Promises

There was another boy in his neighborhood named Will. Will was not like the other boys he knew. He was mean and spat on the little boy and his friends, and says words that the little boy doesn't like. Will really isn't much older, but the boy feels like he is.

Will tells the boy and his friends one day, "I want to show you something cool. But you have to promise never to tell."

The little boy is scared to promise, but he sighs and nods along with the others. "We will not tell," they promise, curiosity overpowering.

They follow Will into his house. He turns on his TV, and hits a button. On the screen, the boy sees a man and a woman touching each other, their voices soft, their bodies bare. The little boy gets an unfamiliar sick feeling, like a warning, in his stomach, and a voice tells him, "Something is wrong."

Obeying that voice, holding back emotions of fear and unexplainable sadness, he runs outside and sits on the steps and squeezes his eyes shut. Will comes outside, alone.

"You're gunna tell," he says, his voice sad, maybe angry.

He shook his head. "No. I promised."

He stands up, trembling. Will grabs his shoulders, angry. "You won't tell?"

"No."

Will seems relieved, believes him. He is true to his word. He never tells. He is only five years old.

The Theater

He spends many nights with his grandmother, many weekends. He loves her. His grandfather is nice, but scary, for some reason. He shrinks from him, and stays at her side. He reads, or watches TV, or writes or draws. She takes him to the movie theater, then after out to lunch, very often. He loves it. Even when he starts school, he visits her every two weeks, asking his mom every wednesday, "Is this Grandma week?"

Once, after a movie, the boy sits in his grandma's car. He thinks about how those people talk and act as if they were real. He wonders, what bout me? Am I real, or am I in a movie, like them? How could I know?

This worries him for many days. Finally, he decides that if his life is a movie, he will try not to do anything bad. He does not want the people in the theater to think he is a bad boy.

The Basement

"You can't go into the basement," his dad said. "There are monsters down there."

The boy peers into the darkness. He imagines endless corridors stretching on, some dry and cold, others wet and musty, and some creeping thing oozing or crawling about.

"Well," he said, curious, "can I see them before you take me home?"

"No," he laughed, closing the door. "Come on."

Disappointed, the little boy takes his father's hand.

The Library

It is his birthday, and his grandmother takes him to the library. He loves to read. His face, young even for a young age, is turned to serious pages. He consumes tales, tales of grandeur, and his imagination spirals with stories he loves.

He set his books down and turned to the librarian.

"Excuse me, sir, where is the restroom?"

"To the left," he replied, generously. Then he reconsidered, and added, "You do know the difference between right and left, right? You know, apples, oranges?"

The boy looks back, terribly surprised. He nods once, slowly, then walks away.

Eavesdropping

The bus rolled along, bumpy and uncomforting to its young passengers. The boy is sitting, bookbag in his lap, thinking, solitary. Two girls are across the aisle, giggling. Without realizing it, the boy listens to what they are saying.

"He's so cute!" she whispered to her friend.

Embarrassed, realizing it was not his place to listen to their private words, he glances away. The girl noticed.

"Not you!" she shouts gleefully. "You're ugly. Do you hear that? Every boy on this bus is ugly!"

Burning with shame, the boy wants to explain, that she didn't understand, but the words stick. He shut his eyes against tears of frustration. He is eight years old.

The Back Yard

The boy stood in a moonlit backyard, the dogs playing in the snow. He was only vaguely aware of their antics. He is short and out of shape, with a pale face framed by dark hair. His hands are in his pockets. He was staring up into the stars, their cold brilliance a fascination. He is thinking about God. He is eleven years old.

He thinks that the snow is like people, glistening in the moonlight, and the moonlight is the smile of God, and the stars are the eyes of the countless angels. He dreams that God's love is soft and cool, and all that love asks is that he be a good boy. The boy loves God, and he wants to be good.

It occurs to him, as he shivers from a gust of wind, that he is not good. He may never have done anything bad, but that isn't good. Good things are what you do, not simply what you don't. He worries that his 'goodness' is a sham, because he has never been given that moment to shine, that crucial choice where you rise or fall. He believes that he will choose right.

The dogs come up to him, tails wagging. He leads them inside.

"Take off your shoes," his mother snaps.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and takes them off.

"Look here, look! You tracked in snow, and it's making mud in my kitchen. You always do this. You don't seem to think about anything. Clean this up, and go to bed."

He cleans his mess and goes to bed, heart heavy.