So Much to Say...III

So Much to Say But No Time to Say It

Part III

"Yeah, I suppose so," I lie.
"That was a crummy thing for them to do."
She bends down to pick things up. I watch her take each pencil and meticulously put it back in the blue backpack. She looks at the eraser and the remains of what was once a banana.
"These are kind of beyond repair," she states, but there’s a question in her voice. I look longingly at the pink eraser my mother gave me on the first day of school. It’s just a dirty pink lump now—crumbling and pathetically squashed like the banana. I want to keep it, but I know that’s just dumb.
"The trash can’s behind you, by Ms. Turpan’s classroom." I mutter.

She makes a face. "Ugh. What a name. It’s just like her personality."
"That’s got to be the only thing that this whole school agrees on."
She laughs a beautiful laugh, like little bells. Handing me the napkin from my lunch she says, "My name’s Bethany Nelson, not Mom, but I’m gonna tell you to wipe your shirt anyhow."
"Max Rosen," I answer, smiling.
When she finishes cleaning the mess, Bethany pushes me out of the crack. Quietly she hangs my backpack on the hook my dad attached to the edge of my wheelchair for my backpack. I had insisted that I be able to wheel to school myself in seventh grade. Bethany falls into step as I push myself forward.
"Why did you do it?" I ask, "I mean why did you just clean the things up and give them to me? Nobody’s ever done that for me before."
Bethany takes a big breath and looks at me. I know immediately this was the wrong question to have asked. But she begins before I can take it back.
"A bunch of kids used to beat me up and tease me at my old school. That’s partially why we moved here. I knew how you felt. I couldn’t just walk by you like you weren’t there. You’ve got to tell somebody about them. You’ve got to tell somebody who can help, Max. Who were those kids?"
She looks at me with such honesty that I know what she says is true. I can’t lie to a person who can confess something like that. I had spent all of my thirteen years trying to convince the world I was as good as anyone, yet she can explain it in under a paragraph. Nobody’s strong enough for everything. I barely know her, but I don’t have it in my heart to betray that trust.
"They’re my brother Brian’s gang," I admit, "my younger brother Brian’s gang."
"Oh."
I know from experience that sort of thing is hard to stomach. Bethany swallows it sort of like that disgusting cold medicine—you know it’s good for you, but it still makes you want to gag. She remains quiet for a while. "You don’t have to say you’re sorry or anything. Sometimes life just doesn’t face forward and stand up tall. You just deal with it," I tell her.
"You should still tell someone. Someone important. Someone who knows what to do. Your mom. Your dad. Your teacher. The president for all I care!"
I know she’s right. But I don’t reply.
We continue to walk in silence along the birch-lined street. Two squirrels make a ruckus in a game of treetop tag. We reach a small broken-down house.
"This is my stop," she jokes, but I know she’s embarrassed that it’s her home.
I want to thank her. To tell her she’s the best person in the world. To tell her how much I like her. But I’m lost for words. "Bye, Max."
"See you, Bethany."

Back to Part I
Back to Part II