I was maybe 15. Gangly and awkward. Just like you’re supposed to be at that age.

But just like I was supposed to be, it was exactly what I didn’t want to be.

And to prove how much my all elbows and knees body was really svelt and cool, when the kids in the cabin passed the Genessee Cream Ale, I hugged it like it could transform me into a someone else. A magic 16 ounce elixir.

The sweet foamy liquid made me laugh and bounce. A rowdy joy fill my bones. I didn’t think twice about pouring a can of it over the top bunk that was old Martha Hamilton’s bed. Everyone thought was a crone a good lesson. I’d show her.

Ha, ha, ha, I remember thinking as I waved the open can over her sheets. Serves her snooty face right.

But later when I’d woken, groggy and hung over, it was found out it was me, and I felt a hundred eyes looking at me in the kitchen dining table. That’s the one. He’s the boy that doesn’t belong.

And that is when I remember my mother best. Upset and angry, she sat me down in her still clean hunting jacket and I cried and apologized. And told her all that was within. And for a moment I felt deeply close to her as I had rarely before.