Pictures
By EB
©2007
"Dean? You forgot your picture."
Dean skids to a stop halfway out the door, trots back over to take the paper Miss Deleon holds out. "Thanks," he says breathlessly. "Gotta go."
She smiles at him. It's not the smile she uses in class, quick and nice, but warmer, a prettier smile. "In a hurry to go home and play?"
He shakes his head while he stuffs the paper into his backpack. "It's Sammy's first day of school. Promised him I'd be there when he got done."
"I didn't know you had a younger brother. I bet you're a good big brother, aren't you?"
"I guess." He backs up toward the door. "Hafta go."
"See you tomorrow, Dean. Don't forget your assignments."
"Okay, bye!"
The first-grade classes are down the hall and around to the left. He dodges little kids, and bigger ones, casts a quick smile at Lupita, who gives him a shy smile back, and then slows down, looking for Sammy's room. It's the last one in the hall, and none of the squirts he sees are his brother.
Dean peers into the classroom. Sammy's sitting at a desk in the back row, his backpack on the desk all closed and ready.
"Hey," Dean says happily. "Let's go!"
Sammy doesn't look up, just picks up his bag and climbs to his feet. Dean frowns, watching him trudge over, and when Dean holds out his hand Sammy takes it and sighs.
"What's a'matter?" Dean asks.
It's kinda weird, because Sammy was really excited to go to school like a big kid, but now he won't look at Dean, just keeps on staring at his shoes, and his hand clings so tight it almost hurts.
Sammy won't answer him. Dean says, "Okay, let's go," and pulls him to the doorway. Most of the other kids are gone, just a few left over, and Sammy doesn't say anything while Dean leads him to the front door and out on the sidewalk. It's a pretty day, hot but not too bad and it feels so good to get outside.
"You wanna talk about it?" he asks while they head for the crosswalk. Dean looks both ways, smiles at the crossing guard.
Sammy sniffs, and whispers, so quiet Dean can barely hear him, "No."
There's a park two blocks down. They go here from school a lot, but he's pretty sure Sammy's never been here. Their house is seven blocks the other direction, and there's another park closer to them, not as nice but easier to get to. Dean chews his lip, then decides maybe it'll be good for Sammy to get to know this park, too.
No kids on the playground yet. He takes Sammy over to the swingset and waits until he's sitting in one of the black seats, legs dangling. Then Dean shrugs off his backpack and drops it on the sand, and sits in the next swing.
"So how'd it go?" he asks, trailing the tips of his sneakers in the sand.
Now that he looks, Sammy's cried sometime not too long ago: his eyes are kinda red and puffy, and his nose is still runny. Dean watches Sammy wipe his hand under his nose and stare at his knees. "Didn't like it."
"Well, school kinda sucks, but –"
"They were mean."
Dean frowns. "Who was mean?"
Sammy looks at him, eyes all full of tears again. "All of 'em," he mumbles.
"The teacher, or the kids?"
"Yeah."
Dean considers, then says, "All of 'em, really?"
Sammy nods. "Well. Most of 'em."
"Did they say things to you? What'd they say?"
"Nothing. Just."
"When people say mean things to you, you gotta say mean things back. Didn't I tell you that already?"
Sammy goes back to staring down, shoulders drooping. "Don' wanna be mean," he whispers. "Not like them."
Dean climbs off the swing and sits on the ground, so he can see Sammy's face. "What'd they say? Tell me."
"Said we must be poor, cuz I didn't get any new clothes. And this one girl, she said I smell funny. And –"
"That's stupid," Dean says, and then feels bad because Sammy's face gets all squinched up like when he's about to cry for real. "Not you. Them. They're stupid. Okay?"
"Don't smell funny," Sammy mumbles. His nose is really runny now, and Dean digs a snotrag out of his pocket and hands it over, even though Sammy usually just wipes it all over and doesn't really do a good job yet.
"That's just kids being dumb," Dean says. "Used to say stuff like that to me all the time."
"No, they didn't." Sammy's tears spill over. "Nobody ever said stuff like that to you. You'd 'a told me that."
"No, they did. Honest. But see, kids are just jerks sometimes, okay? It doesn't make them right. You know?"
Sammy hands the snotrag back and narrows his eyes a little. At least he isn't crying right now. "But I don't have new clothes. Are you s'posed to have new clothes for school, Dean?"
Dean ponders. "I dunno, yeah. But it's no big deal. Clothes are just clothes. Yours are just like mine, right?"
"I don't want them to make fun of me," Sammy says after a moment of quiet. He looks away, over Dean's head, his face all thinking. "I just wanna be like everybody else."
Dean sits back on his heels. "Well, I don't," he declares. "You wanna be like them, and all stuck-up and stuff? Why'd you wanna be like them? Be like me instead."
"But you're Dean," Sammy says, with a little shrug. "I can't be like you."
"Why not? Listen." Dean leans closer, keeps his voice real low like when it's late and he's telling Sammy a story and doesn't want Dad to hear. "You just -- You gotta think like you either believe what those mean kids are saying, or you don't. You believe 'em?"
"No," Sammy says.
"Then fine. Then you either don't let it bug you, or you do what I do."
"What do you do?"
Sammy watches him, and he grins. "You make 'em eat their words," he announces, and bunches up his fists.
Sammy makes a face. "Don' wanna fight."
"So don't pay any attention to them then."
"Just don't want them to say stuff like that. It doesn't feel good."
"No," Dean agrees. "Doesn't." He climbs back on the swing and arches his back, pushing off and swinging back and forth. "And if anybody makes you feel bad you just tell me, and I'll do the fighting. Okay? They won't keep messing with you, I promise."
"Don' want you to fight either."
"Tough. Sometimes you gotta, Sammy, that's the way it is." Dean swings way back, and flings himself out of the swing, flopping down in the sand. Grinning, he brushes off his jeans and says, "Come on, Sammy. We can get ice cream on the way home."
Sammy climbs down and waits while Dean puts his backpack on, then puts his hand back in Dean's. "My teacher's kinda nice," he says after a while, shoulder brushing against Dean's arm.
"Yeah? Is she pretty?"
"Not really pretty. But she's nice."
"If she's mean you tell Dad. If the kids are mean, tell me. We'll fix it, see?"
"Kay. I made a picture. Wanna see?"
"When we get home. I made one, too."
"Made this one for you."
Dean looks down at him and grins. "Yeah, me too," he says softly, and squeezes Sammy's hand.
END