Upon looking back through my previous years of schooling, I had accidentally stumbled across something that I had thought long forgotten. It all happened in the year 1990. I was a junior at a Catholic school. Back then I had hair growing down to the middle of my back, and my shirt would always be untucked. This was not the way things were done. There were rules at the school that stated that hair should be "neatly" cut above the collar and clean dress clothes worn in an extremely presentable fashion. I guess I was the rebel against the almighty dress code, a savior for those who wished to dress sloppy.

I had always gotten away with these little infringements of the rules, because I was a good kid. I was never motivated to create trouble; in fact, I was never motivated for anything. It felt like there was some kind of unsaid mutual agreement between the faculty and myself. They would turn their heads from my little misdemeanors, and I did not get into their way. The teachers would let me sit in the back of class and draw doodles instead of listening; and everything would be fine. This is the way my high school career went for the first two and a half years.

I had to deal with only one teacher that I considered my archnemesis. His name was Mr. Belle. He held classes on the top floor in the last room of the south wing. He was a physics teacher, tall, about fifty years old. He had white hair and a beard that made him look like a distinguished professor, especially when he was sucking on that long black pipe of his. His list of achievements was huge: He was the mayor of a small town, a submarine captain for twenty five years, owned sheep farms in Australia, etc., etc. I hated this man simply because he refused to leave me alone.

I would cringe and walk away very quickly when going past his room, because I knew if he saw me he would come running out. "Tuck that shirt in!" Almost everyday, I would hear this. "Why don't you get a haircut?" It sounded like he was some kind of drill instructor barking orders to a helpless grunt. I never did anything against this man to make him treat me the way he did. I could not figure out why in the world he had a vendetta against me. Because of this, I grew to hate the man with a passion. I merely wanted to be left alone, but he had sparked a fire in me that I never knew could burn.

I was part of a little club lovingly called "The Smoking Crew". It was a secretive underground group within the student body that, to put it simply, smoked in the bathrooms. It was almost like the cult of the nicotine fix. We even had our own secret knocks, warning codes, and hand gestures. The best place for a quick puff was the men's room right next to the cafeteria.

Almost all of the teachers could tell we were in there smoking simply due to the fact that whenever the door to the bathroom was opened, great gray clouds would billow out into the cafeteria. It was a daily ritual, a right of passage. All the teachers would pretty much ignore us except, of course, for Mr. Belle.

The warning would go out as soon as he entered the cafeteria. A fellow smoker would run into the bathroom and say "Belle". After that single word was said, dozens of cigarette butts would hit the floor and dozens of people would take off up the stairwell right outside of the bathroom door. This too was a daily ritual.

One day, I was just standing in front of the big mirror over the sink, attempting to control my wild hair. My friend was over in one of the stalls, having a cigarette, of course. Suddenly, there he was, Mr. Belle himself, staring down at me. My heart dropped down to the bottom of my shoes.

He called my friend out of the stall and had him put out the cigarette. Surprisingly, Mr. Belle let him go with only a few words. I still stood there in shock. "Not so fast!" He grabbed me by my arm and took me straight to the Dean of Student's Office. I began voicing my opinion about the injustice that was being done to me.

The meeting was brief. I felt like I wanted to puke. Remember, I had never gotten into any trouble before. The Dean let me go, but Mr. Belle was there with three detentions in his hand. I took the little blue pieces of paper and read what they said. "Intentionally Inhaling Second-Hand Smoke" I would have to stay after school for three days because of this.