Wayne entered my fifth grade class midway through the year. He was a tiny boy, with a squeaky voice and a little brown vest over his white shirt. We all wore the same colors, as uniforms in catholic schools dictate. Our colors were the hues of shit and milk, and I hated the brown, despised it. Wayne was a timid boy, with pale skin and mousy hair. He told the story of his childhood with an easy calm, you see, he was a boy in a bubble who had just been released. I never doubted his story for a moment, choosing instead to believe the tale of a boy so sick that the doctors just had to build him a bubble to keep him safe from the elements.
It was soon after he entered the class that we were given a test in Religion. Sitting directly across from me was little Wayne, and as I started in on the questions he leaned across and whispered to me, “What are the two testaments of the bible called?” I thought that he was kidding, I mean, that was the no-brainer question on the test, so looking up and seeing the teacher writing on the blackboard I whispered back, “The first testament and the second testament.” Later in the day, much to my surprise, the tests were returned and I saw that he had written that answer down. I felt guilty. His paper lay in front of him on his desk, an assault of red ink. He had gotten every question wrong.
I confronted him on the playground and he explained that there hadn’t been a lot of bible study in the bubble. Of course, it made sense, and I ran off to play. I saw him trying to play with the other boys. Pop balls in kickball almost knocked him down. He couldn’t catch, he couldn’t throw. He tripped trying to kick the ball. I went and retrieved him. The school rule during recess was that all students had to be involved in movement of the proper kind, i.e. an organized game. I had learned years before to hide my lack of ability for any game involving a ball by playing hopscotch. And so it would be, Wayne would play hopscotch with me twice a day at recess so that we wouldn’t meet the more uncomfortable fate of being pulled by the ear into the office to be paddled by the big shoe. I’d had a few memorable run-ins with the shoe myself; the shoe was a combination of Mr. Rogers (in style) and Shaquille O’Neal (in size). Your underwear was lowered to your ankles as you were placed across the lap of the principal for the spanking. To add to the humiliation, all of the people that worked in the office would stay and watch, and if there happened to be a janitor or a parent or teachers in there too, well what the hell, they were invited too.
Throughout the two weeks that followed I defended Wayne against the schoolyard bullies. I tried to teach him the rules of the school that were necessary for our survival, namely, shut up unless the teacher calls on you and eat every bite of your lunch no matter what because nothing but the empty milk carton was allowed to be thrown away. Still the F’s were handed to him on a daily basis and he fidgeted a lot during class, tapping his pencil on the desk as the teacher talked, and making little squeaking noises as if there were a little mouse inside of him that just couldn’t be quiet.
In the cafeteria one day I met Wayne’s mother. She was volunteering as a lunchroom monitor and as she passed me sitting with her son she whispered, “I don’t know what I am supposed to do.” And I told her, “You are supposed to make sure we eat everything on our trays.” She smiled at me and I noticed that she was wearing the same little brown vest that Wayne wore sometimes, and I marveled at how tiny she was, to be able to share Wayne’s clothes. I wanted to ask her about the bubble that had been her son’s home for so long, but I thought better of it. The principal watched the whole group of us eating and anyone who got caught talking took recess away from the whole group of kids. While I hated recess myself and would have gladly sat in the classroom with my nose in a book, this didn’t make one popular with the rest of the kids so I tried to resist the urge to speak.
One morning I entered the classroom as always and saw the desk across from me empty. The teacher started the day by telling us that Wayne had been moved to the fourth grade, as he was unable to manage the fifth grade work. I was shocked, having never seen this happen before, even to the boy in my class that could barely read one sentence, let alone a book.
Later that day, I was in line waiting for the teacher to march us to the toilets for our two-minute pee break. I saw Wayne in his line waiting to be marched somewhere else. I gave him a big wave reminiscent of Ronald McDonald, and he returned my greeting with a wave consisting of only moving the tips of his fingertips. I felt sorry for him, but he was also out of my reach now, as our schedules differed to the point where I couldn’t be much help to him. The weeks that passed saw Wayne moved to the third grade, and then finally he disappeared from the school all together.
Sometimes I wonder about my little friend Wayne, the boy who cam from a bubble, real or imagined, who touched my heart and made me smile.