Trouble Maker

This kid that sat at the back of the class, way back near the boxes of rulers and scissors, never said a word. The thousands of crayons with colors no one's ever heard of were right behind his head, so every other student in the class must have known he was there.

"Why doesn't he ever say anything?" they'd say, shooting demeaning glares at this poor boy. I'd try to get him involved in something other than glazing his eyes; "Richard Glarton, how about your picture? Show your classmates the picture you've drawn." He held up a piece of bright paper and stared directly into my eyes. It was bright because the class had been given the opportunity to use craft glitter. On the piece of paper was a gleaming skull. The skull was very well done for a boy of his age, and it took a few moments to register the idea of Richard holding a hand-made glitter skull. I heard a giggle from one of the little girlies in the front row. Hiding my embarrassedly blushed face, it occurred to me that he may have been pulling my leg in an uncharacteristically bold bid for attention. On the way home from school that day, the hilarity of the situation hit me and I laughed until I cried.

Every day, he'd say four words to the Albion Street Elementary Safety-Crossing Guard. No more, no less, because this little guy didn't say much, but he said just enough.

"Hello Richard, how was your weekend?"

"Fine."

"Did you go anywhere?"

"Yes."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No."

"Alright, have a great day then!"

"Thank you, ma'am."

After the first few times of asking WHERE he had gone or WHO he had seen over the weekend, the Crossing Guard decided it wasn't worth it; Richard never elaborated. She'd delve into his personal life, receive a few 2^nd grade answers, and he'd cross the street. His feet would grind across the rough pavement, but his arms would remain motionless, as if glued to his pant-loops.

One morning, Richard raced to school. By race, I mean his bike was moving at a 5^th grade level; the spokes were a flashing blur, making the familiar whirring noise of wind passing in between them. His face was whiter than normal, and his dirty blonde hair flew behind his head. Though he was moving towards the school, the boy passed right by it. Standing at the front entrance, my greeting went unnoticed; he shot by, and a small gust of wind ruffled my loosely tucked shirt. Further on down the street, a large plume of black smoke was now clearly visible, and the rancid smell of burning plastic tinged the air until it could almost be tasted.

That was the last time Richard was seen around Albion Street Elementary. The glittery skull picture is still hanging behind my desk, of course.