twenty-something

He can't remember if the sink was inside or out of the tiny room with the toilet, but other than that, the bathroom is probably his most vivid memory of the fifth grade. He was ten years old when it all started. At that age, hand washing wasn't required etiquette, so the sinks never became part of his memory. He does remember the day everything started. He remembers Riley.

He sat on the toilet, the seat down and his pants on, crying. He was uncomfortable in his stiff new clothes. It was the first day of school, and he was the traumatized new kid.

There was a knock on the door. "Everything OK, Patrick, buddy?"

Patrick wiped his tears and nose on his sleeve, then dutifully opened the door. There stood Mr. Cross. He was the strange man who, in the classroom, sat in a red director's chair that was embroidered with his name, in a beautiful cursive font. He was the strange man who reminded Patrick strongly of someone named Charles Nelson Reilly, whom he'd seen only on Hollywood Squares. He was supposed to be the fifth grade teacher.

Patrick was composed, a grin on his face. He was just thrilled to be at Weathersfield Middle School! "I'm fine," he managed to spit out and slammed the door shut, before his face could betray me. He looked down at his shiny new sneakers and began to sob again.

After a few more minutes, he slowly managed to compose himself and left the bathroom. Outside, the classroom was overwhelming, busy with students greeting each other after a long summer vacation. He took his seat and stared down at the brand new red knapsack on his lap.

Just then, Mr. Cross told Patrick to put my backpack in his locker. Locker? The concept was entirely foreign to him, something he'd never encountered in the fourth grade, at his old school. Mr. Cross just handed him the number and combination on a tiny slip of yellow paper and, confused, Patrick left the classroom.

In the hall, he struggled with the locker when Riley appeared. He was a small, somewhat effeminate boy who Patrick always seem to remember wearing a bowtie on the first day of school. It's like the sinks; he can never quite recall for sure.

"Hi," Riley said.

"Hi."

"Mr. Cross send me out," he said, disinterested. "Do you need help?" He didn't wait for an answer. The small, somewhat effeminate boy who might have been wearing a bowtie took the combination from Patrick's hand and easily opened the locker. He was a perfect gentleman, and not in the least bit interested in me.

Patrick immediately wanted to be his best friend, and Riley immediately wanted nothing to do with him. So Patrick did what any self-respecting new kid would do. He ran into the bathroom and cried again.