He sat
in front of me
in
third grade
and
turned and stuck his tongue out.
His
mom later told mine
he had
a crush on me.
I did
not like either of these things.
I
didn't know why
he
called me
when
his dad called him
from
the drunk tank--
unsure
and hurting, preteen boy,
abandonment
in his voice.
When
bullies
carried
him
into
the bathroom
I saw
his scared/brave smile
trying
to laugh
at
this brand of middle school hell, and walk out,
hair
wet and freshly “swirlied.”
I
ignored him all school year long
then
let him kiss me on a dare
in
summer.
I
could have gotten out of it.
Never
told him it was my first.
Started
dating his cousin, the next day.
Walking
across the field
from
the annex
in
high school,
I
heard the sirens, saw the lights,
knew
it was him, somehow.
Weeks
later,
peering
through
the
screen door at dusk, he appeared
needing
to talk.
The
overdose
had
made him sober, changed,
at
least for a while.
His
sad, teary eyes,
that
lonesome ache in his voice,
and
could he,
“come
over tomorrow?”
“No,”
I said.
And
had to say it again.
I
knew it, then,
when
my dad asked,
“what
did he want?”
Though
I shrugged and said I didn't know,
I
said to myself, “a savior.”
And
learned
for
the first time
that
sometimes
you
have to say no
as
much for someone else
as
for yourself.
©
2015 Jennifer Wagner
