"So, I told them I wouldn’t eat until I got more books."

How To Raise A Hacker: Chapter V - The Underground Railroad {Excerpt I}

Dedicated to Willow. Yep, I was 14 too. Love, Pops.

I half-expected the police to lunge at me as the security guard led me through the metallic double doors to the conference room, “Dr. Monroe will be here momentarily. You are welcome to the refreshments,” she pointed out before answering a call on her handheld receiver and left the room.

My head whisked from left to right. Refreshments? Are they poisoned? Why is everyone being nice to me? This same floral-scented room, less than a month ago, was where I was detained and expelled from school premises. Just when I thought my story at Frederick Douglass Academy was over, Dr. Monroe showed up at the local supermarket I was bagging groceries for and requested I meet her again - here.

Too afraid to touch anything that could get me into further trouble, I lingered around the redwood conference table, peering at the black-and-white news clippings that adorned the saffron-colored walls. Why bring me back after kicking me out? Maybe she isn’t done with me and this could be a sting operation. I searched for a hidden microphone behind an embossed plaque, but my curiosity got the best of me.

The encased article it featured was from October 14th 1991 and read, “After 5 Years of Delays, a Dream School Opens in Harlem,” and described juvenile delinquency, rampant violence, and below-standard test scores as the norm for the school that existed before Dr. Monroe took over.

Damn, this is from three years ago. And here I go, messing things up for her - getting into fights for stupid stuff and Dr. Monroe is like the female Joe Clark from Lean on Me. Lemme get outta here before she brings out a baseball bat like he did. Panicked, I grabbed my backpack to exit the room.

Just before I could make my break, Dr. Monroe seemed to appear out of nowhere. Too late. Damn. “Where do you think you’re going? You agreed to meet with me, Mr. Lormand. I have a few things to discuss with you. So sit right back down,” she commanded as I turned towards the strident voice. The vivacious sharply dressed citrine-complexioned woman placed both hands in her pockets and walked over to the chair that sat directly across. Though she was short compared to my tall and willowy frame, her presence was mighty.

Avoiding eye contact as I reluctantly returned to my seat, I focused on the blue trims that outlined the conference walls. It had only been a few weeks since I was there, being expelled for getting into a fight with the entire football team.

Let’s just get this over with so I can get back to work, my brooding disposition greeted Dr. Monroe as she took her seat and immediately laid out two manilla folders between us.

“So, Mr. Lormand. When I expelled you from these premises, and rightly so, something about you bugged me. I told myself, ‘Lorraine, how did this kid end up at your school.’ This isn’t your zoned school, I checked. I don’t know your parents or anything about you, so I did some digging - thanks to Mr. Lew, my Vice-Principal.”

So she did her research. So what? She’s got nothing on me. I’m nobody. Just a kid from Brooklyn, I griped to myself as Dr. Monroe placed on owl-like glasses that hung below her neckline.

She combed through the documents for what seemed like an eternity. Removing her spectacles, she placed them gently on the table and the awkward silence between us was broken, “Just as I thought. I have two people here. Your test scores perfectly match, and you seem to be one of the brightest kids in the country. Good for you, Mr. Lormand.”

Whatever. I rolled my eyes.

“Here is where it gets interesting. I checked with Mr. Lew to make sure I wasn’t just getting old and missed something, but your social records are not the same. Not from the ones originally sent to us. Now, these new ones we ordered are different.”

Uh oh. How could I forget that? Will she figure out what I did? No way.

Shifting against my chair, my hands tightened up. I noticed her observations of the changes in my body language, so I folded them together over my lap to pretend away my defiance.

What could she be thinking? Has she already called the police? Might as well come out with it.

“I…uh…changed them, so I could get in here.” Sweat would be dripping from my brow if it weren’t for this room being so perfectly air-conditioned.

Dr. Monroe leaned against her chair. She was silent for two minutes before her chilling response was made known, “You have no idea how much trouble this puts you in. Tampering with these records could have you kicked out of the Board of Education. That means, no public school would be able to admit you. None.”

"Whateva yo. Screw da system." The brazen words spurt out of me. Animosity towards her and the shame boiling inside me were mixing into a cauldron of guilt. I looked away from her, holding back tears. "Comin' where I'm from, no way I could got 'ere. Did what I had to do, yo. That's it."

Dr. Monroe examined me from her chair and to my surprise, she smiled, “Mr. Lormand, I am going to ask you one question and I want you to be honest with me.” Leaning towards me, a hand cupped her face as if she already knew the answer to her next question.

“Can you speak differently than you do now?” her eyes squinted as if her inquiry was the map to a pirate’s unburied treasure.

The emotional mask of petulance I proudly donned was coming apart. My clenched jaw loosened, and a shy smile was emerging. I uttered softly, “Yes, ma’am.”

The principal of Frederick Douglass Academy, a highly decorated Black woman with innumerable awards dazzling across her office walls, rocketed out of her chair and bursted out, “Hot damn!”

With her hands on her hips, she let out a triumphant laugh as if the holy grail she were looking for was now in her possession. She followed her treasure map and struck gold.

Still on her feet, her salt and pepper bangs bounced off her forehead as her movements became animated, “Okay, next question. Who are you really, Mr. Lormand?”

What do I tell her? Will she believe me? Even I don’t believe me.

Dr. Monroe returned to her seat and waited patiently for my answer. Before her sat a mysterious fourteen-year-old boy she had expelled from her school a few weeks back.

How do I even talk about this stuff? A part of me wanted to bail from the conversation. Accepting academic extinction would be preferable to any excursion into the catacombs of my inner world. It would mean drudging through the murky depths of my memories. My imagination recounted the moment Atreyu failed to rescue Artax, his horse companion, from succumbing to the swamps of sadness in The NeverEnding Story.

I peered downwards to the Buddhist medallion hanging from my neck as if it were Atreyu’s Auryn, Can’t lose heart like Artax. Be confident like Atreyu.

“I’m from Brooklyn, a group home. I live with my uncle now in Harlem.” I spoke with trepidation, expecting but expected to be interrupted at any moment with probing questions. She didn’t. She just sat there--waiting, with nary a blink to confirm her terrestrial existence.

Exhaling a deep breath, I continued, “I’ve been in the system—well, we call it ‘the system’—since I was seven. Kinda like an orphan, but my parents are still alive.”

“Why?” she prompted.

“My mother was a bad person. She abused me. My brothers too. I testified against her in family court.”

Hesitant to divulge that part of my biography, I felt a knot tighten in my stomach—an old anger circulating within—but instead of feeding it, I deeply exhaled and used the sensation as fuel to press on.

“What made me different from the other group home kids was the Buddhists. It makes me feel weird even talking about it, but they taught me a lot of stuff the other kids didn’t know.”

With a captivated look, Dr. Monroe rubbed her freckled jawline, “I have a feeling, Mr. Lormand, that the Buddhists aren’t what made you different from the boys in the group home, but please continue. We’re getting to the good stuff,” she smiled eagerly with her eyes.

“Actually, there were girls there too, but—never mind, sorry.” Her eyes squinted, which made me reconsider correcting her, so I gulped what remaining moisture I held in my mouth and proceeded.

“The group home was...rough. It was better than what I had before. I never had to worry about hot water or electricity. There was air conditioning all year round. Even during the winter! But they didn’t have enough books.”

“Books?”

“Yeah—I mean, ‘yes, Ma'am.’ I read all of them. All of them! I wanted more, but we weren’t allowed to leave the group home, except for appointments with our social workers or for hospital stuff. I asked them for more books, but they said I couldn’t have any more. There was no money, they said.”

By that point, my voice was slightly raised and my hands clenched each other, “I was vegetarian, still am, and they had to be saving a dollar for every piece of meatloaf they weren’t feeding me! So, I told them I wouldn’t eat until I got more books.”

“How old were you?”

“Eight.”

Dr. Monroe belted out an uproarious laugh.

I was becoming so passionate about my recollection that I hadn’t noticed that Dr. Monroe got up to fetch me water. She placed the cup gently in my hands as I looked up at her unveiled grin, which caught me by surprise. As I took a sip, Dr. Monroe returned to her chair, directly across from me, and leaned in, “What was your favorite book?”

Not expecting that question. A lot to choose from. Oh, I know, “Peter Pan or Journey to the West,” my face teemed with delight.

“What about Pippi Longstocking? It used to be a favorite story of mine as a girl. My father would read it to me. I took my kids out to see the movie a long time ago. Now, how did that song go again?”

“Pippi Longstocking is coming into your town. The one no one can keep down, no no no no. The one who's fun to be around, woaaahhh woah,” I recited with glee.

Surprised by my recall of the playful film melody, Dr. Monroe conjured up the rest of the song, to which I joined in chorus, “Pippi Longstocking is coming into your world. A freckle-faced red-haired girl, you oughta know. She'll throw your life into a whirl.”

Dr. Monroe let out a cascade of infectious laughter that inspired me once again to join her. She's a lot cooler than I thought, “I can’t believe I remember that silly tune. Okay, Mr. Lormand. Tell me about the Buddhists. How do they come in? After your hunger strike?”