Give Me a Break

It was raining that day, an event so rare the teachers decided to let us all out, release the eleven year olds onto shinning blacktop and slides slick with fresh water. Other kids claimed the grass, kicked up mud and chunks of earth to soak into their clothes while we fifth graders, still unsure of our place in the social hierarchy, huddled beside the jungle gyms and the swings. Twisting our hands and wiping away snot from under our noses, we tried to look distracted, tried to be cool at the tender age of eleven.
Eventually, though, that all fell away and swan diving into puddles took precedence over appearing grown up. My classmates twirled and laughed, tongues licking at their lips to soak in the water their skin couldn’t hold and I watched from my swing set, arms shaking in the cold, no jacket to fight off the shivers and ribs bruised from a witty comment I tossed at the wrong time. The swing set creaked under my light weight, the old metal tired from years of overuse and thunder clapped somewhere over the desert, shaking nerves and happy dispositions.
My teacher, Mrs. Stubbs, kept a wary eye on her group of fifth graders, scanning for tears and scraped knees, accustomed to dealing with bruises and small cuts. The other elementary teachers crowded around her, talking and taking carefully calculated bites of their breakfast, too old to appreciate the rain, even in Las Vegas.
Tossed amongst the rest of my classmates, I craned my neck to see him, to catch the slight curve of his bony shoulders and the round swell of hips hitting puberty long before the rest of us. Spencer Smith wrapped his fingers around the monkey bars and his friends followed after him, a wobbling, swinging clump of boys, laughing as they clung to slipping metal. Spencer was new to my class that year, transferred over from the other fifth grade class for reasons no one seemed capable of explaining to me and even then I found him fascinating.
Shaking my head, I turned my attention back to the teacher herd, debating going inside and curling up on the small bean bag couches in the corner. Several minutes passed and then my teeth began to chatter, the bruises on my ribs began to ache from the cold, and I freed myself from the swings, the rain holding no appeal in the face of blankets and warmth inside.
“Where are you going?”
Standing before me, clothes soaked through and hair dripping onto his shoulders, Spencer cocked a hip at me, eyes squinting, confused.
“Back inside,” I answered quickly, stuttering slightly on the words. No one spoke to me. I was the quiet outsider with the long sleeves and the sharp comments, isolated at eleven.
“Why?”
“I’m cold.”
“Oh,” Spencer hummed as if I’d explained the universe. We stood there awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of how to continue forward. We had nothing in common, had never spoken before.
“I’m Spencer.”
“I know. I’m Ryan.”
“That’s a cool name.” I shrugged. “Want to come play?”
“I’m not very good at monkey bars.”
“Oh.”
More silence, more darting eyes, more minds rushing, yelling at us to talk. It could have ended right there. He could have strolled away and I could have gone inside and what developed into our friendship could have died there on the concrete.
“I’ve got a sandwich,” Spencer offered, shattering the rhythm of the rain. “Do you want some? I’m hungry.”
“Um...ok, sure.”
Spencer walked away, the unspoken “follow me” dragging me forward towards the classroom, unlocked to let in the freezing, water drenched students. He hurried over to his bag, grabbed a lunch box, Batman glaring up at me on the metal surface, and we took our seats on the bean bag chair. Spencer tossed a blanket at me before curling up in his own and handing me a torn off chunk of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
“Why don’t you have friends?” Spencer asked suddenly, jelly dripping down his chin.
“I don’t know.” Spencer hummed and took another bite, thinking.
“You don’t talk much.” I didn’t say anything and Spencer nodded, as if I’d confirmed everything he’d ever thought about me. “How’d you know my name?”
“I’m good with names.”
“That’s cool.” I took a bite, let the bread and peanut butter fill my mouth to justify a lack of conversation. “I’m not. I can never remember anyones.”
“What’s mine?”
“Ryan.”
“You remembered me.” Spencer shrugged.
“Guess so...”
“Why’d you talk to me?” Another shrug.
“You looked lonely.” I squinted at him, trying to understand, trying to make sense of him. No one had ever bothered before, choosing to leave me alone and go about their lives as usual. The teacher hardly recognized me, had to think it over before saying my name. My classmates weren’t much better. I didn’t say anything for a while, the sound of us chewing filling up the silence.
“Thanks.” Spencer smiled.
“You’re welcome,” he said and took another bite.
What blossomed from a rainy day was over a decade of teasing, laughing, screaming, late nights watching bad movies, later nights discussing life, where we were going. College and jobs. Girls and broken hearts. Broken bones and falling down stairs. Promises we both kept. Promises we both broke. Ice cream and dinners and beer bottles. Wine glasses sloshing with purple liquid, liquid courage. Powder courage.
One rainy day. One decision that I looked lonely. One thanks, one you’re welcome. One friendship. One death. A million i’m sorry’s. Four words: It’s not your fault.