and I once decided to write senseless profanity on a lime-green VW van in the neighborhood using permanent markers and my mom’s lipstick. The van was parked on a dirt road, and our footprints led right back to my house. The owner showed up shortly afterwards, and we were busted. After that my mom forbade me from hanging out with Amedor. While that ended our friendship, it didn’t end my mischief. I became a good thief after that, and never got caught. I stole lighters, matches, candles, and food.

My favorite toy as a kid was my bb gun. I would get thousands of copperhead bb’s and shoot at anything that moved, including birds, squirrels and rabbits, although the velocity wasn’t powerful enough to kill anything except birds. One day, while hiding behind the shed in my backyard, I spotted my neighbor in her backyard. The lady was very old and moved very slowly using a walker. She would take one step, move her walker, and then take another step. As she was bending over to tend to the eggplants in her garden, I zapped her in the ass with a bb. I could hear the pop of the bullet as it smacked her rear end. She slowly turned around, but she never knew what hit her.

Jaime was another friend of mine who liked to get into trouble. We often rode our bikes while being chased by mean dogs that were unleashed. There was one dog in particular that we hated. We decided to get revenge on it with my bb gun. Jaime peddled hard, carrying me while I shot the dog in the face. After that, it never bothered us again.

When I was four years old, I brought my uncle’s three-legged dog along with me to school, as well as my mom’s bag of money that she had from work. I decided it would be a good idea to hand out the bills to the first and second graders so that they would like me. It was a very civil event, with the kids politely asking me if they could have some of the money, allowing me to be in control of the bag. I enthusiastically obliged.

I buried the rolls of coins that I hadn’t given away to the kids at school in our backyard. When my mom woke up, she was furious. She couldn’t find the money. She interrogated me, and the truth about my adventure came out. My mom’s eyes grew wide as she listened to my confession. She jumped up, grabbed her belt and began whooping my ass. After the beating, my sisters harassed me, demanding I show them where the coins were hidden, which I did.

My dislike for school started in kindergarten, partially because we always seemed to be going to the school nurse for shots, although I never understood the reasons why. The first time I got a shot at school, we were made to line up and wait with no explanation. I remember hearing the kids in front of me leave the nurse’s office crying and cradling their arms. This caused me to instantly remember the shots I had been given by our family doctor. He seemed to have a fetish for prescribing antibiotic shots at the first sign of an illness.

When I finally made it to the office, the nurse had cotton balls and several large syringes waiting for the next victim. When I saw these dreaded items, I decided that I wasn’t going to be that guy, so I cried and yelled and refused the shots. A short while later, my mom appeared. She had rollers in her hair, which always embarrassed me, and she was pissed. Within seconds the nurse plunged her cold, steel needles into my arm and there was nothing more to say.

After that I was scared shitless every day, anticipating more shots. I calculated that I had twelve more years of shots and misery until I graduated from school. Often I would go up to the teacher’s aide, who was much nicer than the evil teacher, and ask her if we were going to have a shot that day. I soon realized that she too was treacherous and not to be believed, as she would always give me some bullshit answer, claiming that she didn’t know. She was one of the first of many authority figures that I learned to mistrust.

First grade was a new type of hell. Our teacher, Ms. Palmer, had a lake outside of town that was named after her, a fact of which she often reminded us. Perhaps it was because she had her own lake that she felt she was entitled to be mean to us, demanding we sing good morning to her to the tune of Happy Birthday.

Ms. Palmer was a dictator of sorts and she most surely learned this behavior from the principal, Mr. Whitley. Mr. Whitley loved to inflict pain. To my six-year-old eyes, Mr. Whitley was a huge man who seemed built to hurt people. One of my first memories of him took place in the school cafeteria. He expected us to eat lunch in silence every day, but that day he had walked into the cafeteria to the sound of laughter and voices.

“Everybody shut up!” he screamed.

As the cafeteria instantly fell silent, Mr. Whitley singled out a kid in line and accused him of mumbling. Making a beeline for the boy, Mr. Whitley took off his belt and wrapped it into a tight loop. He lifted the kid’s arms high into the air to get a good angle, and whipped the boy on his butt with all his might at least three times. The kid screamed and cried, prompting all of the other kids in the cafeteria, including myself, to eat our meal in dead silence.

In fourth grade, my teacher Mrs. Ellinger enforced a rule that if you received three strikes on your record for the whole year, you would be sent to Mr. Whitley for an ass whooping. Word was that Mr. Whitley had a custom wooden paddle with holes bored into its surface to decrease wind resistance.

One day at recess, two of my friends and I had run to our homeroom class to get a football. Another teacher, Ms. Broom, heard the pitter-patter of our feet along the wooden floor and popped her head out of her classroom.

She called to us in a shrill, witch-like voice, “Boys, come here right now!”

She wrote our names down on a piece of paper and said the words I had most dreaded for the previous five years. “Go see Mr. Whitley immediately!”

It felt like a death sentence. Ms. Broom pushed the contact button and informed Mr. Whitley that we were making our way to his office to be punished for our crimes.

When we got to his office we sat down on a row of chairs placed next to the office door. My buddy Steve was the first to get called in, which I thought was a good thing, as his dad was a police officer. This, I figured, would surely save us from Mr. Whitley’s notorious corporal punishment. Minutes later I found out that it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. When the door slammed behind Steve, the third culprit, Alex, and I looked at each other in pure terror. Within another moment we heard three rapid, high-pitched pops in a row. Steve came out. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he did his best to not let them spill down his cheeks. Mr. Whitley then appeared in the doorway like the grim reaper and pointed at Alex.

“Come here, young man,” he sneered.

I was last. After three more loud popping sounds echoed from the office, Alex came out bawling. Despair set in. I had thoughts of running home, but decided against it when I realized that my mom would whip my ass too. I picked myself up from my seat and made my way into his office where a chair sat in the middle of the room. He made me bend over the back of the chair and grab the front legs. With the force of a volcanic eruption, Mr. Whitley laid into me three times with his paddle, setting my ass on fire. Initially I was in shock, but later I felt as if a huge injustice had occurred. We were just three kids trying to have fun, but we ended up with welts we didn’t deserve – corporal punishment. Somehow I made it through fourth grade with only two strikes, though I think perhaps it was Mrs. Ellinger that protected me from the third, as I always was talking in class.


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