Black

Byron played dodge ball better than anyone I knew in the third grade, always the last man standing. Or boy, I suppose. He seemed like a man to me, tall and muscular for a ten-year old boy. He’d been kept back a year by his mother, so he was taller and more developed than any of us nine-year olds. Since his last name was White, Byron sat next to me.

We laughed when Mrs. Spence went over the grammar lesson, punching out prepositional phrases, adjectives, and adverbs like they were kittens in a box. I’d make funny noises with my hand under my armpits and he’d laugh. He’d turn up his nose and lower his eyelids to make goofy faces at me and I’d laugh. I liked Byron because he didn’t call me “Pecker” or “Woody” just like all the other kids did. And I liked him because he didn’t pick me last for the kickball team. He didn’t pick me first but he didn’t pick me last.

Half way through the year, Byron had to move and I cried. I cried because my friend was leaving the third grade and moving to East Liberty. Had to go to another school, he told me. After he left I felt very lonely. And the class wasn’t nearly as interesting. The only black boy had left and all that remained were thirty pasty-white boys and girls. Nowhere near as interesting without Byron.

I wonder where Byron is today.