My name is Frank. I’m fifteen years old. I’m six-foot-six. I have been since I was nine. When I was seven, I was in a car accident. I had to have one hundred and seventy-four stitches in my forehead, cheek, and neck. Do you see where all of this is going? Yes, I am called “Frankenstein.” with great frequency. I have large hands. I have large feet and have worn large orthopedic shoes since kindergarten. The clunky black kind of orthopedic shoes. I used to want to be a country singer. Now I don’t know. I lost part of my tongue in the accident. I bit down on it. It came clean off. The police could not find it to reattach it. I sound a little funny now. I have accepted that I scare everyone else at school. I cried about it for a while and my parents made me see a therapist. The therapist had trouble understanding me. I would tell her, “Everyone thinks I should be a monster.” She would say, “It’s those other kids who are monsters.” I know she is right. I wouldn’t mind being their kind of monster: pretty, or suave, cunning. Even just able to stand up straight. I would be a vampire, a werewolf. I would be the creature from the black lagoon.