Yours Truly

Prologue: An Old, Dusty, and Smelly Shoe Box

Does anyone just stop and think why people are so smart? Oops, I meant to say 'gifted,' but those stupid kids at prep don't seem to like the term 'gifted' even though they're just like me. 

And let me make this clear. I'm not 'gifted,' okay. You see I pick the toe jam from my toes when I'm bored. Those 'gifted' prep kids don't pick the toe jam from their toes, they pick the stinky lint from their belly buttons. I know. They're gross. Even grosser than old Stan's hot dog stand.

So you see, I'm not 'gifted.' I'm better than gifted, but I'm not in stupid prep because apparently, and I quote, "I don't fit into the correct criteria for the model students program."

I mean, what does that have to do with anything? I mean sure, I may not pay attention all the time or even turn in my stuff on time, but hey, at least I don't pick stinky belly button lint from my belly button!

I looked outside the car window as Uncle Dudley drove us home. I crossed my arms to show I was upset.

Stupid prep kids. 

Uncle Dudley's eyes shifted back and forth between the road and the rearview mirror until he finally said, "What's on you're mind kiddo?"

I sighed in relief as I waved my arms in the air. "Finally! I thought you'd never ask!" I crossed my arms again and I continued. "I should have gotten into that school, Uncle! I was on my best behavior and everything! I even shaved my wispy beard stubble!"

"Billy, you don't have any wispy beard stubble. You're nine years old."

"That's because I shaved!"

Uncle gave a small sigh and changed the subject back. "And why is that so upsetting?"

"Only the best kids get into that school and everyone tells me that I'm the best!"

"Well," his voice lowered into a gentle tone, "if it makes you that upset, why don't you write about it?"

"Write about it? But I'm illspiterate."

"Illiterate."

"See!"

Uncle Dudley pulled the car into our parking spot outside of the apartment building. He got out and I followed him up the steps and into the house. "You can only do what you think you can. If you say you're illiterate than you will be."

"But I-"

"I'm not finished." He walked through our door and hung his jacket on our coat holder. "But I know you aren't. I think if you just believed in yourself a little, then maybe you could actually do what you wanted. I think writing some letters will help. I know we have paper in here somewhere." He glanced around at all of the surrounding piles of laundry and newspaper. Clutter practically stained the carpet.

I let out a defeated sigh. "Who do I write them to?"

"Depends on who you want to hear you."

"Huh." I walked into my room and flopped onto my bed like a dead fish. "Who I want to hear me," I muttered. I looked up at my ceiling. It was covered in Justice League posters. I had all of the special collector ones and each of them was signed by my favorite members. Except Batman, he wouldn't give into my begging. He wouldn't actually let me near him at all, so yeah.

I sat up and glanced around my room. It's really messy. I mean I have a really nice apartment, don't get me wrong, but I just think it's a little crammed. That's all. Uncle Dudley thinks it's fine and I mean I guess so. But I think that if we want to live here, we're going to have to make some adjustments to the leaky roof.

I hopped off my bed, and went to my desk that was next to the bed. I had to clear some old newspapers off of it. They smelled weird. Once I did that I had a perfectly good writing space. 

Time to write, I thought.

I cleared my throat. "Uncle Dudley!" It was a desperate scream that almost sounded goat like.

He rushed into the room, his face panic stricken.  "What is it Billy?!"

I smiled, and in my best angel voice I replied, "do we have any pens?"

Uncle Dudley rolled his and rubbed his forehead. "My god Billy, I thought something had happened."

"Well, something did happen. I discovered that I don't have any pens to write with. Or paper."

Uncle Dudley smacked his face on the door frame. It made the pictures on the wall rumble. "Be patient." He disappeared and I heard drawers open and close and pens clinking against each other. He came back and set a large stack of letter paper on my desk along with a paper cup full of pens. "Happy?" He asked. 

"Very." I grinned. I could finally write to my heroes and have my wildest dreams come true!Uncle Dudley was about to leave when I stopped him. "Uncle, just where do I put these when I'm done with them?"

"Well, do you want to send them to someone?"

"I don't know." What a good question. I mean, I wanted to get all touchy and feely with my life long heroes, but I didn't want them to think I was too desperate. "I'll figure it out."

"Alright," Uncle said. "If you need me, I'll be in the kitchen." He left and I stared at my ceiling again. What was I angry about? Well, those stupid prep kids I guess.

I cracked my knuckles then winced at the pain. That was a stupid idea. 

I grabbed a near by pen and began to write on the first stack of paper. 

Dear Mr. Principal,

You are not very kind. And yes, I'm going to be very rude about this because you, quite frankly, are a terrible person. You didn't let me into stupid prep because I couldn't do what you asked. And what you asked was stupid. I refuse to comply with not bringing any peanut butter to school because PB & J are my favorite sandwiches on the whole entire face of the planet and just because Mrs. Honda is deathly allergic doesn't change my mind. 

Yours Truly,

William Joseph Batson

P.S. Wise guy, the date is 9-25-94.

I folded the letter in half and took a breath in. I felt better. I would have to write more about my feelings. 

I searched for a place to put my letter and found an old shoe box on the floor. I opened it. A sour smell came from it, but I didn't care. It was a good spot to put the letter. I put the shoe box next to the stack of paper and crossed my arms. 

I could get used to feeling superior.