There's one in every school, I suppose...

He’s shares a name with a very famous blues singer, so I will call him BB (as it’s not that famous blues singer); and he’s the school pervert. I know that because he’s the one that told me.

BB is in grade 6, and is a difficult child. He’s a difficult child to relate to, a difficult child to “click with”, and a difficult child to like. He is undergoing psychiatric testing to seek a diagnosis, and part of me is praying they find something they can treat.

Well, God never said everyone was a dream come true, and to be a Christian is to truly love the unlovable.

I suppose, if I had to describe him, I’d say that he reminds me of the goofy, socially awkward, comic relief that you’d find in 1960’s sitcoms.

He’s tall and lanky, and wears his hat pulled floppily down over his head so that his ears stick out. He spits when he talks. He farts for fun. He stares at your breasts when you’re talking to him.

He’s sort of like Eb Dawson or Jethro Bodine as a child, only darker. Creepier.

There’s something sinister about this kid… kinda like Travis Bickel lite

The other day he came to my room to “talk to me about stuff”, so I asked him what was troubling him.

He plopped himself down into the beanbag chair and said without preamble, “I’m tired of everyone calling me a pervert.”

I was a bit taken aback. It still comes as a surprise to me when children are the victimizers, and not the victims; but it is part of life at a very large State school, I suppose.

“Why do they call you a pervert?” I asked, tentatively, rolling the word around in my mouth to see how it fit. Knowing this kid, it did.

He shrugged, fidgeting with one of the gazillion toys in the room.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, why do you think they say that, BB?”

“Well,” he whined, “everyone thinks that I look up the girl’s shorts and culottes during PE (physical education).” There was no hesitation in his telling, no embarrassment. Indeed, on his face was a hint of a smirk.

“And do you?” I asked, trying not to rush to any sort of judgment.

“Well,” he exploded, throwing his toy across the room. “It’s not MY fault if they don’t wear clothes that cover their rudey-tootey bits!!” He crossed his arms and sank into the beanbag chair, sulking, one eyebrow cocked insolently.

“Soooo…” I said, slowly, thinking quickly, “you can see their underwear?”

“Oh yeah,” he said, brightening. “Pink ones and orange with little flowers…”

He caught himself.

“It’s not MY fault they show off their rudey-tootey bits!!”

Then he went back to sulking.

What ensued, of course, was a conversation about “the truth” versus “the appearance of truth”; and that while he might not actually deliberately be looking up the girls culottes he might be giving the impression that he is. We talked about averting his eyes, or even turning his back; but none of those ideas seemed to please him. They spoiled the fun.

“How does everyone know, by the way, that you’re a “pervert”, honey?”

“The girls in my class told on me. Mr. M had a chat with me about it.”

“I see, and what did he say?”

BB just shrugged, and fidgeted some more with his toys, that sulky smirk etched on his face.