I stand up to leave the room and glance over at him; this scrawny scrap of a boy. Think’s he’s tough. I know where he is. I know what he’s rolling with. He’s not tough, but the show of bravado is everything. It’s a hot mess.
As I look at him and walk by his table, he throws me the middle finger; that’s all he has to offer. Silly thing. Bruised thing. This boy who once as a kindergartner, wandered to school in his pajamas; walking out of the house and down through dangerous city streets…in his dirty pajamas…heading to the school for sanctuary.
If he thinks he can move me with the middle finger, he does not know what I am rolling with. I know where I am. I’m made of far sterner and gentler stuff. I never wandered down dangerous city streets in my dirty pajamas, searching for sanctuary in a large, urban school building.
He’s a character out of a lowly chapter in a Dickens novel; this poor boy. This poor, dangerous boy. I look at him and at his finger and I chuckle. ‘God bless you, T…’ I move out of the room while I feel him watching me silently, unmoving…
690 Saint Paul 