Free Little Boy by Anthony Prato Page A

knowing full-well that I
only danced with Maria. Rick tried to drown out my story with his
own, but had failed. Mike smiled like a big dope, because I knew
he’d never even talked to a girl much less danced with one. Mike
had so little experience with girls that he thought I exaggerated
the whole story, even though I didn’t. But Paul’s reaction was
different. He wasn’t like Mike. Paul was in disbelief because he
knew that everything I said was true, and he couldn’t believe that
I’d had yet another success with yet another girl.
     
    “What’s her name?” Rick asked.
     
    “Julie McCormick,” I said. Mike laughed his
ass off. Rick laughed harder. Kyle laughed the hardest. Paul
frowned and looked at his shoes.
     
    My friends were in awe. I told Paul that I’d
give him Lynn now that I was done with her. I know that sounds
crude, but, Christ, we were guys, and we all talked that way.
     
    It was a great lunch time that afternoon.
Usually we talked about all sorts of stuff—girls, sports, teachers,
whatever. But that day all we talked about was me and Maria. They
kept asking me if I hooked up with her, but I responded by smiling
like a Cheshire cat, letting them believe what they wanted to. I
had the feeling there would be plenty of stuff to tell them during
lunch time in the future.
     
    After lunch, me and my friends walked back up
to our lockers. That year, our junior year, our lockers were close
to one another. So after we got our books, as usual, we hung around
near the stairwell and bullshitted for a while until the bell rang.
Kyle towered over all of us. He’s about six foot two or three,
maybe even taller. He had dirty blonde hair that fell straight down
to his shoulder blades. His face was gaunt and seldom clean-shaven.
A circle of dirty blonde stubble lined the circumference of his
lips nearly every day. Worse than that, Kyle's stringy hair dangled
below his shirt collar, well beyond his neck. This sort of hair
style breached the school's dress code. But of course, Kyle never
got caught by the Brothers. Not once! He slyly tucked his hair into
his collar, never raising an eyebrow from the faculty. How he
managed to escape trouble through four years of high school looking
like an out-of-work drummer is beyond me.
     
    Between his gray, creaseless, slacks and shit
brown shoes Kyle was a fashion train wreck. And when I say he wore
this crap every day, I mean every day. He could have passed
easily for the poorest kid in school. Kyle was, well, Kyle was
Kyle. But the thing was, he didn’t give a shit what anyone thought
of him. And he was pretty happy with the way he was. I’ve always
admired Kyle for that. I always wanted to know his secret. Still
do.
     
    I remember the first time I met Kyle. It was
the last day of classes during our freshman year. Mike had known
Kyle since elementary school. As everyone piled out of school, Mike
plucked me from the crowd outside and said, “A.J., this is Kyle.
Kyle, this is A.J.” As we shook hands hello, I noticed how unkempt
he was. So there I was, with this weirdo friend of a friend, lanky
as hell, and all I could think to say to him was, “You have an
earring.” And he sure as hell did have one, a big gold spider web
earring dangling from a thin gold chain attached to his ear lobe. I
think it even had a spider on it, too. I couldn’t believe that Mike
was friends with such a freak. Earrings were for losers!
     
    “No shit? I have a dick, too. Wanna see?”
Kyle replied, without missing a beat. And that was that. I didn’t
see him again until the beginning of our sophomore year. But
whenever I spoke with Mike over the summer, he had a new Kyle story
to tell me. It wasn’t until the next fall when school began that
Kyle and I became friends. And how did we become friends? How did
two seemingly different people manage to kindle a relationship? The
answer is simple: We both thought Mike was a Pollock.
     
    See, we were both friends with Mike. But
there was no