Page 21 of Courageous Hearts

Damian looks at me in surprise.

I shrug. “It’s true. I was mean, lashin’ out ’cause I didn’t want anyone seein’ how different I was.”

“You don’t seem like a bully,” he finally says.

“Not anymore, no. I didn’t like bein’ that person,” I readily admit. Damian is quiet, so eventually, I ask, “Are there any bullies at your school?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Do they ever bother you?”

“No,” he says with a scoff. “I’m too big. But…they pick on my friend, and I don’t like it. How do I…” He falls silent.

“How d’you what?” I prompt.

“How do I stop it?” he asks, looking over at me.

“Not with violence,” I say.

Damian shakes his head quickly. “No, I know. I don’t wanna get in fights. I can’t disappoint my mom.”

I smile at that. Damian seems like a good kid.

“You do it with courage,” I tell him.

“What do you mean?” he asks, worrying the hem of his jeans.

“It’s easy to stand by and stay out of the fight when it’s not happenin’ to you,” I say. “But it takes courage to act. To follow through on what’s in your heart, even in the face of adversity.”

“But you said not to fight,” he says with a frown.

I nod. “I did. But you don’t have to stand up for your friend with your fists. Support him. Stand with him. Find others like you who are willin’ to band together. Bullies aren’t gonna fight numbers.”

Damian seems to mull that over for a minute, and then he nods. “I do like to draw,” he answers at last.

“Yeah?” I say with a smile. “Wanna show me somethin’?”

Damian grabs his sketchbook, and the rest of our time together flies as he shows me the drawings he’s done of the streets around his house. Of neighbors sitting on stoops and pigeons plucking crumbs off the ground. It’s clear Damian is an observant kid, and I have no doubt after our short first meeting that we’re going to get along just fine.

When Damian’s mother thanks me after our time is up, her eyes are a little glassy. “He’s such a good boy,” she says, her gaze swinging to her son, who’s standing nearby, kicking at a tuft of weeds at the edge of the sidewalk. “But he’s had trouble opening up to adults ever since his dad passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I tell her softly.

“It’s been four years,” she says, giving me a wan smile. “But he was talking to you today. That’s good.”

“It is,” I agree, looking at the teen, who seems to be immersed in the ground at his feet. “Your son seems very compassionate. I’m glad I have a chance to get to know him.”

“You’re too kind,” she says vehemently. “Thank you for doing this.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I reply. And my penance—a welcome one. “I’ll give you a call to discuss our next meeting?”

She nods quickly. “Yes, please. We’ll see you soon.”

Turning, I give Damian a parting wave. “I’ll see ya later, Damian.”

He lifts his hand in a semblance of a wave before scuffing his toe against some more weeds. With a final smile at his mother, I turn toward home.

It’s a long way to my apartment, but soon enough, the air will be too cool for leisurely strolling, so I take my time and walk instead of hopping on the train. I use the trip home to think about my own past and what I was like at fifteen. Definitely not as calm and controlled as Damian, that’s for sure.

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