I had just turned fourteen years old the night my best friends and I decided to kill Mr. Martinsen. He was my friend. My mentor. I would even go so far as to say I loved him, as I looked up to Mr. Martinsen the same way I had looked up to my maternal grandfather, who died from a heart attack when I was ten. He was the best teacher I ever had. I will never forget him, or the knowledge he imparted to me, as long as I live. But on that summer evening just several weeks before I began my freshman year of high school, he gave my friends and me no choice. Things had gone too far. We had put it off for too long. We knew Mr. Martinsen had to die.