Free The Bookie's Daughter by Heather Abraham Page B

beginning of my school years, but the big event was marred by my mother’s miscalculation of my age. Although I was in fact six, she had failed to register me for the coming school year. Suspended in a haze of booze, she had apparently lost track of the years. The school district had not, however. At first, Bonnie balked at an official inquiry as to why I had not yet been registered. She did not want to admit that her love of Jack Daniels and black beauties had interfered with her sense of time. By her calendar, I was only five. Mortified at being “caught” in the embarrassing position of not knowing her own daughter’s age, my mother defiantly responded that I was too immature to begin my school career. Fortunately, her objections were overruled.
     
    By all accounts, I was a handful. In many ways my entrance into first grade afforded my mother badly needed respite. I was not a destructive or belligerent child, but my inquisitive nature was a constant annoyance to my mother, who was typically in some stage of intoxication. Exasperated with my persistent inquiries, Bonnie would often quip to anyone within earshot, “That little bitch is making me crazy! She never stops asking questions. Why this? Why that? Why? Why? Why?”
     
    Admittedly, my curiosity was boundless, and I would persist until either given an answer I thought logical or one I needed to mull over. Desperate to shut me up, my mother was constantly buying me books in the hopes of keeping me occupied, but after reading them, I always wanted to discuss the topic du jour. This inevitably ended with another “why?” As a result, my going off to school was an exciting prospect for both mother and child.
     
    Although Gaskill Elementary was just a few blocks away, Bonnie walked me to school my first day and gratefully turned me over to the teacher. Ms. Bartholomew was a saint. A teacher for many years, I am sure she thought she had seen it all before I appeared on the scene, but I think it is safe to say that I was a memorable student. After all, my first day of primary school began with a naughty incident on my part and ended, the following spring, with my sister and me having full-time undercover police officers as bodyguards.
     
    As the bell officially signaled the beginning of the first day of class, Ms. Bartholomew set about gathering her new students in the front of the classroom. She called out names, directing students to their assigned seats. My name was called first, but for some reason I did not answer. Going through the rest of the roll, the teacher found that I was the only one left at the front of the room. She inquired, reasonably, “You didn’t answer when I called out your name. Do you have a nickname you would like me to use?”
     
    “Well, my mom calls me ‘little bitch,’” I answered.
     
    The astonished teacher, now red-faced, took me by the hand and led me to my seat. I spent the rest of the day getting familiar with the classroom and looking through my books. Immediately after class, Ms. Bartholomew announced that she would be walking me home, as she had something to discuss with my mother. Entering the store, Ms. Bartholomew filled my mother in on the “little bitch” incident and berated her for using such profane language in front of a child. Caught off guard, my mother was more than a little annoyed with my tattling. I am not sure why I decided to share such outrageous information with my teacher. Maybe I was annoyed at my mother and wanted her to get in trouble, or maybe I was just being mischievous. Either way, it was an interesting way to start my school career.
     
    Bonnie was uncharacteristically at a loss with how to punish me for my outrageous behavior. Thankfully, I escaped physical punishment but did receive a tongue-lashing and lecture on my crime of revealing family business to outsiders. “Little Bitch” remained one of my mother’s favorite pet names for her youngest daughter.
     
    While I was busy