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When Nick was six years old, he met a boy who was sitting on the swings by himself. Nick was new at school and didn’t know anyone. He was wary of the other kids because they were loud and got finger paint on everything, and Nickhatedfinger painting.
There were two sets of swings. One looked brand new and everyone was shouting around it, taking turns, and the chains squeaked to the point where it sounded like they were screaming. Nick wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.
There was another set of swings toward the rear of the playground. These swings were ancient. The seats were made of cracked plastic, and the chains looked like they belonged in a castle dungeon. But it was quiet, and it helped Nick’s head to clear and gave him a moment to think since no one ever used those swings.
Except on this day, there was another kid there, sitting on one of the swings, the tips of his shoes barely scraping the ground. He was chubby, and he wore a sweater and khakis. He was eating from a pudding cup. For a brief second, Nick thought about trying to find somewhere else to make his head stop spinning.
But then the boy looked up at him, and he had a smear of chocolate on his upper lip that resembled a sticky mustache, so Nick said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” the boy said quietly.
Nick had never introduced himself to anyone before. He’d always had his mom or dad there to do it for him. But they weren’t here now, and Mom said he had to be brave like Wonder Woman and Thor, and so he squared his shoulders and said, “My name is Nicholas Bell. It’s very nice to meet you.”
The boy stared at him.
Nick frowned, unsure if he’d gotten it wrong. He’d thought it had sounded just like Mom and Dad did when they said it, but the boy was looking at him like he was speaking another language entirely.
“Um,” Nick said. “So.”
The boy looked behind him. Nick did too. There was no one there.
The boy turned back around. “Are you talking to me?” he asked in a small voice.
Nick nodded. “I think so.”
“Okay. I’m Seth. Seth Gray.”
It was a nice name. Nick kicked at the dirt. “Those other kids were loud.”
“I know. S’why I’m over here.”
Nick felt relieved at that. “I don’t like loud kids.”
“Me either.”
“Or finger painting.”
The kid made a face. “It getseverywhere.”
“Right? S’not cool.”
“Not cool,” the kid echoed.
“Can I swing with you?” Nick asked nervously. He thought it was going well, but one couldn’t be too sure about such things.
The boy nodded, licking his pudding mustache away.
“Awesome,” Nick said.
“Yeah,” the boy said, watching Nick climb onto the swing. “Awesome.”
Nick tried to start swinging, but he wasn’t very good at it yet. Mom said he’d get there, but it would take practice. He gave up after a few seconds.
“I can’t swing either,” the boy said.
“It’s hard,” Nick agreed. “My dad is a policeman, and he says that he couldn’t swing until he was, like, eight or something.”
