He bought it. Nobody really cared what his actual name was; everyone just called him "Dummy."
So, every morning at school, Dummy's first task was to hand over his allowance, making sure these self-proclaimed "big shots" were content. He couldn't stand wasting anything. Even if his sandwiches and snacks were stomped into the dirt, he'd still clean them off and eat them, heading home with footprints all over his clothes.
His grandma was getting on in years. She would gather extra recyclables to sell just to give him a little more pocket money, hoping to make his life a bit better. How do I know this? I once crossed paths with his grandma while collecting recyclables myself. She was a kind old lady with gentle eyes, much like Dummy.
But kindness often attracts bullies. I could barely fend for myself, so all I could do was yell, "The principal's coming!" whenever they dragged him into the boys' restroom. I didn’t call for a teacher? Because they just didn't care.
When his clothes were covered in footprints, I'd help brush off the dirt to make it less obvious by the time he got home. After school in winter, I'd tidy up the classroom so he could leave early. It got dark quickly, and his grandma would worry.
He was different from me. No one was waiting for me at home, but there was always a light on for him. Kids without a place to call home don't look forward to going back.
Over time, I realized he wasn't as clueless as they thought. His name was Angie—a rather lovely name. He knew who treated him well and who didn't.
Comments
The readers' comments on the novel: Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows