School.School. I feel bad. Gramma took me to the school, announced that I was an eighth grader, and –BOOM – I was in school. Plain 'ol school. Jus... like the last one. I can do this, I told myself. All I have to do is show up and I can pass. Make 'Cs'. Kept Mom from having to go to any meetings. Tossed in a few 'Bs' and the occasional 'A' if I felt particularly ambitious.Three days into it, I was in 'daydream' mode in math class. Basic algebra, some that, to me, appeared so stunningly obvious as. It didn't seem to cause any problems and helped me fill up my days. I was never at work that Sheila was not there. I felt that she had a special "in" there, but couldn't figure it out. One late evening I was working with her when Bob Somerville walked by. Bob was in his early forties and was one of the senior partners. I had seen him before but, in my position, had no reason to have a relationship with him. Sheila obviously did, being very casual and friendly around him. When I inquired one. More

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