Age of Enlightenment
by Michael Howard
When I was seven, my parents moved us out of our apartment and into a house on a street called Knot. The house was small, very small, but it had a third bedroom, which we needed since my mom was pregnant with my sister Judy. Before Judy it was just me and Hubert, who showed up when I was three. I wasn’t happy when I learned that I’d still be sharing a bedroom with him in the house on Knot. Nor was I happy about having to change schools. In fact, I was pretty cross about it, as I recall. A new school meant making new friends, and I was never good at making friends.
This new school was named Green Village. Still is, I suppose. Green Village Elementary. My old school I could walk to, but I had to take the bus to get to Green Village. It was a long ride—I was the first one on the bus in the morning and the last one off in the afternoon. On the way home one day I fell asleep and the driver, not seeing me, took me all the way back to the bus garage. I had to wait there with an old woman who gave me pretzels and marveled at the curls in my hair until my dad could pick me up after work. He wasn’t pleased.
The neighborhoods around the school had nothing in common with mine. Green Village was like another dimension. I looked with interest at the big two-story houses and the bright manicured lawns, the tall hedges, as they slid past the bus window. There was no envy in my gaze then, only admiration—the sort of feeling you get when you take in a vivid sunset or watch a meteor shower.
I was self-conscious and embarrassed my first day of class, which was a full three months into the school year. I stood rigidly at the front of the room while the teacher, a Mrs. Emory, introduced me to my new peers.
“This is Gavin,” she told the class. “Say hello to Gavin.”
“Heelloo Gaaviin.”
I waved, pulling nervously at the strap of my backpack with my other hand. If there’s one thing that I can’t stand it’s the sensation of being looked at, and I couldn’t wait for her to stop talking and show me to my desk so that I could disappear for a while. When she finally did, I found myself next to a boy with neatly combed hair and Persian blue eyes. He wore a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt that, judging from the wrinkles in it, had been tucked into his jeans at some point that morning. His sneakers were new and clean. When I sat down, he stood up and said, “I’m William. Want to be friends?”
“OK.”
And so we were. It turned out that William was more or less the chief of the class—or of the boys of the class—which made me a sort of second-in-command. I took the position with pride. Wherever he went I went with him, whatever he did I did too, and whenever I said something the others looked to him before challenging me, as though to ask permission. If William changed his hairstyle, I copied it, and then the rest of the boys did the same. I even asked my mom if she would get me a polo shirt like the ones William wore. She told me to ask my dad. My dad said no.
During recess we played sports, usually football, and William and I picked the teams: all the strongest athletes on our side, everyone else on the other. The idea was to win by as wide a margin as possible. This went on until a disgruntled classmate brought it to the attention of Mrs. Emory, who chided William and me and forced us to play on opposing teams. By that point she’d split us up in the classroom too—William sat in the front row and I sat in the back. But it didn’t make much of a difference. She could never really separate us. That required something else.
“Can William come over sometime?” I asked my mom one night before dinner. Judy was a few months old by then and my mom was trying to make her stop crying, holding her, and bouncing her up and down and talking to her in a high-pitched voice. The living room was narrow and cluttered, with one small window that never seemed to let any light in.
She looked at me and said, “William from school?”
I nodded.
“Ask Dad when he gets home.”
“OK.”
I watched TV and waited. Judy cried and cried. Around six thirty my dad walked through the door in his work boots and his grease-stained clothes and, muttering to himself, took a can of beer from the fridge. He drank from it and belched. He was a prodigious belcher. During dinner that night my mom looked at me and gestured with her head to my dad.
“Dad?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Can William come over the house?”
He turned to my mom, then back to me. “Who’s William?”
“Oh, you know William,” my mom said. “He’s Gavin’s friend from school.”
“Oh, yeah,” my dad said, looking at me. “Of course. William. You wanta have him over, huh?”
“Can I?”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
My mom said, “Why don’t you invite him over this Saturday?”
We both looked at my dad to see his reaction. “A’right,” he said agreeably. “Tell him to come over on Saturday.”
“What time should he tell him to come?” My mom asked.
My dad furrowed his brow. My mom suggested noon and my dad nodded his head. “A’right.”
“Tell him to come at noon, Gavin,” my mom said.
“OK,” I said, containing my excitement.
The next day, I told William that my mom said he could come over the house the following Saturday. “At noon,” I said. His hair was flipped up in the front, as was mine, held in place by a thick coating of hairspray. I’d given him my address the day before, so all he had to do now was ask one of his parents to drive him over. Maybe I could get one of my parents to drive him back home. That way it would be fair.
William was drawing a picture of a hockey player in his notebook and he didn’t look up from it. I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I told him again that my mom said he was allowed to come over at noon on Saturday.
“I can’t,” he said, still drawing.
“Are you busy Saturday?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Sunday?”
“Can’t.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re busy?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to come over?”
Maintaining his focus on his drawing, he said without malice, “My dad said he doesn’t want me going to a slum.”
I didn’t know the word, but I didn’t need to. I walked over to my desk and sat down, and we didn’t speak for the rest of the day. When the bus dropped me at home that afternoon, I noticed for the first time that every piece of the sidewalk in front of our house was uneven and cracked. I saw, too, how small our front yard was, and that it was more dirt than grass. I’d been walking through the same rusted metal gate for five months but pushing it open on my way to the front door I found its screech to be unbearable, and kicked it shut as hard as I could.
Inside, Judy was crying loudly. I dropped my backpack on the floor and moved to the living room, where the wallpaper was stained with nicotine and the cushions on the sofa were caved in from overuse. It occurred to me then that the whole house smelled. I wondered if I smelled too. Moments later my mom walked into the room with Judy in her arms and Hubert on her heels.
“How was school?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you have a good day?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong, Gavin?”
“Nothing!” I snapped and stomped into my bedroom.
Hubert stomped after me, saying, “Gavin, what’s wrong, Gavin?” Judy cried and cried. I reached my bed and lay down on it. Hubert followed. “What’s wrong, Gavin?”
“Shut up!” I turned over and faced the bare wall, which was becoming blurry.
He said, “What’s wrong, Gavin?” and stood at the edge of the bed. When I felt his hand on my shoulder, I swung my arm behind me and, with a clenched fist, hit him square in the nose. His pratfall made a rattling thump. He began to cry. That made three of us.
This new school was named Green Village. Still is, I suppose. Green Village Elementary. My old school I could walk to, but I had to take the bus to get to Green Village. It was a long ride—I was the first one on the bus in the morning and the last one off in the afternoon. On the way home one day I fell asleep and the driver, not seeing me, took me all the way back to the bus garage. I had to wait there with an old woman who gave me pretzels and marveled at the curls in my hair until my dad could pick me up after work. He wasn’t pleased.
The neighborhoods around the school had nothing in common with mine. Green Village was like another dimension. I looked with interest at the big two-story houses and the bright manicured lawns, the tall hedges, as they slid past the bus window. There was no envy in my gaze then, only admiration—the sort of feeling you get when you take in a vivid sunset or watch a meteor shower.
I was self-conscious and embarrassed my first day of class, which was a full three months into the school year. I stood rigidly at the front of the room while the teacher, a Mrs. Emory, introduced me to my new peers.
“This is Gavin,” she told the class. “Say hello to Gavin.”
“Heelloo Gaaviin.”
I waved, pulling nervously at the strap of my backpack with my other hand. If there’s one thing that I can’t stand it’s the sensation of being looked at, and I couldn’t wait for her to stop talking and show me to my desk so that I could disappear for a while. When she finally did, I found myself next to a boy with neatly combed hair and Persian blue eyes. He wore a white Ralph Lauren polo shirt that, judging from the wrinkles in it, had been tucked into his jeans at some point that morning. His sneakers were new and clean. When I sat down, he stood up and said, “I’m William. Want to be friends?”
“OK.”
And so we were. It turned out that William was more or less the chief of the class—or of the boys of the class—which made me a sort of second-in-command. I took the position with pride. Wherever he went I went with him, whatever he did I did too, and whenever I said something the others looked to him before challenging me, as though to ask permission. If William changed his hairstyle, I copied it, and then the rest of the boys did the same. I even asked my mom if she would get me a polo shirt like the ones William wore. She told me to ask my dad. My dad said no.
During recess we played sports, usually football, and William and I picked the teams: all the strongest athletes on our side, everyone else on the other. The idea was to win by as wide a margin as possible. This went on until a disgruntled classmate brought it to the attention of Mrs. Emory, who chided William and me and forced us to play on opposing teams. By that point she’d split us up in the classroom too—William sat in the front row and I sat in the back. But it didn’t make much of a difference. She could never really separate us. That required something else.
“Can William come over sometime?” I asked my mom one night before dinner. Judy was a few months old by then and my mom was trying to make her stop crying, holding her, and bouncing her up and down and talking to her in a high-pitched voice. The living room was narrow and cluttered, with one small window that never seemed to let any light in.
She looked at me and said, “William from school?”
I nodded.
“Ask Dad when he gets home.”
“OK.”
I watched TV and waited. Judy cried and cried. Around six thirty my dad walked through the door in his work boots and his grease-stained clothes and, muttering to himself, took a can of beer from the fridge. He drank from it and belched. He was a prodigious belcher. During dinner that night my mom looked at me and gestured with her head to my dad.
“Dad?” I asked.
“Yes?”
“Can William come over the house?”
He turned to my mom, then back to me. “Who’s William?”
“Oh, you know William,” my mom said. “He’s Gavin’s friend from school.”
“Oh, yeah,” my dad said, looking at me. “Of course. William. You wanta have him over, huh?”
“Can I?”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
My mom said, “Why don’t you invite him over this Saturday?”
We both looked at my dad to see his reaction. “A’right,” he said agreeably. “Tell him to come over on Saturday.”
“What time should he tell him to come?” My mom asked.
My dad furrowed his brow. My mom suggested noon and my dad nodded his head. “A’right.”
“Tell him to come at noon, Gavin,” my mom said.
“OK,” I said, containing my excitement.
The next day, I told William that my mom said he could come over the house the following Saturday. “At noon,” I said. His hair was flipped up in the front, as was mine, held in place by a thick coating of hairspray. I’d given him my address the day before, so all he had to do now was ask one of his parents to drive him over. Maybe I could get one of my parents to drive him back home. That way it would be fair.
William was drawing a picture of a hockey player in his notebook and he didn’t look up from it. I thought he hadn’t heard me, so I told him again that my mom said he was allowed to come over at noon on Saturday.
“I can’t,” he said, still drawing.
“Are you busy Saturday?”
“Yeah.”
“What about Sunday?”
“Can’t.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re busy?”
“No.”
“You don’t want to come over?”
Maintaining his focus on his drawing, he said without malice, “My dad said he doesn’t want me going to a slum.”
I didn’t know the word, but I didn’t need to. I walked over to my desk and sat down, and we didn’t speak for the rest of the day. When the bus dropped me at home that afternoon, I noticed for the first time that every piece of the sidewalk in front of our house was uneven and cracked. I saw, too, how small our front yard was, and that it was more dirt than grass. I’d been walking through the same rusted metal gate for five months but pushing it open on my way to the front door I found its screech to be unbearable, and kicked it shut as hard as I could.
Inside, Judy was crying loudly. I dropped my backpack on the floor and moved to the living room, where the wallpaper was stained with nicotine and the cushions on the sofa were caved in from overuse. It occurred to me then that the whole house smelled. I wondered if I smelled too. Moments later my mom walked into the room with Judy in her arms and Hubert on her heels.
“How was school?” she said.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you have a good day?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s wrong, Gavin?”
“Nothing!” I snapped and stomped into my bedroom.
Hubert stomped after me, saying, “Gavin, what’s wrong, Gavin?” Judy cried and cried. I reached my bed and lay down on it. Hubert followed. “What’s wrong, Gavin?”
“Shut up!” I turned over and faced the bare wall, which was becoming blurry.
He said, “What’s wrong, Gavin?” and stood at the edge of the bed. When I felt his hand on my shoulder, I swung my arm behind me and, with a clenched fist, hit him square in the nose. His pratfall made a rattling thump. He began to cry. That made three of us.
Michael Howard’s essays and short stories have appeared in a variety of print and digital publications. Learn more at michaelwilliamhoward.com.