Richie was sitting alone in the atrium, as he always did, doing homework. He was dressed, as he always was, in rag-bag clothes: a shapeless, purplish shirt, battered, stained slacks that were a couple of inches too short, and an old leather belt. His hair was a mess of waves and uncombed snarls.
He looked like a hopeless wreck of a boy.
And yet, Richie was the complete package. In his senior year of high school, he was undoubtedly the best student in a class of a thousand kids at the regional high school. He was real-world smart as well as academically brilliant. With more than six feet of ripped muscle, he was dead sexy under the scruffiness. Girls should be throwing themselves at him. Plus, he had a dry, cutting wit that often got him bullied by his dimmer classmates, but provoked guffaws of laughter in the staff lounge when his quips were retold.
If he would only believe in himself.
Yet, he was deathly afraid of girls, and was targeted by the school bullies because he wouldn’t stand up for himself.
So much potential wasted, I mused, looking at him.
Then I saw The Pack approaching, the cheerleading squad led by Cheryl Kane – Homecoming Queen, and undoubtedly the nastiest piece of work in the school. She led her Pack towards him, held up her hand, then walked coyly up behind Richie. I opened my window to listen to what she was up to.
She put her hands over his eyes, and said, “Guess who!”
Richie jumped, then gulped, struggled to breathe…then started, “I give…”
His voice cracked, and Cheryl giggled while Richie’s face colored.
She took her hands away, and swung around before him, straddling the bench, deliberately allowing her rah-rah skirt to ride up her thighs, almost to her pussy. She glanced down at her legs, then coyly up at him.
“Today’s your lucky day, Richie.”
“Why…” He had to stop to swallow, then took a deep breath, clearly working to gain control of himself, “Why is that, Che…Cheryl?”
“Wuh…well, Ru…Richie, it’s your lucky day because you’re going to kiss me.” She smiled at him. “I’ve been watching you – and you’re not bad looking – for a nerd.”
She let her eyes travel down to his crotch, then back. “Of course, your clothes stink, and your hair’s a mess, and you smell…but you could be really sexy if you tried. And I’ve decided that I’m the one who’s going to grow you up. I’m going to let you kiss me, Richie, and if you do it good enough, I just might let you into my pants.”
If possible, Richie blushed even more deeply, gulped again, then said, “Well enough.”
Cheryl looked confused. “What?”
“You mean if I kiss you well enough, not good enough.”
Anger flitted across her face, quickly replaced by what I could see was a phony warmth. “Okay, well enough, Brainiac! So – do you want to get into my pants or not Richie?”
Richie paused as if considering the matter. “Ya…you…you…” he stuttered, unable to reply.
Cheryl laughed. It should have been a lovely sound, full of the promise of youth, but instead it sounded cruel and malicious. She stood up and flipped her skirt at the same time. The way Richie’s eyes widened, I guessed she’d just flashed him.
She bent over and said, in a sing-songy voice “Close your eyes and I’ll give you a surprise!”
Completely flustered, Richie decided that closing his eyes was probably his best tactic. Yet once they were closed, Cheryl twirled around, presented her ass to his face, and pushed it into him.
“See? I told you you could get into my pants! You kissed my ass real good – Brainiac!”
Laughing at her own cleverness, she went skipping back to her Pack and they ran off, giggling.
Richie sat there with his eyes closed and his fists clenched. He opened his eyes, looked down, body tense – and now I could see tears dripping onto the bench.
Sighing, I got up from my desk, walked out to the atrium, and sat by his side.
“Not all girls – or women – are like that, Richie. She just happens to be a turd among flowers.”
His head jerked up, and I knew that I had just compounded his shame by watching, even though Cheryl’s exploit would be all over the school before the closing bell, and Richie would be the butt of jokes for weeks. “Ass-kisser” would be the kindest he would be called.
He gathered up his books and, without a word, walked quickly away, head down.
~~~~~
The next day, after classes were over, there was a knock at my library office door, and Richie poked his head in, “May I come in, Abuela?”
Abuela – “grandmother” in Spanish – was my nickname. Many kids came to me with their heartaches or problems. I seemed to have that reputation, even though I was barely in my thirties. “Of course, Richie. How are you, you beautiful boy?”
That last part just slipped out and reflected my private opinion. I hadn’t intended to burden him with my thoughts.
He swallowed hard and walked in. “I just wanted to apologize for being rude yesterday. I know you were just trying to help me. I’m…I’m sorry.” He looked miserably at his ragged, sockless sneakers, which he wore in spite of the winter’s cold.
I smiled at him. “Sit down, Richie. Please,” and gestured to the chair opposite my desk.
He shifted uncomfortably but perched carefully on the edge of the visitor’s chair.
I waited, unsure what I could possibly say to this poor boy who was so lost and yet had so much potential. Coming to a quick decision, I said to him, “Do you have any supper plans tonight, Richie?”
He looked up at me, surprised, then quickly down again, as if even looking at a woman was painful. “No.”
I considered asking when was the last time he had showered, but decided it would be mortally embarrassing, so refrained. “I made too much beef stew last night, and I can’t freeze it all. I was wondering if you would be willing to come over and help me eat what I can’t freeze.”
I could see emotions warring within him, and hoped the right one would win. It did.
“If…if you’re sure…?”
I smiled and nodded. “It would be a blessing, Richie. Thank you.”
I pulled a sticky note towards me and wrote my address on it, then pulled the note off and handed it to him. “This is where I live. Can you get there alright?”
He glanced at the sheet, then quickly nodded.
“Don’t bring anything but your appetite. I’ll see you at seven, okay?”
He nodded, then almost leaped out of the chair and was gone.
~~~~~
Precisely at seven, there was a knock at my door. I moved over and opened it to see Richie shifting from foot to foot.
“Richie! Come in!”
He stood, frozen, then walked through my door as if being dragged.
I smiled. “I’m just putting the finishing touches on supper. Why don’t you go and freshen up.” I gestured to my bathroom. “You can have a shower if you want, and I left some old clothes for you.”
Then, without giving him a chance to reply, I turned and walked into the kitchen. I had picked up the clothes from Salvation Army that afternoon, plus a small shaving kit of essentials, and hoped he’d use them.
Fifteen minutes later, Richie emerged, hair wet, but much neater, wearing the new – well, newer – clothes I had laid out for him. He looked clean and distinctly uncomfortable.
“Come and sit down. Food’s on the table. Now, tell me who your favorite authors are, and why?”
The smell of the food cast the deciding vote for him, and he sat, hands twitching as if eager to grab knife and fork and dig in.
“Let us give thanks,” I said, bowing my head and saying a quick prayer, which he answered with a mumbled, “Amen.”
“Dig in!” I said – and he did while trying to restrain himself from wolfing the food down, something I studiously failed to notice.
Sometime, and much beef stew later he slowed down, and finally decided it was time to stop. He put down his fork, looked somewhat abashed, and said, “That was delicious. Thank you.”
Then he looked up, his eyes bright with intelligence. “But you didn’t have too much to freeze – did you?”
I thought for a moment, then shook my head.
“I’ll find a way to pay you back, Abuela…”
“Maureen. We’re not at school now, so call me Maureen, please.”
He paused for a moment, then nodded. “Maureen. You’re very kind. And I don’t mean just for feeding me. I’ve seen you take students under your wing. You are very kind. You’re famous for it.”
He sat back, “So – why me? Do I look that needy?”
I looked at him, trying hard not to let my thoughts show.
He took that as an answer and sighed. “Yeah, I guess I am. But I won’t always be.”
He stood up and started collecting the dishes. I stood and helped him, then put on an apron and started doing the dishes. He found a dishcloth and started drying them in surprisingly companionable silence. Several times our hands brushed as a wet dish was placed in the drying rack, and each time, Richie blushed and apologized.
When we were done, he turned to go and started to say his goodbyes.
“Wait, Richie. I have something to say. Will you listen?”
He stood, half-turned to go, then swallowed and nodded. “I…I guess I owe you that much,” walked over to the sofa and sat.
“Richie…”
“Please, if you don’t mind, call me Richard? I only ever liked my Mom calling me Richie.”
I smiled, “Richard, then. I’ve seen you in school. You have no reason to be ashamed of anything.”
He shook his head and looked down at the hands in his lap. “My clothes are crap, I smell, my hair’s a mess, and I have no social life because I can’t afford one. For an eighteen-year-old, that’s a lot to be ashamed of.”
I paused. He was clearly much more self-aware than I had expected, so I decided to tackle the easiest thing first. “Why don’t you shower at school? You have gym class three days a week.”
He flushed and continued to stare at his hands. “I tried that. The other boys stole my clothes and hid them. Coach had to lend me some to leave the locker room. Then I had to find some more…”
His voice trailed off.
“Are your parents…” I didn’t know how to ask, so decided I’d just be blunt. “…poor?”
Now he looked miserable. “My Mom died when I was thirteen. My Dad’s a drunk and used to wail on me – until I left. I’m of legal age, so I live on my own now.”
I restrained the urge to ask where or how he lived. I knew he worked odd jobs in construction, nothing formal, and got paid in cash.
I bit my lip. This was not going as I had hoped. I thought I might as well take the plunge. “Richard, girls are not an alien species. They won’t give you cooties. And, whether you believe it or not, they want to have sex as much as you do. They just have different…constraints. Some of them are physical – you don’t have to worry about getting pregnant, for one. And many of them are societal. Guys who sleep around are studs. Girls who do are sluts.
