He sits, a spot of violent aqua and orange on the angled pavement. Thumbing an electronic game, he avoids my eyes as I approach. Click. Click. Uneasy glance. Click. As I ask him for an interview, his eyes dart everywhere except my face.
“Uh…okay,” He says, fumbling the gameboy into his pocket. His soft voice shocks me; I assumed it would be as loud as his neon shirt. The delicate sound is almost lost in the howling spring wind. “It’s Josh,” he mumbles. I move my eyes from his punky attire to his face. Acne-smeared cheeks. Blurry blue eyes. Chapped lips. No hint of man peeks out from this fifteen-year old boy’s face.
Josh and I are the only ones in the empty skate park. He’s been coming here since he can remember, having grown up in Forest Grove. The cement ravines surround us as he laments his hometown’s lack of excitement. Yet Josh does not long for the seductive clamor of city streets. “I’d rather be in the country... Outside… Away from a lot of people.” He rubs the side of his face and fidgets with a waterbottle. “I like being in the woods— the middle of nowhere.” If he could wake up anywhere, he wouldn’t choose New York or San Francisco. He would pick “Montana.” Why? “There are a lot of animals there.”
His quiet voice intensifies as he tells me what he hates most. “Teachers and I don’t get along. Our grades are 90% tests and I can’t pass them.” The water bottle cracks like knuckles as he twists it. “I’d rather work or do something outside.” I imagine myself in his scuffed Nike shoes: an introverted young boy at the most awkward stage of life, pining to be outdoors instead of struggling with exams. He describes himself as “easy to get along with,” and I wonder why he is here alone.
When I ask about the best part of his week, his lips almost rise into a smile. “I met one of my little brother’s friends. He didn’t act like a little kid. More— mature.” He squirms uncomfortably and will not give me an example of this mysterious child’s actions or words. My mind is left pulsing with ideas. What did this boy see in a younger boy that he would describe as “mature”?
I thanked Josh for his time, sentiments he returned with a clunky shrug.
Sprinting away from the island of cement ramps, I almost felt like I was wading through a field of rye.
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As usual, the details in your story are what makes it for me. Really excellent incorporation of his answers to paint a robust word-portrait of the kid, too.
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