Heroes

by

Cole Parker

colepark@gmail.com

Okay, so people, adult people, have been telling me my maturity level needs some work. Often in loud, angry voices. Kids have a different way of saying it. They say I suck. So bite me. A lot of people are telling me lots of things these days. Telling me what I need to change. Going into specific details about what’s wrong with me.

I don’t need that crap. Leave me alone. That’s what they need to do. Just leave me the fuck alone.

My mother is one of them. So are my teachers. And the principal of my school. And the guidance counselor. All of them must think I’m just dying to hear their advice. I’m not. I tell them that, too, but it doesn’t seem to make any difference. Just ups the ante, advice-wise.

Then the gym teacher got on my ass. Okay, so maybe I was a little rough with that Bryce kid. Well, he got in my way. What was I supposed to do, go around him? I was dribbling toward the basket, had a layup in front of me, and there’s little bitty Bryce standing right in my path. So I just acted like he wasn’t there. Maybe I bumped into him a little hard. Too hard, coach said. Well, fuck him. And Bryce, stay the hell out of my way!

Then the gym ape, a man three times my size and fat as well, was right there yelling in my face questioning me about what the hell I thought I was doing. Well, fuck him, too. Then I had to talk to the principal again. He was probably as tired of seeing me as I was of him.

Anyway, I couldn’t go to gym for two weeks. Big whoop! Library instead. Fine by me. I didn’t have to talk to anyone in there. Better that way. I could sit alone among all those books at a table by myself and put my head down in my arms and shut out the world. The place was quiet. Suited me fine.

Other kids in school don’t talk to me much. That’s fine with me, too. I see them laughing and going on with each other. Silly-ass clowns; make me want to puke. Occasionally, rarely, someone will speak to me. Not often. They’ve found out quick enough to stay away. I’m not in the mood to shoot the shit with anyone.

One of the worst people is the guidance counselor. I was in her office, a small room crowded with her desk and chair and a filing cabinet. Hardly room for her second chair; she uses it for the person she’s faking her sincerity and caring with. I felt claustrophobic, being in the room, having to be this close to her. I sat down and she said it looked like I needed a hug. She wanted to hug me? Fuck that! I knew what to do; I straightened her out real fast. Damn fast. I stood up and walked out.

It was not much better at home; my mother didn’t talk to me much. She learned it was better not to. That began after she’d asked me to set the table for her: “Reef, dinner’s about ready. Could you put out the plates and silverware?”

I growled at her. “Do it yourself. I’m busy.” I wasn’t, but I also wasn’t in a helping-out mood. Home was no better than school.

She said, “Reef!” in that tone of voice she uses when annoyed, and I said, “Fuck you.”

She just looked at me and sighed. I hate that sigh. Hate it! Well, add that to the list of things I hate. It’s a long list.

So, I didn’t eat dinner that night. Big whoop squared! Who needs it? But that’s why she and I aren’t talking.

There was one teacher at school who was kind of okay. He was better than the others in that he didn’t bother me. He seemed smarter than any of the others in that way. He seemed to understand that it was best to leave me alone. But not just me; he gave me the idea he had figured out how to approach each of us kids. Some of us like being on stage and love being called on in class. Some of us don’t want to be called on, want to be left entirely alone. Mr. Ballard—that was his name—seemed to have a feel for us that way. He knew how to motivate each of us and how much teasing or sarcasm each of us could tolerate, if any.

A lot of teachers, when they found out someone didn’t want to be called on—hated answering questions in front of the class or just never knew the answer—called on those kids a lot. They’d tell you it was for the kids’ own good, that they had to learn how to do some of the things they didn’t want to do, but I knew that was hogwash. They had no empathy and liked having the power to browbeat those kids, put them in their place. Mr. Ballard wasn’t that way. He figured out each of us and then used that knowledge supportively. Unbelievable in middle school.

I thought he was pretty much a good guy, and I didn’t hate going to his class like I did my others. He’d watch me, just like he’d watch the other kids. But his look was very even, not judgmental, not pitying, not nosy, just very plain. If he looked at me a little more than he did anyone else in the room, well, maybe that was my imagination. I didn’t think he was trying to figure me out. Well, maybe he was, but as long as he didn’t mess with me, he was okay.

I’m 12. Boys my age aren’t deep and mysterious. We’re pretty shallow, and who and what we are we wear on our faces and with our body language for everyone to see. They could easily see what I was all about: ‘Leave that one alone! That boy’s bad news!’ Yeah: that was who I was.

I liked going to Mr. Ballard’s class because it was one period during the long school day where I didn’t need to feel so self-protective. His was a spacious room with tables rather than desks and six kids sat at each. It was bright and airy, and he had some funny posters on the walls. It was a more inviting atmosphere than other classrooms.

Maybe I liked it in there better because no one fucked with me, especially the teacher, and I was able to relax the entire period. Not like with other teachers. Like Mrs. Simpson, who loved to call on me and make me stand up and answer her inane questions. She did it just to make me mad. I didn’t like to talk, I didn’t like attention being paid to me, I liked to stay within myself, and she wanted me to open up. I wouldn’t. If I stood up but didn’t speak, she’d get really sour and say things that were very inappropriate. Sometimes, after standing and listening to her barbs, I just walked out. Yeah, and that would bring another meeting with Principal Redman.

He’d have liked to expel me. I’d have been fine with that. But he didn’t. Didn’t even suspend me. Just talked to me and drove me nuts. Told me with a resigned and tired voice that I needed to mature. Mostly. He’d begun with shouting, back on my first few visits. Now, his voice was softer. I was wearing him down, or maybe he was just giving up on me. But his office was way too familiar to me. I suppose it was just a normal middle-school office for a principal, but I hated going in there. All I ever got in there was grief. The chair I had to sit in had a hard wooden seat and a straight back with no curve at all. I’d sit just on the front edge. And, perched precariously there, I’d listen to the list of my shortcomings.

But I’d give as well as receive. One time, early on when he was louder than usual and berating my lack of maturity, I yelled back at him.

“I’m 12, and you‘re not my dad,” I said harshly. “I’m as mature as anyone my age, more than many adults I’ve seen. Like some of the teachers here. Some of them belong in mental institutions.” I glared at him.

He looked back, no glare at all, and then told me to return to class. After that, my visits there were shorter and quieter.

And then, eventually, everything came to a head. In Mr. Ballard’s room, which was the last place I would have expected it to happen.

It began as a normal class. He’d been going on about writing theme papers, about how they should be structured, how in most there’d be an introduction telling what the paper was going to be about, then a middle part that talked about what the introduction said it was going to cover, and then a final part, a conclusion wrapping up what the paper had discussed and any resolutions that had been proposed.

We already had heard this starting in fourth grade, but he was more detailed about it. Now he was assigning these papers to us.

He said we could write about whatever we wanted to. He said we all had different things that excited us. He wanted us to write about one of those. He said he wasn’t going to specify a length. It was up to us to write a paper we were proud of. It should say what we wanted to about something we’d chosen to write about, why we liked it, how it fit in our world, why it was important to us, and if we could do all that on only one side of one piece of paper, then we couldn’t be all that interested in it in the first place. We should make it long enough that when it was done, we had said what we felt about whatever it was and were proud of it and excited for him to read it.

That was fine with me. He could say whatever he wanted about it. Me, I’d probably blow it off like I was doing with most of my other assignments.

I was leaving class when he stopped me. “Reef, can you give me a few moments. Please? I know you have math next, and I asked Mr. Montgomery if you could be late a few minutes. He said that would be fine.”

I stopped. Not happy about being singled out for anything, but I didn’t object to Mr. Ballard as much as I did all my other teachers. He never had yelled at me, no matter what I’d done or hadn’t done. He left me alone. So, I just stopped, looked at him, and nodded.

“Reef,” he began, “I understand your anger. And what I’m doing here isn’t to hurt you. You won’t agree with me, but this will help you. That’s the only reason I’m doing it. You’ll hate me for this like you hate everything and everybody, and of course I can’t make you do it. But I think you want help as much as you resist the idea of that. This could help. Please trust me. Please, instead of just blowing this off, think about it, think about how unhappy you are, and realize this is something that might let you see things differently. I want you to do this.”

I thought that would be it, but he continued. His voice was very soft, but determined, too. It was getting difficult to meet his eyes. There was an awful lot of compassion in them.

“It hurts me to see you so unhappy every day. I know you’ve seen me watching you. You’re awfully difficult to read, but I think I see something in you that tells me you don’t hate me. I hear other teachers talk about what a problem you are. They say you look like you hate everything and everyone. But you’re not a problem to me. You don’t show me that. What I see is a kid who’s hurting. I want to help you get rid of that hurt. I want that very badly. Seeing you in pain hurts me, too. This assignment will help, even though you won’t see that now.”

He paused to take a deep breath. “But, please. Do this. Do it, and if not for you, for me. I’m on your side, Reef. At some point, you’ll find you’re doing it for you, too.”

I had to jump in. I was starting to feel emotional with what he was saying and how he was saying it, and I had been working hard to feel nothing.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You’re saying just writing a theme paper is going to help me?”

“Well, yes; that’s part of it. But there’s more. If I just leave it at that, you’ll just not bother doing it. You may think for a minute or two, then say, screw it, and forget about it. I don’t want you to screw it. I want you to do this, and do it differently from the others in this class. I gave them freedom to choose their own topic. I want you to think about and write about the topic I’m going to assign you.

“You won’t like it. You might even get angry with me. But please, at least think about it. Don’t blow this off. I’ll be so disappointed in you if you do.”

Wow. He was pulling out all his guns on this. How did he know I didn’t want to disappoint him? Yeah, he was the only adult at the school I felt that way about, but I did feel it.

“What’s the topic?” I asked. I was far from convinced I’d do this, but I was curious.

He paused, looked even harder into my eyes as if he could hypnotize me, and said, “I want your essay to be about heroes.”

I dropped my eyes from his and my body actually trembled for a moment. Then I looked back at him, anger growing in my face and in my voice, and I said, “Screw you!” And I stomped out.

- o 0 o -

The more I thought about it, the angrier I became. It got so I could hardly breathe. Fuck, fuck, fuck! And fuck him, too. I’d thought he was on my side! This assignment was bullshit; that’s what it was!

‘Please try; for me’? Well, I wasn’t going to. No way was I going to write this. He could fail me. Maybe I’d just stop going to his class. They could throw me out of school. Fine by me.

I lay in bed that night, tossing and turning, unable to get him or that paper out of my mind. I should be able to sleep. Everything else was going to hell, and with all the energy I was burning being angry all the time, hating everything and everybody, I was always worn out by bedtime.

I’d been fighting my demons for a time now, and it was getting me down, wearing me out. I’d even found it a little more difficult each passing day to keep that angry edge, reacting to everything as I’d been doing. But that anger and hate, that was who I was now, how I coped. It may have been a lot of work, maintaining it, but it was the only thing I had.

But now this? Write a paper about heroes? What was with this guy? He wasn’t just sticking a knife in me, reawakening all my hurt; he wasn’t just knifing me; he was stabbing it in, twisting it and grinning at me.

I rolled over again, then said fuck it, and sat up, moved my pillows and leaned back with them propped against my headboard. The thing was, he hadn’t been grinning at me. He’d had a look of compassion, and he’d looked sad.

But still, heroes?

I had to think about this. It was 11:45 at night, and I was sitting up—still in bed, but sitting. That’s no time to think. But sleep was far off, so think I did.

I hated having to write that paper. But somehow I realized it was the perfect opportunity to explain my hatred to Mr. Ballard and the world. That was a thought! I could just lay it out there, explain myself, maybe throw in some strong language to emphasize the point. Maybe I’d be left alone after that.

Now that I was thinking about it and had thought up a good reason to write the damn thing, I was able to consider it without my brain being so fogged with anger. That decided, I found it easy to get to sleep, and I was out like a light as soon as I was flat in the bed again.

The next day I did what I always did after school. I walked home and went upstairs and lay on my bed unwinding. I thought more about the paper, about how to structure it. Mr. Ballard had reminded us of the traditional format of an essay, but I decided to ignore that. I’d just write what I wanted to and not worry if it conformed to his wishes. He wanted us to learn to write essays in a formal, traditional manner. I wanted to write a paper that would let me vent my emotions. Two different things.

I went to my computer. It was easy first to jot down a few ideas I’d want to include. When I started writing, I found the ideas coming faster than I could type. There were a lot of them, and when I was done, the thing was pretty long.

I read it over. It gave me the strangest feeling, seeing the words I’d written, feeling the emotions behind them, thinking the thoughts the emotions had evoked. I read it again, and then wondered if this was really what I wanted to say. Did my feelings match the words I’d written?

Writing this had caused me to think. I hadn’t done much thinking in the recent past. I’d been emotional, not entirely rational. My behavior hadn’t included clear thinking. I’d been doing more feeling than thinking.

What I was feeling now was, well, I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, but I did see that Mr. Ballard was a very insightful man. I did know the anger I’d felt for so long had slowly eased as I was writing. I did see how writing what I had, then reading it, was therapeutic.

After dinner I went back upstairs and sat back down at the computer and read what I’d written again. Then I went back to the beginning and began rewriting it. The first version had opened my eyes. The second read through had confirmed my impression. The third version was much better. That was the one I let my mom read that night. It was also the one I gave to Mr. Ballard the next day after class. He smiled at me when I did, a wan smile but at least a smile.

Before that, when I handed it to him, he said, “You did it? Already? Well, good for you. Did, uh, I shouldn’t ask, but . . . I was hoping this assignment might help you. May I ask, did it?”

I smiled at him. That felt funny. It had been ages since I’d last done that. “Read it,” I said and went to my seat. I’d be late to math, but I doubted I’d get a load of shit about it.

Mr. Ballard finished the theme paper, set it on his desk, and then took a moment before turning to me. “Thank you for doing the assignment, Reef. It’s more than I hoped for. We’re not allowed to hug students, but I wish that wasn’t the rule, because I think you’d like one, and I feel . . . this paper makes me feel very close to you, and, well, a hug seems appropriate.”

I got up, walked over to him and hugged him. “Nothing in the book about me hugging you, is there? You really helped me. I feel like the ton of bricks I’ve been carrying around is suddenly off me, like I’m back among the living. What hurt most was hating my dad. It was so awful for me to do that because I loved him so much. Now I see things differently, and the love is back, the hatred gone. You’re the reason for that.”

He shook his head. “Actually, Reef, you are. You did the hard part. I just, as you put it, set you on the right path. Have you spoken to Principal Redman yet?”

“I’ll do that after school today. I’m talking to each teacher when I have their class.”

“That’s fine. And Reef, what a well-written theme paper that was! It’s not in the classic format, but it’s written from the heart and with passion, and it’s very effective. I’d love to display it, but it’s way too personal for that.”

“You were right, Mr. Ballard. The assignment was for me more than you.”

- o 0 o -

I spoke to all my teachers that day and Principal Redman after school. They all were very nice, even Mrs. Simpson. The hard part would be tomorrow. I needed to talk to each of the kids I’d been so callous toward.

I was surprised when doing that. It went better than I’d expected. Some just shrugged it off, some seemed very happy for me that I’d gotten over my funk. I still had one apology to go, though, and it was the hardest.

I said, early on, that some kids were still trying to reach me. Dylan Hanson was a boy my age whom I’d had feelings for since fifth grade. It’s hard at that age to express what you’re feeling—and risky, too—so I hadn’t. I’d almost never even spoken to him. I’d certainly thought about him, rhapsodized about him to the point of adoration.

Then my dad had died, and I changed from a happy boy to something dark and ugly. I turned away from everyone and pushed away the ones who attempted to still deal with me. To my surprise, Dylan was one of those who seemed to be wanting to console me, and he was about the only one who’d never given up, no matter how surly I’d been.

I wasn’t sure he even knew me other than as just another classmate whose name he was aware of. But he’d come up to me and told me how sorry he was after my father died, and I’d treated him like everyone else—badly, abruptly and inconsiderately. Yet, he wasn’t put off like the others. He still managed to speak to me each day. While I still had feelings for him, I wouldn’t let myself react to them, pushing them as far out of my consciousness as I could. I didn’t deserve to feel good about anything.

He still came every day. And I hadn’t been nice at all. I didn’t want anyone’s pity or caring or anything else. I didn’t want his solace.

Now that my depression had lifted, now that I was seeing things more clearly and feeling better, my hormones seemed to have reawakened from their nap. Kicked back in, like they’d been lying in wait. Now, thinking about Dylan, my body came alive again. I needed to speak to him, but I was really embarrassed. I’d treated the boy I was in like with horribly, and I was ashamed.

I saw him at lunch, coming through the line, finishing up getting his tray filled and then looking for a seat.

The cafeteria was a noisy place, filled with chatting kids, all enthusiastic about being away from lessons for a bit and interacting with their own. There were monitors to keep the peace, but we weren’t an unruly group and they almost never had to step in.

There were several tables that seated eight kids and a few for only four, a few more for only two. Those tables didn’t get much use. Kids wanted to sit together for lunch. It was a time for sharing and bonding.

Dylan sat with his friends every day. I knew there was an empty space for him at his usual table. I was sitting alone at a table for just two; it was where I’d been sitting since returning to school after my dad died. I’d wanted to be alone; now, though, I wanted to talk to him, and it needed to be us two alone together.

He glanced my way before going to his table. I’d sometimes seen that, even when I’d been so deep into myself. I’d just ignored it. Today, when I saw him glance, I stood up and waved.

He smiled!

Seeing that, I did, too. It might have been my smile that did it, but he’d started it. His had been a surprised smile, and he didn’t hesitate. He came over to my table.

“You feeling better?” he asked tentatively, still standing.

I nodded. “Please, Dylan, sit down. I want to talk to you.”

He smiled again, set his tray on the table and sat down.

“I need to apologize to you,” I said. “You’ve been making an effort to help me, and I was awful. You never gave up. I don’t understand that, but I really appreciate it.”

He was moving plates and bowls from the tray to the table and not meeting my eyes. When I finished, he finally looked up at me.

“You were hurting. I could see that. I wanted to help.”

“But you kept on even when I was terrible to you. We don’t even know each other.”

He met my eyes now. His eyes were part of what made him unique. They were a deep green, and matched against his shiny black hair and pale skin, he had a look no one else did. He fascinated me, and he had appeared in many of my dreams.

“We do, you know, know each other. I’ve been in school with you since third grade,” he said. “Since fifth, I’ve noticed you even more. Maybe because that was when you started looking at me a lot.”

He stopped then and dropped his eyes. I guessed it was my turn.

Affirm or deny? I couldn’t affirm my feelings for him before; now I felt like I’d had a rebirth. It was time to move past some of the things I’d never liked about myself. I felt I could do that now.

“I did that. I’ve done that ever since fifth grade. I didn’t know you noticed. Why didn’t you say something?”

He laughed. “You were the one looking. Why didn’t you? You’re not shy. Never were.”

“I guess I was shy because of how I felt about you. Boys aren’t supposed to feel those things. I wanted to say something but had no idea how you’d react. I was scared, I guess.”

He was concentrating hard, looking at my face, and it made me feel all squirmy. “I am shy,” he said. “A little at least. More than you. No way could I talk to you. But . . . I kinda liked you looking at me.” He looked away.

That really did it for me. I more than smiled; my whole face lit up. It was so much easier after hearing that. “I’ve had strong feelings about you since fifth grade, Dylan. You’ve been in my head a lot. I really like you, though we don’t know each other at all. I’d like to get to know you better. A lot better. And I think that’ll happen.”

“You really mean that? You like me?” He blushed and didn’t drop his eyes this time.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

“I like you, too.”

We were sharing the same feeling, looking at each other with wonder and joy. My life was changing, I could feel it changing. All my bedeviling sorrows, all that darkness, was behind me now.

What a wonderful day this was. Maybe many could have been if I’d just opened myself up a little earlier.

THE END

Image Copyright © Ben Gingell. Licensed by Bigstock, image ID 212238376