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kids do. And when they do, I know I have an opening to hit them. This kid hits me with a few minor punches when I charge in on him, and he closes his eyes with every punch. I take a step back and when he begins to throw another one, I rip an uppercut into his jawbone. Blood spurts out of a gash in his face and he goes down on the pavement. He isn’t moving.
    I take a look at him, lying there in a bloody heap, and at my blood-splattered right knuckle, and then pick up my stuff and head for home as casually as if we’d met for afternoon tea. I return to the usual empty house, have a bowl of Froot Loops, and climb the poplar tree in the front yard. I think about the kid again, wonder if he is still laid out in the parking lot. I can’t believe how little I care.
    I never mention the fight to anybody.
    The next time I fight, I use the same full-bore approach. We are playing a tackle football game a couple of streets over from my house, and this older kid, strong and sinewy, takes me down hard.
    Too hard.
    What do you think you’re doing? I say, scrambling to my feet.
    What’s your problem, punk? Can’t take a hit?
    We square off and I wade in on him and he drives a fist into my temple and knocks me almost to the ground, doubled over, and finishes the job with a kick to the gut with what feels like a steel-toed boot. I am done. TKO in the first round. The other kids disperse. This time I am the one left on the ground. Some boomerang.
    A stray dog comes over and sniffs me. I slowly get to my feet, mad at myself that I couldn’t take the kid’s punch, furious at him that he used a kick to end it.
    I never mention this fight to anybody, either.
    R. A. DICKEY
     

     
    IN THE SPAN of four years, I go from Glencliff Elementary to St. Edward School to Wright Middle School. Whatever my address, I keep finding my way into tangles and still don’t care about pain. I don’t care about lots of things. At St. Edward’s, my uniform consists of dark green chino slacks and a collared shirt. I wake up late one day and have to dress in a hurry. I really have to go to the bathroom, which is downstairs, and I really don’t feel like going downstairs. It will take too much time, so I just go ahead and pee right in my pants, which are now just a little darker. I finish getting dressed and walk to school. A block into the walk, my legs start getting chafed by the wet pants.
    What am I doing? Why didn’t I just change my pants? I think, Do I really care so little about myself? When I finally get to school I head for the bathroom and stuff a wad of paper towels inside my pants to blot up some of the wetness. It doesn’t help much.
    I spend the whole day in urine-soaked pants.
    It’s not that big a deal, I tell myself. They’ll get cleaned up the next time my mother goes to the Laundromat.
    WHEN I TURN THIRTEEN , I am on the move again, in more ways than one. I have been admitted to a prestigious all-boys school, Montgomery Bell Academy, or MBA, as everybody around Nashville calls it. My uncle Ricky went to MBA and it changed his life. My parents don’t have all that much communication with each other, but they both want my life to change, too, so, one year removed from wetting myself and being a low-level troublemaker, I find myself taking a long and intensive MBA entrance exam. I don’t make the cut. A year later I take the test again and this time I do make the cut. When MBA generously offers me a full package of financial aid and my parents agree with the school’s plan for me to repeat seventh grade, the deal is sealed.
    MBA was founded in 1867 and ever since has been educating Nashville’s elite, a demographic group I know nothing about. Many MBA students have parents who set them up with six-figure trust funds. I have parents who smuggle flatware from Western Sizzlin. It’s not a great socioeconomic fit. I may not be the only kid from the other side of the proverbial tracks, but we’re not exactly taking over the school,