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My second period class, American History, was different though. There were four long tables across the front of the room, with another four behind them and so on to the back of the room. This put Mike and me at the same table. After the teacher had us the way she wanted us, Mrs. Pounds left the room to take her attendance sheets to the office. Mike had glanced at me when he sat down, then quickly turned his head.I smiled at him and said, "Hi, Mike."He glanced at me again, turning completely read then mumbled, "Hi." What's the matter nerd boy?" I heard from behind me. "Ain'tcha never talked to a girl before?"I whirled around and looked at the table behind us. There were four girls sitting there, smiling like they were really proud of themselves. I just stared at them until one of them said, in the same voice as before, "Whatcha lookin' at, Bitch?" I'm not sure," I said as calmly as I could manage. "I think it's probably the school slut though." Fuck you," she said, her face reddening. As I write you just three days after this horrific disaster, I have many unanswered questions of my own. And at this early date there is so much that remains unknown. But in trying to look ahead and prepare for the day that will come, the day that you sit on my knee and say, “Today we talked about the World Trade Center in school. What do you remember Daddy?” I know that I will tell you this, I was afraid. “Daddy afraid?” You ask. Yes children, and the fear that I feel today grows upon me like a small irritation in the eye. At first it is just an annoyance. But the more you work at it, the harder you rub – the more uncomfortable it becomes until at last you are overwhelmed by the pain. Kids, I would be lying to you if I said that it is not my own life that I fear for. I’m only forty-two years old, and although that may sound ancient to you its a terribly young age to die. But even if I was to die today, I would have lived a fairly full life. My fear, my beloved children, my gifts.
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