The Long Hard Road Out of Hell

tapes (full of prank calls and dirty songs about masturbation and flatulence recorded with my cousin Chad under the name Big Bert and the Uglies). And I had already been punished in the principal’s office twice in the past few months. The first time was for accidentally hitting my music teacher, Mrs. Burdick, in the crotch with a slingshot I had made out of a heavy-duty rubber band, a wooden ruler and, as ammunition, melted chunks of Crayola crayons stolen from art class. The second was for fulfilling Mrs. Burdick’s homework assignment of bringing in an album for the class to sing by showing up with AC/DC’s Highway to Hell . But all of that still did not add up to an expulsion.
    My final desperate caper involved revisiting the dreaded basement of my grandfather and stealing a dildo from his secret workbench drawer. I wore gloves so I wouldn’t get any of the crusted Vaseline on me. After school the next day, Neil Ruble and I snuck into Ms. Price’s classroom and pried open her desk drawer. It contained her own secrets, which were just as taboo to Christian school as my grandfather’s were to suburbia: semierotic romance novels. There was also a handheld vanity mirror, which made sense since Ms. Price was always very concerned about her appearance. At the time, Chad and I regularly attempted to get the attention of two sisters who lived near my grandparents by throwing rocks at cars and trying to cause accidents so they’d come running outside. In the same sick, twisted way, putting a dildo in Ms. Price’s drawer was the only outlet I had for expressing my latent, frustrated lust for her.
    To our disappointment, no one said a word about it in school the next day. But I was definitely the chief suspect, which I discovered when Mrs. Cole called my parents into school. She didn’t mention the dildo; instead, she lectured them on disciplining and instilling the fear of God in the juvenile delinquent they had raised. That’s when I realized that I would never be expelled. Half the kids at Heritage Christian School were from lower-income families, and the school received a pittance from the state to enroll them. I was among the children who could pay, and they wanted the money—even if it meant dealing with my dildoes, heavy metal cassettes, candy, dirty magazines and smut-filled recordings. I realized that if I ever wanted to get out of Christian school, I would have to exercise my own free will to walk away. And two months into tenth grade I did just that.

teen dabbler
    â€œI KNOW SOME NEW TRICKS,” SAID THE C AT IN THE H AT .
    â€œA LOT OF GOOD TRICKS . I WILL SHOW THEM TO YOU . Y OUR MOTHER WILL NOT MIND AT ALL IF I DO .”
    â€”Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat
    I lay on my bed, hands clasped on the back of my neck beneath my long brown hair, and listened to the hum of the washing machine in my parents’ basement. It was my last night in Canton, Ohio, and I had decided to spend it alone, reflecting on the past three years of public school. Everything was packed for the move to Fort Lauderdale: records, posters, books, T-shirts, journals, photographs, love letters and hate letters. Christian school had prepared me well for public school. It defined the taboos, then held them away at arm’s length, leaving me reaching for them in vain. As soon as I switched schools, it was all there for the taking—sex, drugs, rock, the occult. I didn’t even have to look for them: They found me.
    I’ve always believed that a person is smart. It’s people that are stupid. And few things bear this out better than war, organized religion, bureaucracy and high school, where the majority mercilessly rules. When I looked back on my first days there, all I saw was an insecurity and doubt so overwhelming that a single pimple was capable of throwing my life out of balance. Not until my final days did I have self-confidence and self-respect, even a measure of individuality.
    That last night in Canton, I knew that Brian Warner was dying. I was being given a chance to be reborn, for better or worse, somewhere new. But what I couldn’t figure out was whether high school had corrupted me or enlightened me. Maybe it was both, and corruption and enlightenment were inseparable.

THE INAUGURATION OF THE WORM
    By the end of my second week in public school, I knew I was doomed. Not only was I starting two months into sophomore year, after most friendships had already