The Lost Boy

disturbing a piece of metal or a placed tool. However, as soon as the door opened, the three of us would scurry out of the garage before Dan caught us. We knew that the garage was a special domain where Dan, Michael and a host of other men from the neighborhood gathered for their daily meetings.
    Sometimes during the daily gatherings, a few of the men from the neighborhood frowned at me, as they complained about the fear of “plummeting real estate values in the local area.” Mr Marsh always came to my rescue. “Back off, boys, ” Michael once warned. “I have plans for my young ward. I predict that Mr Pelzer here will become the next Chuck Yeager or Charles Manson. As you can see, I’m still working on the details.”
    I smiled at the compliment. “Yeah, ” I nodded in defiance, “Charles Manson!” I did feel a little foolish that I did not recall Charles Manson as an Ace fighter pilot.
    My times at Duinsmoore were the best in my teenage life. At night, after reading one of Mr Marsh’s “borrowed books, ” I’d fall asleep to the scent of flowers from a soft outside breeze. Every day after school carried a new adventure, waiting for
my
two friends and me to discover.
    My stay at the Walshes was not so good. Raging arguments were a daily occurrence, and at times both of them would storm out of the house, leaving me to watch their children. Sometimes I’d try to time the fights, so that before John and Linda began to hit each other, I could grab the youngest child and order the other two children to follow me outside until things calmed down.
    As much as I loved Duinsmoore, I knew I couldn’t keep living like I did. I felt that
I had to do something.
Finally, after an explosive argument I called Mrs O’Ryan, my probation officer, and begged her to move me, even if it meant returning to The Hill. Mrs O’Ryan seemed pleased with my decision and thought she could convince the Turnboughs to take me back.
    Leaving Duinsmoore was one of the hardest decisions I had to make. In a matter of months, in the tiniest fraction of my life, Duinsmoore had given me so much.
    I made it a point not to say good-bye. Paul, Dave and I seemed choked up, but we hid our feelings behind our age. At the last moment Dave gave me a hug. Mr Brazell saluted me while holding a wrench, while Mr Marsh presented me with a book on airplanes – the same book I had sneaked out of his house dozens of times. “This way you won’t have to break in my house … you hooligan.” He also gave me an autographed Delta Airline postcard. On it he scrawled his address and phone number. “Stay in touch, Slim, ” Michael said, as I felt myself beginning to get emotional. “Day or night, Sandra and I are here for you. Hang tough, Airborne! Get some!”
    Before climbing into Harold Turnbough’s ancient, blue-and-white Chevy pickup, I cleared my throat, then announced in my Michael Marsh-like voice, “Shed no tears. Have no fear … for … I shall return!” As Mr Turnbough and I motored away from Duinsmoore Drive, I saw
The Brady Bunch
woman, who stood on her immaculate front porch with her arms tightly across her chest. She gave me a sneering smile. I smiled back before shouting, “Love you, too!”
    Almost an hour later I burst through Alice Turnbough’s screen door. After a quick hug she pushed me away. “This is the last time, ” she warned. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
    I nodded before replying, “I know where I belong: 555-2647!”

10 – Break Away
    During the middle of my sophomore year in high school, I grew frustrated and bored. Because I had moved so much and never stayed in one school for more than a few months at a time, I was placed in a class for slow learners. I fought the idea at first, until I discovered that very little was expected of me. By then I abandoned all of my academic studies, for
I
knew my future lay outside the school walls. I was putting in over 48 hours of work a week through a string of jobs, and I believed that nothing I learned from high school could be used in the real world.
    My hunger for work was fueled by the fact that I was 17 and had less than a year to go in foster care. During sixth period, I’d race from school to Alice’s home, change clothes, then speed off again to one of my jobs at a fast-food restaurant or the plastic factory, where I worked until one or two in the morning. I knew that the odd hours and lack of sleep were taking their toll on me. In school, teachers had