Growing Up Miles: The O'Neal Dynasty

Another installment of the O'Neal Siblings' Saga.

Dad is a brilliant man. I'm quite certain he's a certifiable genius but as far as I am aware, he has never taken an IQ test. He doesn't care. That's a healthy attitude; he's content to just be him. I freely admit, though, that I always wanted the bragging rights.

Being a PhD, a college professor and an accomplished researcher, Dad naturally hoped his children would follow in his footsteps to some extent. He never pushed us to get PhDs, but I know he hoped some of us would. He is, after all, a Dad, and that's the sort of thing a well educated, bright Dad hopes for.

While none of us has attained a PhD (only Kathleen has more than one degree, Bill and Sharon have one each, and I have none) his four, oldest children did establish an educational dynasty of sorts at Westside High School.


In the late summer of the Year of Our Lord 1970, Westside High School of Richmond County, Georgia, USA opened its doors to students for the first time. I was among those entering 10th grade (the lowest class served). I had the great fortune to be placed in the sixth period English class of Mrs. Francis Johnson.

Mrs. Johnson was a physically diminutive lady I estimated to be in her fifties. She was an old school teacher who brooked no silliness or trouble in her classroom. I generally got along well with my teachers but somehow got off on the wrong foot with Mrs. Johnson. I felt she was too harsh. She felt I wasn't living up to my potential. She, at least, was dead on in her evaluation.

A hopeless romantic, an insecure sophomore, a dreamer, I did what I usually did in uncomfortable circumstances and retreated into my imagination. Contrary to popular belief, the worst that can happen is not that one gets in trouble for being off in fantasy land when one should be in the real world. One can get in far worse trouble when one drags fantasy land into the real world.

This is especially true when electricity is involved.

While I generally loved the subject material (the language itself, grammar, reading, writing, diagramming, all of it!) if I had a teacher who didn't inspire me, I struggled to care about the material or my grades.

I should also point out that I sat in the middle of the back of the class.

I'd started carrying a pocket screwdriver with me, the type with a hollow handle holding several, detachable drivers. One fine day when Mrs. Johnson was having us read something I didn't care about, I noticed that the electrical outlet was right beside my seat. Since all things electrical and electronic were near and dear to my heart, and since I never seemed to have enough money for such things, I did what any idiot would do-- I decided to steal the outlet.

The cover was a brushed steel plate. I stealthily removed my pocket screwdriver, quietly opened it, and lovingly installed the flat head blade. I surreptitiously, oh so slowly, oh so carefully, moved it to the outlet cover. By feel I found the screw. It took a minute or so of slow, easy going, but the screw came out. I removed the cover. Carefully, casually, I placed it on the floor beside my chair, the screw sticking out of the hole in the middle.

Then I waited a couple of days.

Friday afternoon I reassembled the screwdriver, more confidently this time. Staring at my open literature book (it was most likely Dickens or Shakespeare but who knows? It wasn't Poe; I would remember that for sure.) I moved the screwdriver down. I chanced a glance, not wanting to find live wiring with my fingers! Once I had the tool in the screw's slot, I stared studiously at my book and started turning the screw.

After only a few seconds, all Hell broke loose at my fingertips.

There was an extremely loud crack and buzz-- a cross between a firecracker and a fire alarm-- but only for an instant. Great, beautiful, golden sparks flew, hundreds, maybe thousands of them, from the outlet to every part of the room. I distinctly recall watching some hit the farthest corner. Girls shrieked. Guys roared. People jumped in their desks.

The screwdriver, apparently of its own volition, found its way deep within the coils of one of my notebooks under my literature book. My hands were on the desk. I was jumping and yelling with everyone else. Why not? I was as startled as they were.

But the best reaction, the very best of all, was poor Mrs. Johnson's. She bolted upright as she jumped, hit her knees against the bottom of her massive, wooden teacher's desk, fell back into her massive, wooden backed teacher's chair, jumped up and banged her knees again, fell back into her chair, and she and chair fell to the side together, her hand fiercely clutching the broken halves of her pencil.

After the worst of the pandemonium calmed down, the girl in the farthest corner (whose huge fro had caught a couple of sparks) started yelling. "Mrs. Johnson, he did it! He did it! It was Miles! I saw him! I saw him!" What she saw I was never sure, but she was sure she did, and that was that.

I tried to explain that I had noticed the outlet cover on the floor for a couple of days and decided to reinstall it. Mrs. Johnson didn't buy it. The tattler said she'd seen me putting a huge, yellow screwdriver in my pocket. Mrs. Johnson made me turn out my pockets and checked my sleeves and socks. All were, of course, devoid of screwdrivers, huge or otherwise.

Mrs. Johnson returned to her desk, up-righted her chair, threw the pencil away in disgust and picked up another. "Back to work!" We back to worked.

After a moment curiosity got the better of me. I pulled the screwdriver out and examined it, hidden by my book. Half the tip was gone, with a large blob of copper in its place. Too much damage for that brief instant, but there it was (We later found the school had been mis-wired for 30 amp service in a 15 amp outlet.)

I put the screwdriver (still warm) in my pocket. After a minute, paranoia made me move it to my sock.

Or perhaps it was my guardian angel.

A moment later Mrs. Johnson jumped up, rushed back, and looked through my books and notebooks. She stared at me intently, returned to her desk, called me up, and scribbled furiously on a hall pass. "Take this to the office, find out what class Hank is in, and bring him here." Speculatively she watched my face. "He's the only other person with that seating assignment, and I want to hear what he has to say. Empty your pockets again, please." She was disappointed that the screwdriver hadn't found its way back to its presumed lair.

On the way to get Hank, I put the screwdriver in the several inches of papers mashed into the bottom of my locker. I explained to Hank what had happened, and asked him to say he'd seen the plate on the floor (which he had). But Hank was stoned, and afraid to admit anything to anyone in authority. He stammered his way through his denials. My one consolation was that now at least half of Mr's Johnson's rather sharp mind was on Hank's nervousness rather than my culpability in electrical terrorism.

She then remembered to check my socks again, finding only inadequately hairy legs (from my perspective; I've no idea of hers) and more disappointment in terms of finding actual evidence of malfeasance.

Our relationship, needless to say, was rather strained the rest of the year. Fortunately for both of us, I wasn't in her class the next two years. One day during my senior year I found her walking beside me in the hall between classes. Except for a few lines on her face and some gray in her hair, she could have been a student. She startled me with a very school girlish, warm, friendly smile.

"You know, I never could prove it, but I always knew you shorted that outlet and caused that electrical storm. What were you really doing?"

Stunned, I could think of neither witty repartee nor anything plausibly deniable. I smiled what I hoped was an enigmatic smile and said, "Why, Mrs. Johnson, what ever do you mean?" She laugh, I laughed. She went into her room. I cringed my way to my next class.


The following year, my sister Sharon entered Westside, having of course heard all my friends' and my stories. Sharon wasn't as studious as I was (and I had been nowhere near the top of my game that year). She was also dealing with a lot of insecurity and loneliness. Like me, she had begun to blur the line between reality and her happy place-- sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.

Naturally, she drew Mrs. Johnson as her English teacher. She sat (I forget whether it was wittingly or un) in my old seat. When Mrs. Johnson got to her name while calling roll the first day of class, she paused. "You wouldn't, by any chance, be Miles O'Neal's sister?"

Sharon smiled brightly. "Uh huh!"

Not even a "Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Johnson took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes.

A few days later the class was exposed to the first of many pop quizzes (they bloomed like wildflowers in Mrs. Johnson's realm). As was her habit, she walked the room watching for any sign of cheating. As she came beside Sharon, Sharon bolted upright. In her best southern drawl, she nearly growled a warning. "Don't you step on his tail! He'll kill you!" She bent back over her quiz.

Mrs. Johnson froze in her tracks, amazed. What was this O'Neal child up to? "Don't step on whose tail?"

Sharon sat back up wearily but patiently. "My pet black panther. Right there. If anyone steps on his tail, he kills them. His tail's right beside your foot." She pointed helpfully at a spot near one shoe.

Mrs. Johnson looked at the floor. She looked at Sharon. "You know perfectly well there's nothing there."

"He's invisible." Sharon shrugged and gave the teacher a pitiful look. "I tried to warn you. Watch out for his tail." She went back to the quiz. After a few seconds, Mrs. Johnson went back to pacing the classroom. She gave the O'Neal and her Pet Panther a wide berth.

If I recall correctly, she pretty much left Sharon alone the rest of the year, though Sharon kept providing evidence of the O'Neal strain of insanity.


The following year our sister Kathleen entered Westside for the first time, having of course heard all our stories. To her great delight, she ended up in the fabled Mrs. Johnson's class. Happily, the O'Neal seat was open. (I'm surprised it wasn't roped off with a sign reading "Already Disturbed"). She claimed it and waited patiently for roll call. She was not disappointed.

Mrs. Johnson trailed off halfway through the last name, then repeated it. "O'Neal... I don't suppose you are the sister of Miles..."

"Yes, ma'am!" A mischievous, delighted gleam in her eyes, Kathleen grinned and nodded, her curly hair flouncing.

Hopelessly the trapped teacher continued. "...and... Sharon?"

A bigger smile and nod. "Yes'm!"

Mrs. Johnson looked like she'd cry. Kathleen, a good student, went through the year pretty well ignored by her English teacher except for an occasional congratulatory remark on her excellent grades and scholarship. Kat never did anything beyond her over-eager first response, but that was enough. She had cowed the tiger.


Two or three years later Bill arrived at Westside High, having heard all our stories. As he took his seat in Mr. Alford's home room he scanned his schedule. To his utter dismay, he did not have Mrs. Francis Johnson for English. With the three of us having helped water and fertilize his imagination (never mind traumatizing it) Bill easily rose to the occasion. He introduced himself to Mr. Alford (with whom I'd gotten along famously my senior year). As the home room bell sounded, Bill asked if he could be excused for a minute.

"Why on earth would I do that? Surely Miles told you we stick to the rules in my class!"

With a wicked grin, our brother explained what he wanted. Mr. Alford started writing with a flourish. As Bill finished, Mr. Alford handed Bill a hall pass. "What are you waiting for? Why are you still here?" I never found out why, but Mr. Alford and Mrs. Johnson, while hardly mortal enemies, were certainly not on good terms. That was all we needed to know.

Bill sauntered into Mrs. Johnson's room as she called roll. She spared the tardy student a withering glance and kept going. A chair in the middle of the back of the class sat forlorn and empty. It called to O'Neals like gold called prospectors to California in the 1800s. As always, O'Neal gallantry stepped up. Bill sat on the O'Neal throne, confidently, buoyantly, happily, beaming at his hapless victim.

Having finished the roll, Mrs. Johnson asked the expected question. "Is there anyone whose name I didn't call?" Bill's hand was in the air with the first word. "I meant anyone who was on time", she replied menacingly.

Bill dropped his hand and sat quietly, beaming away. No one else responded. No
one else moved. They all knew this teacher's reputation.

Mrs. Johnson glared at Bill, straightened her notebook, and raised her pencil. "And your name is...?"

"William Floyd O'Neal. But I go by Bill."

Silence fell like summer rain. Time slowed to glacial speed. Nobody else understood but they knew something was wrong. Mrs. Johnson understood. Or thought she did. She tried to speak. She licked her suddenly dry lips and tried again. "O'Neal? As in Miles?"

Bill nodded. "Yes, ma'am!"

"...and Sharon??" A beam and a nod. "Kathleen?" A nod and a beam.

"Yes, ma'am. They're my brothers and sisters!" Innocently he cranked the smile up a notch.

"Mrs. Johnson, looking as if she would cry, put her head on her desk, softly saying something sounding suspiciously like, "Why me?"

After a perfectly calculated interval Bill jumped to his feet. "Well, if that's the way you're going to be, I'm leaving and never coming back!" he stalked moodily from the classroom, leaving the O'Neal throne empty at last.


We never heard what happened afterward in her class, but the amazing thing is that Mrs. Johnson-- a stickler among sticklers for discipline and rules-- apparently never looked into it. Bill told Mr. Alford (and later all of us) in loving detail what happened. Mr. Alford barely managed not to howl and slap his desk, unlike the O'Neal clan (including not just Mom, but that bastion of schoolness, Dad, as well,

Mr. Alford kept his ears open and even made discreet inquiries. In the teacher's lounge, nothing untoward had happened, although Mrs. Johnson seemed a little nervous for a day or so. But she quickly returned to her normal good cheer.

I like to think the chair escaped to a better place, perhaps a verdant mesa on a planet where school chairs live in peaceful harmony with enema bags and other things most of us are glad to never see again.

Looking back, I hope Mrs. Johnson had a happy, uneventful career after she was through with the O'Neals. She certainly deserved it.

And God help any O'Neals in her class after we'd gone through.