The Loss of Innocence

The Loss of Innocence

My seventh-grade year was the first time I knew I was going to be one of the cool people. Over the summer I’d bought a surfer’s cross at Panama City Beach, and my cousin Carole had bleached my hair blonde—something all the cool kids were doing that year. I was even getting close to the age when I hoped my dad would finally let me pick my own hairstyle.

Between sixth and seventh grade, he gave in and let me graduate from a GI cut to a flat top. I’d go down to Vernon Lovell’s barbershop, plop down in the chair, and say, “Give me a flat top!” Then I’d slick the front with a dab of butch wax to make it stand tall. Man, was I cool? Maybe—but not Shane Fox cool.

For the sake of honesty, I’ll admit that “Shane Fox” isn’t his real name, but it fits the story. Shane was a rebel straight out of a James Dean movie—jeans cuffed at the bottom, leather jacket over a white T-shirt, and an ever-present scowl that told the world he didn’t care. In seventh grade he even smoked Marlboros, hanging out in the school basement with the janitor, who, rumor had it, let him smoke down there.

I was never friends with Shane. He was one of those kids who carried an edge wherever he went, the kind of boy who looked like he had something to prove. I don’t recall him ever having any real friends.

 One morning, I decided to wear my surfer’s cross to school. As I passed my dad on the way out, he looked at it and said, “You ought to leave that at home, son. You’ll lose it if you take it to school.”

I told him not to worry—it wasn’t coming off my neck for anything. Confident and feeling just the right amount of cool, I headed to the bus stop.

Once I got to school, I met up with my buddies for a few rounds of marbles. Every day, a bunch of us boys would gather in the dirt before class, draw a circle, and toss in a marble apiece. That was the pot. From an outer ring—the lag line—we’d take turns shooting, trying to knock marbles out of the circle. If you hit one out, you kept it. Simple rules, high stakes.

I was pretty good at it, too. I’d built up quite the collection: Steelies, Oilies, Pearlies, Chinkies, Cat’s Eyes—you name it. I loved them all.

There was a younger kid named Jonathan who used to pester us. He’d run right through our games, kicking marbles every which way, then take off like a shot before we could grab him. He’d swing his metal lunchbox if you got close, and that thing hurt when it connected. We called him The Lunchbox Kid.

Anyway, that morning while we were playing, Shane spotted my surfer’s cross. He walked over, gave me that hard look of his, and said, “Hey, I want to wear that cross today. Give it to me.”

I told him my dad had said not to take it off, but Shane just leaned in close, tapped me on the forehead with his finger, and said, “I don’t care. I said I want it.”

So, I handed it over—nervously, reluctantly—and begged him not to lose it. He promised he’d give it back at the end of the day.

All day I worried about that cross. When the final bell rang, I made a beeline for Shane and told him I needed it back before catching the bus. He shrugged and said, “I lost it,” with no apology in his voice.

I told him I didn’t believe him, but he raised a fist and said, “Back off, punk. I told you I lost it.”

I spent the next hour combing the schoolyard, checking classrooms, even sneaking down into that basement where Shane liked to hang out. No luck. I missed my bus and had to walk home, already dreading the talk I’d have with Dad.

When he came home from work, I told him what had happened. He didn’t yell, just gave me that look that said, I told you so, and a few words to make sure the lesson sank in.

After that day, I think I truly hated Shane Fox. I kept my distance, though I never stopped watching for him to show up wearing that cross.

Then, several months later, tragedy struck Shane’s home. Word spread fast. His parents had been fighting again—worse than usual. One night his father came home drunk from Royster’s and started beating on his mother. When it looked like his dad was about to do real harm, Shane grabbed his father’s shotgun. He yelled for his mother to run—and then he pulled the trigger.

Killed him on the spot.

By the next morning, the whole town knew. The talk around school was a mix of shock and disbelief. The authorities ruled it justified, but we never saw Shane again.

Something changed in me after that. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to kill your own father, no matter the reason. I didn’t hate him anymore. I just felt sorry for him—sorry that life had handed him something no kid should ever have to face.

I don’t know where Shane and his mother went after that. Maybe they moved away, maybe they just disappeared into another town, another life. The house they lived in has been gone for decades now, torn down long ago.

Sometimes, though, I still think about Shane Fox. I wonder if he ever found peace, if he managed to build a decent life after all that pain.

I’ll probably never know. But I do know that the day he took that surfer’s cross was the day I lost a little piece of my own innocence—and maybe, in a way, so did he.