He walks in like he owns the place.
Chin up and out, daring the world to take a swipe at it. In truth he is thirteen, so he doesn’t own
the place. Legally, he doesn’t own
anything, except a few basic human rights.
Trust fund babies excluded, of course, but I’m playing the odds on this
one. We don’t get too many trust fund
babies here. Wards of the state from
time to time, but that’s not quite the same thing.
He’s a social transfer. Social
transfers don’t work too often, but there’s a process in play. Social transfer means he’s done things that
don’t permit him to stay at his school across town, but the district needs to
try something new. Perhaps a change in
environment might do some good. Fresh
start. Wash away the sins of the
past. It doesn’t work as much as we
would like, but you don’t do it for the kid it doesn’t work for. You do it for the times that it does make a
difference. Remember, no matter the circumstance,
these are still kids, and we are still pulling for them.
But this guy. This guy’s
arrogance, his slow saunter, his sense of superiority make it a little more
difficult than usual to pull for him.
“Why did you get kicked out of your other school?” He smiles as if he’s humoring me now.
“I didn’t get kicked out. I’m a
social transfer,” he brags. Straight
perfect teeth beaming out at me. He
emphasizes the term “social transfer’ as if it’s a badge of honor. He says it a little too loudly as if he is
proudly announcing he has served time. I
look at his smiling, cool face and I don’t think he realizes how difficult and
unfulfilling prison can be for someone well under six feet with such striking
dimples.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Why were you
socially transferred?”
“I knocked a guy out.” He is beaming
now. This is his red carpet moment. “He was flirting with my girl.” I nod, seeming impressed with his prowess.
“Wow. Did the other guy get
socially transferred, too?” He laughs as
if the question is ridiculous.
“Nah. Why? He wasn’t even able to swing.” He pauses, then throws a lightning quick jab
into the air. “Bam! One shot and down!”
“And it was because he was flirting with your girl?” He looks at me as if I could be his next
victim.
“Yeah. That’s right,” he says,
dropping his voice an octave or so for affect.
“She still your girl?” I ask.
“Duh!” He laughs.
“Are you sure?” He looks
confused, almost a little less arrogant.
I continue on. “I mean this guy
is over at your old school with your girl.
All. Day. Long.
Six hours a day without your side of the story. Six hours without you running any interference. And she probably feels so badly for him. After all, he did get knocked out and it was
really her fault. Poor guy. She must feel terrible.”
He has stopped smiling. I watch
him have this realization. His face is
changing under the weight of the epiphany he clearly does not want to be
having.
“Truth is, girls usually don’t stay with the fighters. The fighters are cool at first, but very hard
to depend on. They often wind up in jail
or get….” I pause. I feel like Colombo in the final twist of an
episode. “Ohh, what’s the term?” I do some mock thinking and then snap my
fingers in the air. “Social
transfer! That’s right. Yes, prison or socially transferred.” This is not the same person that strutted
through the doorway moments ago. “Do you
know who they tend to stay with?”
“Who?” He asks meekly.
“The guy that treats them well.
Attentive guys. Guys that write
them a poem every now and again.” I pat
him on the shoulder. “But, it’s going to
be okay,” I assure him. “You were
socially transferred just in time.”
These are confusing moments for my new friend. False pride has proven to be painfully
fleeting and unreliable. You can almost
hear it leaving his body. He looks a
little smaller, much more boy than man.
“You got here just in time,” I repeat.
“Why?” he asks.
“Have a seat. I’ll tell
you.” He slumps into a seat. I take my spot at the front and get the
lesson started. My friend is looking up
at me and I make sure we make good eye contact.
“Today starts our poetry unit.” I
smile. It’s my turn to beam. I allow myself a little false pride as
well. It’s okay, though. I’ve been around long enough to appreciate
just how fleeting it can be.
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