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May 2, 2003
I remember the first time Mr. Calloway called me stupid. It was October, and I’d started volunteering afterschool to help him prepare for the next day. Mom needed the extra hour alone to finish her medical transcriptions, dad needed the overtime at the factory, and I needed the extra hour to convince myself that I really did love Mr. Calloway like I loved my own father. It’s not that I didn’t love my father; no, I loved Mr. Calloway because he treated me as grandly as my father did, and I saw in him everything I loved about my dad.