Young Writers Project

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This week’s prompt: You’re curious about a stranger you often see, so you follow the person home.

Hector

By Wyatt Adams

Grade 8, Crossett Brook Middle School

The day began like any other. Barry woke up bright and early, pulled himself around the house, eating breakfast and performing other various morning tasks. He woke his mom about an hour later (she tends to sleep in — bad habit), got all of his school necessities, and boarded the bus.

Barry liked his bus, relatively, anyway. With his spot being not too far back and not too far forward, he could collect his thoughts without the constant chatter of children. His headphones pumped peace and serenity into his head. Although he loved to observe the chaotic actions of the third- and fourth-graders, it was like a silent horror film, he’d say to himself, and this was no hyperbole.

They were flat-out barbaric. Chewing gum, mouths wide open, pulling and tearing at each other’s hair. He couldn’t believe they could take this kind of pain. Screams, cries, laughter and wailing filled the wheeled vessel, and yet Barry heard none of it.

There was a boy though, not nearly as berserk, that his attention always seemed to center on. He was black, maybe 10 or 11, and was quite possibly the smallest third-grader Barry had ever seen. Cute-small, almost.

What struck him funny was the seemingly elaborate conversations the boy would have with himself on and off the bus. Whether he was walking down the hall and saw the boy, or caught a glimpse of him through a door of a classroom, Barry noticed that the kid was always talking — silently, though, as if he was reciting a big speech that he needed to memorize for class.

This entertained Barry in a way bubble blowing could not. The plethora of childish mannerisms he’d see each day didn’t come close to this one. And why this was, Barry had no idea.

He confronted the kid one rainy afternoon on his way home.

“Hey,” Barry mumbled. “What’s your name?”

The awkwardness of this greeting really set the tone for the conversation, Barry regretting it instantly. Barry was all about first impressions, and the fact that he was tanking this one really bugged him. Nevertheless, the boy didn’t answer. His soft, brown eyes stayed fixed on the creases in the sidewalk.

“Do you have a name?” Barry half-laughed, hoping the remark would sound like a joke. There was a long pause, then the boy spoke, his lips slowly parting, as if it was an effort to say the few words Barry expected.

“Hector,” he said. “Just Hector.”

Barry liked the name, and a small grin appeared on his face. The boy then proceeded to trudge his way to a small, boarded-up house, painted an ugly, pale white. He watched as a short woman (Barry could see some family resemblance) greeted him, gently ushering him through the doorway, right before she turned and scowled at Barry, shutting the door firmly. Barry curled his lips, then went on through the rain to his house about another block down the street.

The next day, Barry was in a better, more enthusiastic mood. He felt he had a new friend, despite how “friendly” Hector had acted toward him. Barry continued to see Hector in the halls about once a day and greeted him with a wave. Hector, on the other hand, rarely showed any sign of acknowledgement, sort of like Barry didn’t exist. This dampened Barry’s happy demeanor, but in turn sparked a new curiosity for the boy.

He accompanied Hector again about a week later, hoping he could butter up the emotion he was so very sure was trapped inside that tiny body.

“Hey, bud,” Barry said, starting what he expected to be a very short, odd conversation. “How was your day?”

Hector didn’t speak for a whole minute, then broke the awkward silence with a mumble.

“Mrs. Thompson yelled at me,” he said quietly. Barry could hear a shakiness in his voice. There was again a pause. Barry didn’t say anything because he thought Hector had more to say.

“I don’t like it when she does that. Makes my stomach hurt and my knees shake. The other kids don’t get yelled at, so they don’t know what it’s like,” he said with more confidence in his tone.

This struck Barry surprisingly deep, considering this was the first genuine thing Hector had ever said to him. Barry felt a new sense of attachment, the thing a real friend would feel. Then, before he had a chance to reply, Hector changed his direction and went into his little, white house. …

Read the complete story at youngwritersproject.org/node/113230.