They all do
it – unthinking, hand up, pat my knee and move on. Those tall boys. I’m not
sure how they grow them so tall these days. Folk used to say that you needed to
go into the street and stand in some horse manure if you wanted to grow.
There’s no horse manure in the streets now – it’s all fast cars and exhaust
fumes.
The
staircase is filled with their noise, clattering, chatting, yelling – each one
shouting over the next, their volume inversely proportional to their
confidence. Insecurity hidden under a pile of sports caps and badges.
This one,
though, he’s different. He has barely grown since the Lower Fourth. Always last
to be picked for teams, always trailing behind. A tiny turtle of a boy, his
rucksack of books providing shelter and home. We’ve sat in companionable
silence for hours – sometimes he’d break it, whisper his concerns – and I’d
listen, giving him room to speak, letting him fill the vast hallway.
Out of the
rucksack shell, he pulls his yellow folding step – it goes everywhere with him,
lifts him to the highest stack in the library, helps him drag his heavy winter
coat from its peg, gives him a better view from the stands. He sets the step in
front of me and climbs onto it. He touches my left knee, shiny and bright from
the thousands of hands which have grazed it over the years. It’s become a piece
of folklore. Patting the founder’s knee is supposed to bring them luck on their
journey out of boyhood. This boy, though, holds my knee, all the while looking
deep into my bronze eyes. This boy needs no luck, he needs no fake badges of
confidence.
He towers
above them all.
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