My Strawberry! My Strawberry!

David B sewed a Strawberry for himself and brought it to school. He next constructed a Popsicle-stick house for it, complete with toilet. Several boys in our fourth-grade class delighted in kidnapping the crude lump of stuffed red cloth with two button eyes, and causing David B to squeal: “My Strawberry! My Strawberry!”
David B flunked tests and failed to turn in assignments. Our teacher was exasperated. David B spent hours in the school psychologist’s office.
David B was a bored genius, I learned, who was capable of eighth-grade schoolwork. His maturity level, however, was only that of a Kindergartener. Though this made no sense, it sure explained a lot.