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Chapter Text

Mike wouldn’t have been nervous about the first day of school if it hadn’t been for his parents.

Dad (Mike wasn’t allowed to call him “Daddy” anymore, since he was in kindergarten and that meant he had to be a big boy) had given him a lot of advice about working hard, paying attention, and finding the right kids to make friends with. Except he hadn’t said “kids.” He had said “boys.” He had also given him an extra stern warning: “DON’T be a baby.”

Mommy had fussed way too much over his clothes and hair. Denim overalls, a red shirt and red socks, neat curls, and a coat – even though it was only September, it wasn’t even cold – and for once, Mike had agreed with Dad when he said, “Leave the coat at home, Karen, it’s sixty degrees outside and he’s not a baby.”

“Oh, hush, you,” said Mommy, zipping up Mike’s coat (he could do that himself) and brushing off imaginary dirt (or snow) from his shoulders.

Nancy had been walking to school since kindergarten with a group of girls in the neighborhood, and she absolutely refused to let Mike tag along. Not that he wanted to walk with a bunch of dumb girls. They were mean to him, or ignored him, or pinched his cheeks and called him cute. The only okay one was Barb, because she talked to him like he was a person. But he also didn’t want Mommy dropping him off, because he wasn’t a baby.

“How do I make friends?” he asked Mommy in the car.

Mommy had taken too many pictures of him, all shiny-eyed about his First Day of School and how she wasn’t ready to be done having babies at home (“I am NOT a BABY,” Mike had shouted, but as both Dad and Nancy were out of earshot, he wasn’t as angry as normal). Then she had checked his new red backpack with the trucks on it three times for his lunchbox (that had way too much food) and his school supplies. In the car, she sniffled a little. Mike did actually want an answer to his question, but he also wanted to distract Mommy. He caught her crying often. He always pretended it wasn’t happening. He had discovered this was the best way to make it stop.

Mommy thought before answering, her forehead scrunching up a little. “Just say hello,” she said. “Tell them your name. And ask if they want to be friends.”

It sounded easy enough. “How do I know who the right people are to make friends with?”

“You’ll know when you know,” said Mommy. “When you see a person who makes you feel good, or happy, or curious.” She paused again, no longer crying. “Remember that it’s everyone’s first day, not just yours. Nobody in kindergarten knows anyone else yet. They’re all going to be looking for new friends.”

Mike gulped. He hadn’t thought about that. Other people would be looking at him, deciding whether he made them feel good, happy, or curious. He was suddenly glad of all of Mommy’s annoying effort – starching and ironing his overalls even – on his appearance, and her insistence of packing him two entire lunches in his lunchbox, including extra applesauce and chips. “MOM,” he had shouted when he saw her packing it. “I can’t eat all that!” And she had said “But what if someone else needs something?” Mike hadn’t understood what she meant, but now he reflected that having snacks to share might make him an attractive prospect as a friend.

They had arrived. Mike got out of the car, intending to run right in, but Mommy got out too, walked around the front, and hugged him. She brushed off the imaginary dirt-snow from his immaculate jacket once again and looked on the verge of tears.

“Bye, Mommy. I love you,” he said. He didn’t hear her reply- because he heard someone sniggering. As he broke away from his once-again-crying mother, he spied two older boys watching them with unfriendly smiles.

Mike’s heart sank. He had made himself look like a baby already. He shoved his hands in his pockets as he marched past those older boys. He resolved in his mind to start calling Mommy “Mom,” at least at school.

A nice teacher showed him the way to the kindergarten classroom. She offered to hold Mike’s hand, but he kept his hands in his pockets as he walked with her. No more mistakes.

When he got to the classroom, his first impression was a wall of noise. Backpacks, coats – some still hanging off their owners – shouts and laughter and screeches – the noise of vinyl sliding – the pounds of running feet and the squeaks of shoes – all filled the space so thoroughly that Mike couldn’t distinguish a single person or what the room looked like. Then he heard a loud clap and a booming voice: “QUIET!” Everyone froze and turned to the adult in the pink dress and curls like Mommy’s – Mom’s – standing in the middle of the blue rug.

“I’m Miss Newby,” she said. “Everybody, please take a carpet square out of the bin, find a spot on the floor, and sit down.”

Everyone rushed to comply, jostling each other to be the first. Miss Newby sat on the large rocking chair at the back of the carpet, where she could see them all. “When I call your name, I want you to raise your hand and say ‘Here.’ Does everybody understand?” Mumbles. She raised her voice. “I said – does everybody understand?”

Mike exchanged glances with the kids sitting on either side of him, not sure what to do.

“Yes, Miss Newby,” rang out a bossy voice that sounded a bit like Nancy’s. Mike saw the speaker was a girl with a large pink bow in her hair. She looked very pleased with herself.

“Yes, Miss Newby,” chorused Mike and all the others.

As Mike waited tensely for his name to be called, he wondered when it would be time to start making friends. He didn’t remember any of the many names Miss Newby called, nor which faces belonged to which names. It went on for so long that Mike wondered if he had been forgotten. Then she called, “Wheeler, Michael.”

Mike’s full name was Michael, though he hated it, but the Wheeler came after the Michael, not before. Maybe someone’s first name was Wheeler? He stared at Miss Newby, who was glancing at every face at her feet. He felt small, like the smallest of them all. She found him. “Are you Michael?” she asked. He felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. It was the bossy-voiced girl with the bow.

“Y-yes,” he said, burning with shame. “Here,” he amended, remembering the rule.

Kids laughed around him. Mike covered his face with his hands. The teacher moved on to “Worthington, Lisa.” He made a small crack in his fingers to peek through and started. One kid had turned and was looking at him, not laughing or smiling, with very large eyes.

Mike wished he had paid attention to names. This boy made him feel good, and happy, and curious.

“Boo-da-fool boy,” said Mike to himself, staring back.

A long time ago, Mike had learned the word “beautiful” from Mommy, and it had become one of his favorite words. She told him that when you liked looking at something, if something made you feel better just to see it, then that thing was beautiful. Mommy never scolded him for using that word, besides to gently try to help him say it right. “Bee-you-tee-full,” she kept saying.
“Boo-da-fool,” Mike repeated.

She never got mad, just smiled fondly and asked him what he had found to be beautiful and why.

Once he knew the word, he noticed when other people were saying it too. He realized that a person could also be beautiful, if looking at them made you feel better. But it was confusing. Adults were always telling Mommy that Nancy was “such a beautiful little girl. Looking at Nancy almost never made Mike feel better. It usually made him feel worse. Nancy would roll her eyes or grimace at him, or glare, or call him disgusting or annoying, or try to correct him the way Mommy did, except not nice.

Most of the time, it wasn’t people who Mike called boo-da-fool (the pronunciation stubbornly sticking despite his efforts – it would stay this way until something clicked in second grade). Sunlight streaming through the window curtains, crayons, Mommy’s new yellow dress, a plate stacked with pancakes erupting with a volcano of syrup that horrified Nancy – these were all beautiful things to him.

So was this boy, with his big eyes that looked at him with such kindness and sympathy that Mike forgot to be embarrassed anymore.

He had on a yellow shirt with trucks on it that looked similar to the ones on Mike’s red backpack. He was small – smaller than the girl with the bow, and probably smaller than Mike too. His hair looked like someone had put a brown bowl upside down on a table, except it was on top of his head. He didn’t have a coat on. Mike felt warm in the classroom, but he noted that the boy’s arms were crossed and his shirt had short sleeves. He realized that the boy was shivering.

Miss Newby was talking. Everyone else appeared to be listening. Mike thought about what Mommy had said when packing his lunch, about people needing things. Maybe the Beautiful Boy left his jacket at home. Maybe he didn’t have one at all.

He started unzipping his green jacket, and was startled by the noise it made. He hadn’t thought about that. He needed to do this quietly if he wanted to avoid getting laughed at again. So he worked inch by inch on the jacket, trying to time the zips for when Miss Newby was speaking instead of breaks. He was almost done. Even the Beautiful Boy had turned his attention back to the teacher. But then he jerked the zipper a little too loud, and Miss Newby stopped mid-sentence.

“Michael,” she said in a ringing voice. “What are you doing?”

Every face turned to him. He heard giggles. He noticed that the girl with the bow was glaring at him with her hand on her hip, like she was his mother or a teacher or Nancy.

Tell the truth, always, Mommy had said to him once. Even when you’re in trouble.

“I’m too hot,” he said. “And the boo – the boy over there – is too cold.”

Miss Newby’s eyebrows reverted to their original position. The others stopped laughing. “William, dear,” she said. “Do you want to borrow Michael’s coat?”

“Mike,” he interrupted without thinking, then cringed.

“Do you want to borrow Mike’s coat?” she repeated.

The Beautiful Boy nodded. Mike finished unzipping his jacket, wadded it up, and handed it over to him. He stared at Mike as he pulled it on. “Thanks,” he said. His voice, low and quiet, sounded beautiful to Mike too. He didn’t zip up the coat, just sat stroking the sleeves in wonder. Mike wondered if the Beautiful Boy knew how to work a zipper. He thought about offering to help. But then he remembered his own quest to not be a baby at school. He didn’t want people laughing at the Beautiful Boy.

Miss Newby had everyone put their carpet squares back in the bin and find seats at the tables that surrounded the blue rug. She walked around the room showing them were things were. She showed them the cubbies where they could hang up their coats and stash their bookbags and lunchboxes. She defined parts of the room as Areas and showed them the Circle (the blue rug), the Library (a wonderful corner of bright bookshelves with one red child-sized armchair that Mike was itching to try at the first opportunity), the Housekeeping Area (where Mike already knew he wouldn’t be caught dead), the Art Supply Closet, and so many other brightly colored places and things that Mike momentarily forgot all about the Beautiful Boy and making friends. Then it was time for Recess.

“We get to go outside?” shouted Mike, interrupting Miss Newby’s explanation. Everyone laughed again.

“Indoor voices, please,” said Miss Newby, but she was smiling. “Let’s all form a single file line.”

Mike looked around to see if anyone knew what she was talking about. Everyone seemed as clueless as him, except the girl with the bow, who began directing people to stand by the door behind each other. Mike couldn’t be grateful for her help. Her smug face was not beautiful to him in the slightest.

“How do you know all this stuff anyway?” Mike muttered as she put her arm around him and guided him right behind a kid with red sneakers, pressing her height advantage in a way he hated.

“This is my second time in kindergarten!” she announced proudly.

“What, so you failed?” asked Mike, scrunching up his face.

“Huh?” said the girl, but he had no time to explain. The Single File Line had begun moving. It was time to go outside.

Apparently all of Hawkins Elementary had Recess at the same time. Mike spotted Nancy’s pink dress with all the up-and-down lines. She was sitting on the curb next to Barb and they were reading a book together. He wished Nancy were a nice sister who would let him join in. He knew how to read. It took him a little longer than her, but he did know how. And all the other kids seemed so big and loud, running after each other all over the yard. Before Mike could decide what to do, the other kindergarteners began shouting and running too, all over the huge yard, getting lost to Mike’s sight amid first, second, third, fourth, fifth, and even sixth graders. The sixth graders looked like adults to Mike, even though they kicked around soccer balls just like the younger kids. The blacktop area seemed a little quieter, with hopscotch and jump-rope chants and hand-clap games. But it was all girls, and Dad had been very clear that Mike was to make friends with the right boys.

Mike scanned the perimeter for any lingering smaller boys, and spied his own green jacket. He’d forgotten he wasn’t wearing it. The boy it encased was sitting alone on a swing. His upside-down bowl hair was moving a little in the wind. The swing next to him dangled empty.

“Boo-da-fool boy,” said Mike. He jogged over to the swingset and held onto the empty swing, not sitting down yet.

“Do you want to be friends?” he said in a rush.

The Beautiful Boy nodded shyly. Mike sat down and began pumping his legs. He wondered if the other boy, whose jacket (his jacket) remained unzipped, knew how to swing on his own or if he needed a push. Mike was about to ask when he saw the boy’s feet stick out in front of him and wiggle- almost like he was dancing in the swing- and then take off, rapidly reaching the highest a swing could go.

“Hey!” shouted Mike, straining to catch up. The Beautiful Boy laughed- another pretty sound to Mike’s ears. Both boys quickly turned it into a competition.

“I have a brother,” said the Beautiful Boy. “His name’s Jonathan.” He pointed. Mike saw an older boy alone at the edge of the woodchips, building something out of sticks. His hair looked like a bowl too.

“He looks cool,” said Mike. “I have a sister in third grade.” He talked about Nancy, and both boys talked about their families and their favorite things to do. Mike didn’t really have one favorite thing to do yet, but his new friend did – drawing.

The bell rang, which – judging by the mad scramble of kids of all sizes – meant it was time to go in. Both new friends jumped off their swings and walked together.

“Do you know how to zip up the jacket?” asked Mike, ensuring that they were still far enough from anyone else that they wouldn’t be heard. The beautiful boy hesitated.

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t want to.”

He was lying, Mike thought. But that was okay. Mike could teach him later.

Inside, they were allowed Free Play, which was complete chaos and didn’t feel any more peaceful or any easier to process than the first minute of Recess outside. It was a smaller number of kids, and the kids were smaller, but it was also a smaller space. Mike and the Beautiful Boy stared around.

“So, what do you want to do?” Mike asked.

The Beautiful Boy seemed to have lost all power of speech, now that they were no longer alone. He pointed at the table by the Art Supply Closet, which was next to the Housekeeping Area, where the girl with the bow – the girl who had failed kindergarten – was holding court.

Mike assessed her and the other girls. “They won’t bother us,” he decided. They were noisy and busy, but seemed entirely absorbed in the mysterious game they were playing, which looked pretty much like doing chores. Mike and his friend walked to the table and took seats next to each other, and then the Beautiful Boy went to the closet and took out two bins – one with construction paper in a wonderful array of colors, and the other with hundreds of crayons of various degrees of use. Mike seized the box of construction paper and took out a red sheet for himself. He intended to find one for his friend too, but the Beautiful Boy took out a cream-colored one. Mike stared. It was almost not a color at all.

“Don’t you want the red one?” asked Mike.

“All the crayons show up better on white,” explained the Beautiful Boy, who had already begun drawing.

Mike had never considered this. He found his own cream sheet of paper and laid it next to his red one, long sides together, and began picking crayons at random from the bin. With each crayon, he made one side-to-side stroke on the cream paper, and one on the red one, taking care to make sure the crayon strokes were in the same positions on each page for each color. Completely absorbed in the task, he continued until both sides of both sheets of paper were full. Then he looked at them and saw that what his friend had said was true. Almost every color besides the reds and purples looked more vibrant on the cream paper than the red. He turned to his friend to tell him how right he was – but then his jaw dropped at the drawing in progress on the cream sheet.

It was a house, with green grass and puffy clouds and a yellow sun in the corner – a layout for so many of Mike and Nancy’s drawings that had graced their fridge – but the Beautiful Boy’s was so much better because of the bricks. He had drawn them in the pattern that bricks actually took, not just a lot of squares on top of each other. Each one was colored in a different crayon, and somehow no two bricks the same color touched each other at all.

It wasn’t done. The Beautiful Boy continued coloring in the bricks until Mike spoke. “Whoooa. Boo-da-fool.”

Then he clapped his hand over his mouth. He’d said it wrong. He knew that. He was trying not to say any of the words he couldn’t say right at school, trying to keep people from knowing he ever had trouble. But this drawing made him forget.

The Beautiful Boy seemed to understand him, and didn’t laugh. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled, not quite meeting Mike’s eye.

At the end of the day, Mike asked if they could walk home together.

“I don’t know where to go,” the Beautiful Boy admitted.

“Oh, good point. Me neither,” said Mike. They stared at each other. What were they going to do?

Miss Newby came to their rescue. “Both of your moms told me they would pick you up from school today,” she said. “But you’re big boys now. So by next week, I expect you to be walking to and from school. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss Newby,” they said together. They went outside to wait, standing on the curb. Mike saw Nancy, Barb, and all the dumb girls they always walked with skip off together, singing some dumb song, like she didn’t even know she had a brother.

The Beautiful Boy’s brother – Jonathan – remembered. He broke away from a gaggle of boys and walked over to the two of them alone. “Ready?” he asked.

“Miss Newby said Mom was coming to pick me up,” said the Beautiful Boy.

“Oh,” said Jonathan, scratching the back of his neck the same way his brother had done. “Uh, okay. Want to walk to school together tomorrow?”

Jonathan wasn’t the same kind of beautiful. But he was nice – much nicer than mean old Nancy. Mike wondered if his mom’s advice worked on big kids too.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Mike. Do you want to be friends?”

Jonathan smiled. “Hi Mike. I’m Jonathan. Do you want to walk to school with us tomorrow?”

“YES!” Mike shouted. Then he ducked his head, but nobody laughed at him. He glanced sideways. The Beautiful Boy’s entire being seemed transformed with joy, as though he were standing in a sunbeam. Mike couldn’t help but stare at the soft smile and sparkles in his big eyes.

“Where’d you get this coat?” Jonathan asked him.

“Oh, it’s Mike’s. I’ll give it back.”

“Keep it,” said Mike at once. He had other coats at home. “I’m not cold.”

“I can’t,” said his friend sadly, fiddling with one of the sleeve cuffs.

Jonathan was glancing between them. “Maybe you can wear it home tonight and give it back tomorrow?” he said. “And wear your own coat to school from now on?”

So he had a coat, Mike thought. Good.

A car pulled up – not Mommy’s – not Mom’s. A lady with messy brown hair came out, walked to the three of them, squatted down in front of the Beautiful Boy, and gave him a hug. Mike hastily scanned the playground. Most of the other kids were gone. Good – no one to laugh at the Beautiful Boy. Then the lady introduced herself to Mike as Joyce, shook his hand like he was a grown-up, and thanked him for the loan of his coat. She offered to give Jonathan a ride home too, but Jonathan chirped “no thanks!” and jogged off on his own.

“Bye,” said the Beautiful Boy, out the window of his mom’s car, as they drove off.

A few minutes later, Mommy arrived. Mom, he sternly reminded himself. In the car, she asked him chipper questions about what he had learned today. Mike wasn’t sure how to answer, but he tried his best. He told her about learning to say “yes, Miss Newby” and “no, Miss Newby,” where the Library and Art Supply Closet and Carpet Bin were, and that it was possible to fail kindergarten. Mommy chuckled at this one.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “You are not going to fail kindergarten.”

Mike had not even considered the possibility that he might fail. He felt the fear start to rise. But since he wasn’t a baby, he changed the subject fast, telling Mommy about how almost all the crayons looked brighter on white paper than red.

It wasn’t until dinnertime that the Beautiful Boy came up in conversation. “Make any friends, son?” Dad asked.

Usually Mommy asked the right questions. Whenever it was Dad, Mike was extra excited to answer.

“YES!” he shouted. “I made friends with uh – uh –” Mike realized that he didn’t know the boy’s name. “Someone,” he said. “He is boo-da-fool.”

Nancy snickered.

“He is!” said Mike. “He has really big eyes. Like, REALLY big. And a bowl on top of his head. He made a rainbow house.”

“Sounds made up,” said Nancy. “Anyway, boys aren’t beautiful. Girls are.” She pronounced bee-you-tee-full like a show-off.

“Honey, are you sure your friend isn’t a girl?” asked Mommy, her eyes moving between Mike and Dad too fast, while Dad silently sipped his beer. This was a sure signal that something was wrong.

“It’s a boy,” said Mike hastily.

“How do you know?” jeered Nancy.

“Because – because –” Mike stopped. How did he know? How did anyone know? “Because he had pants on! Yeah!”

“Girls wear pants too, sweetie,” said Mommy.

“I wore pants yesterday,” sniffed Nancy.

“You don’t count,” Mike muttered.

“WHAT?!”

But Dad spoke up, cutting her off. “You should never say a boy is beautiful,” he said carefully. His voice was low and expression composed, but Mike still felt like he was in trouble. He also didn’t understand.

“He is though,” Mike tried to explain, unable to shake the feeling of being on thin ice. “Mommy said that when looking at something makes you happy, that means that thing is boo-da-fool. It can be a thing or a person.”

He glanced at Nancy, daring her to argue, but he noted that she was now sitting very, very still, chewing as quietly as possible, gripping her fork. Her eyes moved though, darting back and forth just like Mommy’s.

“Sweetie,” said Mom hurriedly, “maybe you can learn his name tomorrow. Ted, pass the salt please.”

“He has a brother,” Mike continued. “I know his name. It’s Jonathan.”

“There’s a Jonathan in my class,” said Nancy, sounding almost normal. “He’s nice. Quiet.”

“Yeah, same one,” said Mike.

“Don’t get too friendly with any boys, Nance,” grunted Dad.

Chapter Text

The second day of school, Mike was eating breakfast when the doorbell rang. Mommy – Mom – went to get it.

Mom. Mom Mom Mom Mom Mom. Mike would need to practice that both out loud and in his head.

“Hi,” she said, sounding friendly but confused. “Are you Nancy’s friend?”

“Uh,” said a male voice in reply. “Kind of? I’m here for Mike.”

“Oh?” Mom sounded even more confused.

“I’m Jonathan. My brother invited Mike to walk to school with us?”

Mike dropped his spoon in his cereal bowl. “YES!” he shouted. He got up and sprinted to the door. He thought he heard a thud behind him.

“Mike!” Mommy raised her voice. “At least put your bowl in the sink! And put your chair back! Where is your bookbag?”

“Sorry,” he muttered to Jonathan at the door. He allowed Mommy to set him to rights, gently scolding him as she ordered him to fix the various messes he’d made in his excitement to meet Jonathan and the Beautiful Boy and walk to school together. Then he pulled on his shoes at the entrance. Dad had been adamant that he know how to tie his shoes before starting kindergarten. He’s drilled him in it for what felt like hours, pushing Mike to keep going even when he’d cried, but by the Saturday before school started, Mike was a pro. He had to admit he was glad of it now – it would have been too embarrassing for Jonathan to see him struggle with it.

“How do you know where I live?” asked Mike while he worked. Jonathan was still standing in the doorway, waiting patiently.

“We all get a little booklet with our whole class’s address and phone numbers,” Jonathan explained. “Will told me that Nancy was your sister, so I looked her up. She’s in my class,” he added, just in case Mike didn’t know.

Nancy was still eating. Mike could hear the sounds from the kitchen. He knew all the sounds his different family members made doing various things. He wondered why Nancy didn’t even come to the door to say hi to Jonathan. She’d said he was nice, so it wasn’t like they were enemies. Then he remembered Dad’s new rule that she wasn’t to be too friendly with boys, even though Mike was only supposed to make friends with boys. Sometimes all the rules made Mike dizzy.

“Bye Dad! Bye MOM!” said Mike, concentrating on the “Mom.” “And Nancy,” he added, as he got up, pulled his bookbag on, and walked out. The Beautiful Boy was waiting all the way by the mailbox, standing with his hands linked as though nervous. He hoped his new friend wasn’t scared of him. But he saw his own coat trapped between the boy’s linked arms and his body, and that his friend had on a different blue jacket, zipped up.

“Hi,” said Mike, taking the proffered jacket. He felt warm, but he put it on anyway just so he and the Beautiful Boy would match.

“Hi,” his friend replied. They stood staring at each other, smiling, until Jonathan started walking. Then they turned as one and began following him. Jonathan seemed content to walk ahead by himself, apart from glancing behind at the two boys every few seconds. He took something out of his bookbag- a radio, just like Nancy’s- and turned it on, messing with a dial until music came through.

“Is Jonathan always alone?” asked Mike, quietly just in case, but he didn’t believe Jonathan could hear anything over his blaring music.

“He says I’m his best friend,” said the Beautiful Boy. “I think he gets along with other kids too, but they don’t come over.”

Mike knew he should be paying attention to the way, so he could walk to school without Jonathan’s help, but he never liked this task. There were always too many other things to notice and think about, especially in the early fall on his second-ever day of school.

He suddenly remembered the important question that he needed to ask the Beautiful Boy.

“What’s your name?”

For the first time, Mike saw an unpleasant expression on his friend’s beautiful face. He was offended.

“I know a lot about you,” said Mike hastily, words tumbling over each other trying to get out as fast as they could. He could not lose his first friend in kindergarten. He just couldn’t. “I know you’re really, really good at drawing. I know you can draw bricks that look like real bricks. And that drawing is your favorite thing to do. And you don’t have any sisters, and you used to have a pet goldfish but it died, and your favorite snack is–”

“Will,” the boy interrupted. His expression had resumed its normal configuration.

“Huh?” said Mike.

“My name is Will.”

“Will,” said Mike. “Will, Will, Will. Hi, Will.”

“Hi, Mike,” said Will, eyes crinkling in an almost-smile. “Do you forget names?”

“Yeah. I forget a lot of stuff,” said Mike. “I don’t mean to.”

“Okay,” said Will. Emboldened by Will’s calm acceptance, Mike continued.

“I forgot that I didn’t know your real name, because I had made up a name for you. In my head, I mean.”

“Oh,” said Will. “What did you make up for me?” He leaned a little toward Mike as he asked. Then Mike remembered two rules – one for himself, and one from Dad. The first was not to say any words aloud that he knew he couldn’t say right. The second was about never calling boys beautiful. But Will’s large eyes and eager posture compelled him.

“If I tell you, will you promise not to tell anyone?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Will. “Why?”

“It’s against the rules,” said Mike.

“Oh,” said Will. Mike did not know how – or if – to explain the rules. But as he watched Will’s face, he saw that his friend seemed to be deciding between two fighting impulses – curiosity about the rules, and curiosity about the secret name. The name won. “Okay.”

Mike glanced at Jonathan. The older boy’s head was bobbing along to the blaring radio music. “The name is – the name – it was Boo-da-fool Boy.”

Will blinked. Mike noticed that his eyes were green. A very dark green. “B-beautiful boy?” he asked.

“Yes!” Mike shouted. Jonathan whirled around at the sound. Mike clapped his hand over his mouth. Jonathan scanned the two boys, before – apparently satisfied – turning back to face the front. “Yes,” Mike repeated more softly. “You know that word? What it means?”

“Yes. It means pretty,” said Will. “You think I’m pretty!”

“Kind of,” said Mike. “I mean – yes. I do. But my mommy – my mom – told me that boo-da-fool means looking at something makes you feel happy. Something or someone. And I feel happy looking at you. So I was calling you Boo-da-fool Boy in my head, and I forgot that that’s not really your name, and then I forgot to learn your real name. I’m sorry,” he said, remembering Will’s earlier offense.

“It’s okay,” said Will at once. “I like the name you gave me too.” Two soft pink spots shone on his cheeks. “I feel happy looking at you, too.”

Mike grinned. “Am I pretty?”

“Yes.”

Then Mike remembered. “I can’t call you that anymore, though,” he explained. “My dad says I’m not allowed to call other boys boo-da-fool ever again.”

“Oh,” said Will. A troubled crease appeared between his eyebrows. “That sounds like something my dad would say.”

Mike wanted to ask more, but they had arrived at school. Jonathan switched off his radio. “Bye Will. Bye Mike. I’ll walk you home too.” He gave Mike a nice smile, one Mike turned over and thought about off and on as the first few hours of the day whirled by. When everyone was getting into a single file line for recess, Mike believed he understood what Jonathan’s smile had meant.

It had meant: “Thank you for being friends with my brother.”

That thought made Mike feel warm inside. But Jonathan puzzled him. Despite being the same age, he was so unlike Nancy, with her reflexive annoyance at Mike and her ever-present gaggle of girls who she absolutely refused to allow Mike to join for anything. He wondered if Will was allowed in Jonathan’s room. Maybe he was. That was a different nice thought – Will could have Mike at school and Jonathan at home. Will never had to be alone.

But Mike still found it odd that Jonathan didn’t seem to have friends his own age. Nor did he try to intrude on Will and Mike’s new friendship. He let the two of them have their space, both walking and at recess, where Mike and Will took to the swings again and talked as they watched everybody else. Nancy and Barb were playing hopscotch with a lot of other girls today, Nancy by far the best (show-off). Jonathan was alone again, building a structure with sticks the way he had done yesterday, in a shape that looked familiar but that Mike couldn’t name. It kept falling over, and he kept rebuilding it, making minute adjustments to the angles of the sticks, watching breathlessly for the two or three seconds it held – only for it to come crashing down. Mike watched the process while listening to Will talk. After several minutes, Jonathan’s structure finally held for four, five, six, seven seconds.

“Is it gonna stay up forever?” Mike wondered aloud.

“Huh?” said Will. Mike pointed at Jonathan. “Oh,” he said. “Probably. He’s really good at making things balance.”

But as Will spoke, Mike saw a bigger boy approach and kick one of the supporting sticks. The whole edifice came crashing down.

“Hey!” shouted Jonathan, or at least that’s what Mike thought he said. He was too far to hear. The bigger boy shouted something in response. Then a group of other big boys, watching from a few feet away, hooted and high-fived each other.

“That’s not okay,” said Mike, his face heating up with a sudden rush of anger.

“No, it’s not,” said Will. He didn’t sound angry, just sad. “The boy who did that, his name is Steve. He’s in fourth grade. He’s been bullying Jonathan since Jonathan was in kindergarten.”

Mike glared at the unseeing Steve. “Why?”

“Dad says it’s because Jonathan is a wimp,” said Will. Mike stared. He could not have ever imagined such an ugly word coming out of his beautiful friend’s mouth. “I don’t believe that,” said Will quickly, his words rolling over each other the way Mike’s had when he’d offended Will with the name question. “Jonathan is the best brother in the world. He is not a wimp.” Mike nodded. “But Dad said that people can sense when someone is a wimp. And when they sense weakness, then they attack.”

“Why?” Mike asked again, deeply troubled. “Why would they attack someone who isn’t bothering them?”

“Dad says it does bother people, being weak,” said Will. “And they attack to teach the weak person a lesson.”

“A lesson? What kind of lesson?”

“To be strong and brave instead,” said Will. “To not be a fairy.”

“A – fairy?” Mike was lost now. “But can’t fairies fly and stuff?” He thought of the Blue Fairy in the Pinocchio movie, who glittered and had powers and could give life and teach people to be good.

“I don’t think that’s what he means,” said Will. “I mean. I can’t fly.”

“He calls you a fairy?” said Mike. The burning feeling was rising to his face again. “And it means weak? Or a wimp?”

“I think so. He never explains what it means,” said Will. His swing had slowed down. Mike had been purposely swinging to be next to Will at all times, not wanting to miss a single word, not just because he was interested in getting to know Will better, but because so much of what Will was saying today confused him. “He also calls me a fairy when I - I don’t know. Talk wrong.”

“Talk wrong,” repeated Mike. He thought of the long list of words he couldn’t say right. “I’m a fairy.”

“No, you’re not,” said Will, so firmly that Mike was startled. “Fairy means something bad. And you’re not bad. Fairy gets you beat up. And nobody is ever going to beat you up. EVER.”

“Okay, okay,” said Mike, a little alarmed. “Wait. Does Jonathan get beat up?”

“Yeah,” said Will. “Mostly Dad. Sometimes Steve and his stupid friends.”

“By your DAD?” said Mike.

“Shh!” hissed Will. Mike glanced around and saw that no one was in earshot. “That’s a secret. Like your secret name for me. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Mike, a little scared by Will’s sudden intensity. Will looked at him for a few more seconds, assessing, before apparently deeming him trustworthy.

“Yeah, he beats up Jonathan and sometimes he beats up me, too,” Will continued. “Sometimes Jonathan tries to stop him from beating me up. And then he beats up Jonathan instead and calls him a wimp until Jonathan punches him back. And then he keeps beating up Jonathan, but it’s like he’s, I don’t know, happy about it. And I’m not supposed to cry.”

Mike sat in silence. He’d known about bullies beating people up, and bad guys beating each other up in movies, but never a father beating up his own kids. Especially not beating up someone as punishment for trying to protect someone else. What kind of house did his new friends live in? He remembered Will’s mom in the car, whose name he forgot too, but who had messy hair and a crinkly smile and eyes like Will’s.

“What about your mom?” Mike asked.

“Oh, he doesn’t beat up Mom,” said Will at once. “He just yells at her and shoves her out of the way when she tries to get between him and me or Jonathan.”

Mike had meant the question as how their mom protected him. He had never considered a mom and a dad beating up each other. He felt hot and itchy, like his brain was going to explode. “How much of this is a secret?

“All of it,” said Will. He fell silent. Watching his face, the little twitches of expression, Mike got the impression that Will wanted to say even more, but wasn’t sure how to say it. Maybe he wasn’t sure if he could trust Mike with what he wanted to say. Mike waited, breathless, hoping Will would decide he was worthy of more secrets. At last, Will swallowed and cleared his throat, as though bracing himself for his next few words.

“Jonathan says Mom is a wimp,” he said.

“What?” Mike whispered.

“Yeah,” said Will. “He said he doesn’t trust her.”

“Why?” Mike asked immediately. Then he stopped and reflected. “Is it because she doesn’t stop your dad from beating up you guys? But she tries, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” Will agreed. “I don’t think Mom or Jonathan are wimps. I think Dad’s just scary.”

Mike had also never heard of a grown person being called a wimp. Or a girl. “Hang on,” he said. “Isn’t your mom a girl? A lady, I mean? Aren’t there different, I don’t know. Rules?”

He remembered Dad sternly telling him to never hit a girl, one time when he’d caught his children wrestling over which TV channel to watch. Nancy was bigger, and she hit him all the time. But it wasn’t the same. It hurt, but only for a few minutes, and it made Mike angry, not afraid.

“Yeah,” said Will. “But Jonathan doesn’t want Mom to beat up Dad. He wants Mom to get a divorce. He thinks she’s a wimp because she won’t.”

“What’s a- what’s a-” Mike screwed up his face. “What’s the thing Jonathan wants her to get?”

“Divorce?” asked Will. Mike nodded, starting to feel slightly ashamed that Will knew so many more things than him. This was the boy Mike had assumed didn’t know how to zip up a jacket. Maybe he couldn’t, but he knew so much else. But Will went on, not laughing or judging Mike. Come to think of it, the only reaction Will had had to Mike not knowing something, had been about his name. “Divorce means when people stop being married to each other,” Will was saying. “And where the mom and the dad live in different houses.”

“Huh. Where do the kids live?” asked Mike.

“I’m not sure,” Will admitted. “I thought maybe they walk between their mom and dad’s house, but I think Jonathan wants us to stay with only Mom and not ever Dad.”

“Makes sense, since your dad beats up you guys,” said Mike. “Why won’t she?”

“Jonathan told me she said she doesn’t make enough money at her job to afford a house for us and to feed us and stuff,” said Will. “He thinks she should do it anyway. He told her he would help, like – get a paper route, or mow people’s lawns and stuff – so we have money.”

“Your mom has a job? Cool!” exclaimed Mike.

“Yeah,” said Will in mild surprise. “She works at Melvald’s.”

“The store with the yellow candy?”

“That’s the one.”

“Cool,” gushed Mike. Will smiled.

“She doesn’t like it very much,” he said.

“Doesn’t like it? What’s not to like? That store has the best stuff! She could eat yellow candy all day whenever she wants!”

“She told me she still has to pay for it, but I think it’s cheaper for her because she works there.” Mike was barely listening now. His mind was in overdrive.

“Maybe my mom and dad could get divorced too, and then Mommy could get a job at Melvald’s and be best friends with your mom, and then they would both have jobs! And then – then –” Mike felt overwhelmed by his own brilliance. “Then they could buy a house together, and me and you could live there and be brothers, and Jonathan too! And Nancy, I guess. Then everything would work out!” Mike’s hands flapped excitedly as he talked. He grabbed Will’s swing. “Isn’t it great?”

Will smiled back at Mike, but something told him that Will didn’t like his idea very much. Or maybe he did like it very much, but didn’t believe it could ever happen.