And then there was the pain, the gut wrenching pain, the punches in his groin and one on his cheek, the taste of blood. Shortly after, he was in a new school with Father O’Rourke, leaning in close to him, so close he could smell the coffee on his breath, “I want you to tell me immediately if anyone bothers you. You are too damn smart for this nonsense. I will take care of it.” Leonard felt a rage surging up inside him; up to this point he had been holding his last piece of toast, in hopes that he might finish it. But now it was cold; he threw his napkin onto the plate to signify his disgust. It was all a guy like Leonard Whitman could do.
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