Aaron

Aaron sat against the stone brick wall of the school watching all the other kids run around and play on the school playground. He tried real hard to hold his lower lip so that he wouldn’t cry. That was the worst. When you cried you got the type of attention that made you want to crawl inside yourself and hide. Aaron knew about hiding. He knew about being invisible. That’s how he felt most of the time.

Today was a cold crisp fall day. You know the kind of day where those colorful fallen leaves crunch with just the right sound when you skip over them. Where you could almost see your breath. There were still a lot of trees yet to exchange their full green coat for their temporary vibrant wrap. Sitting against the brick of the school numbed his back through the thin sweatshirt his grandmother had dressed him in this morning. It was faded blue with a hood. Aaron was thankful that the sweatshirt was a few sizes too big. It made it easier to pull his hood part way over his face. Maybe the other kids wouldn’t notice that he was on the verge of crying.

Today wasn’t much different than most days. Aaron was alone. Not by choice. He had once again tried to fit in. Somehow something always happened to chase him away. Today was just another case of invisibility.

Some boys had been playing basketball. He was good at basketball. He practiced all alone in the moonlight at the Front Street Park. In fact, he snuck out most nights to play, especially when he had that nightmare and couldn’t sleep. When he first started shooting hoops he couldn’t even throw the ball high enough to reach the ten-foot rim. Now he could hit 7 out of 10 free throws. Playing on the playground’s seven-foot baskets would have been a breeze.

He was sitting in his customary perch watching a group of third graders bounce the ball. It was just recess, not really a game. The boys were passing to one another, avoiding the lax defense and then taking a shot. On most shots the ball went careening off the rim. The boys would scream and yell and race after the ball. On one shot the ball came flying to him. He gracefully caught it and stood up. He started dribbling it onto the court and gazed at a series of blank expressions. Nobody said anything. They all watched as Aaron lazily dribbled the ball to the closest basket. Nobody even attempted any sort of defense. When he was 15 feet away, Aaron took aim and shot the ball through the hoop with a resounding swoosh. Nothing but net!

Once the ball fell through the hoop the kids raced after it yelling and screaming. Nobody paid any attention to Aaron. In fact the kids raced by him like he didn’t even exist. Brushing past with such force that he was almost knocked to the ground. He tried to get angry. He tried to turn and face those bigger kids but he was invisible to them. Instead he wandered to the brick wall of the school that was locked in shadow. Slumping to the ground and hugging his knees. He wanted to cry. He needed to cry. But how could he cry now when he hadn’t even cried on that morning his grandmother pulled him to her chest and looked him in the face with tears streaming down her face. How she took his face in her hands and sobbed out a story about an icy road. About a drunk driver. About the nightmare that he faces every night.

He bit his lower lip. He couldn’t cry. He didn’t want any sympathy. He didn’t want to forget. Instead Aaron dug into his pocket and dug out a small photograph of his mother and father and himself dancing and laughing. He could still see his mother’s smiling face and blond hair. There was a twinkling in her blue eyes that suggested that she knew a secret. She would give you a look that made you think that you were the most important person in the world. Dad would come and sweep her away, both of them laughing and dancing across the room. Before you knew it they had danced over and picked you up. Now all three of you were dancing and laughing.

Aaron knew that if he cried he would get mad at them for leaving him alone. How they had promised to be early from a business dinner that he couldn’t go to. He would get mad at them for leaving him with grandma and for showing him the hands of the clock. We’ll be home when the little hand reaches nine. He couldn’t tell time but watching that clock was all that Aaron did that night. Grandma suggested some games but he insisted on watching that big hand slowly tick around the clock face. Grandma made him take a break to get ready for bed. He was sure that when he got back he would have missed that little hand finally striking the nine. But when he returned the big hand had only made it part way around.

Grandma let him carry that clock with him as he climbed those stairs to his room. He gentle placed it on his nightstand and she tucked him into bed. He would watch that clock from bed and wait for that little hand to reach nine.

It was the next morning that Grandma set him down and told him that story. All that he could think about was that it was his fault. He had fallen asleep and had missed that little hand from reaching the nine.

If he had stayed awake his mother and father would be home.

Biting his lip he tried not to cry. He missed them so much even three years later.

Through the pain of his lip, Aaron heard the recess bell ring and he struggled to his feet. The blue hood of his sweatshirt drooping over his face. Somebody grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him up. As he brushed his hood back he saw a classmate, Scott beaming at him.

 “Aaron, I saw you show up those third graders! Nice shot. You’ll have to show me how to shoot. Then the second graders will rule the court.”

 Aaron smiled back and walked with Scott back to their classroom.

 Maybe he would cry tonight.

(Another old story. I used to think it was good,  now I'm not sure.  It is too simple and not well written.  It does still make me cry, so maybe it is ok)