Last year I dropped off my child at his elementary school, which was special for both of us since our schedules don't match up very often.
My son ran up the hill to his school and lined up against the brick wall like everyone else did; adult-sized camo packpack thumping up against his legs with every step. He talked with his buddies, exchanged a Star Wars joke with a little boy next to him and complained about another student throwing their backpack into line. After a short consensus, the rule-breaker's backpack was then moved to the back of the line.
Yellow busses pulled up and the older, faster students charged up to their lines, the smaller children being left behind and made their way slowly across the grass.
Chaz, who was in my son's first grade class, was dragging his backpack along behind him. His Velcro-strapped Power Ranger shoes were dusty from the playground and his jeans with holes in the knees stopped above his ankles. Jacket unzipped and hanging loosely, he shuffledhimself into line.
"Hey Chaz! Nice shoes!" teased a fifth grade boy as he walked by, hat pulled down low over his forehead.
"Thanks." Chaz muttered.
"Did your momma buy you those shoes?"
"Yeah."
He answered the older boy in a way that told me he was resigned to daily conversations like this with the older boy.
I pictured him sitting on the towering, brown-vinyl bench of the bus, his crisply-folded brown lunch bag bravely deflecting comments thrown across the isle at him. He stared out of the smeary window while the bigger boy leaned over the top of the seat with his friends laughing and pointing.
The school bell rang.
The fifth grader ran away.
Chaz turned and followed his line into school.
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