Hey Robbie

A Perfect Day

The sun is warm on my face, the kind of warmth that reminds you of being a kid. I'm standing in the park, hands tucked into my jacket pockets, watching the way the wind stirs the trees. The air smells clean, and somewhere nearby, children's laughter carries on the breeze. Days like this always take me back. Back to when I was ten. Back to fifth grade. Back to Robbie.

Funny how some people never really leave you, even decades later.

It was the first day of school, and the yard in front of our elementary school was buzzing with life. Kids laughed and shouted, their backpacks bouncing on their shoulders as they darted between friends. It was like this every year—a chaotic, noisy ritual that felt both comforting and overwhelming. I stood off to the side, watching the others, trying to stay unnoticed.

And then I saw him.

Robbie wasn't tall. In fact, he was smaller than most of the kids in our grade, though he was a year older. His wiry frame gave him this wiry energy, like he was always on the edge of springing into action. But what struck me most wasn't his size—it was the way he moved, like the crowd didn't faze him at all. Kids stepped aside as he walked past. Teachers smiled and waved at him like they knew something about him we didn't. He seemed like someone who had his own set of rules.

At the time, I didn't know much about him, just that he was Robbie. And by the end of that first day, he changed everything.

Mrs. Thompson, my fifth-grade teacher, was the kind of woman who made you sit up straight without ever raising her voice. She clapped her hands once and got the class's attention.

"Before we begin," she said, scanning the room, "I need a volunteer to help Robbie this year."

I remember being confused. Help him? With what? I glanced toward the back of the room, where Robbie sat slouched in his chair, completely at ease. Around me, hands shot up. Kids loved volunteering for things, though I wasn't usually one of them. But for some reason—curiosity, instinct, who knows—I raised my hand.

Robbie looked around, then pointed straight at me with a grin. "Him."

My stomach flipped. I wasn't sure whether to feel proud or singled out, but when Mrs. Thompson nodded and smiled at me, there was no backing out.

Robbie didn't waste time with introductions. That first day, as I trailed behind him through the hallways, he glanced over his shoulder and said, "I'm Robbie."

"Patrick," I replied.

He nodded, satisfied. "We're going to the clinic first. I gotta take my medicine."

"Medicine? For what?"

"Doesn't matter," he said with a shrug. "After that, snacks."

"Snacks? Who gives you snacks?"

"Everyone," he said, grinning. "But Ms. Pat's got the best stuff."

At the clinic, the nurse greeted him like an old friend. "Hey, Robbie! My favorite patient."

He hopped onto the exam table, swinging his legs like it was no big deal. Ms. Pat handed him two large capsules and a cup of Hawaiian Punch. Robbie tore the capsules open, dumped the powder onto his tongue, and chased it down with the punch.

I stared, baffled. "Why do you do it like that?"

"The pills are huge," he said, grinning. "And I get Hawaiian Punch every time. Pretty good deal, huh?"

I didn't know what to say. There was something strange about it all, but Robbie acted like it was the most normal thing in the world. So I let it go.

Over the weeks, I learned Robbie had his own way of doing things. Every day, we'd leave class together, roaming the hallways or sitting under the trees at recess. He wasn't like anyone I'd ever met. He'd make up stories about sneaking onto rooftops or pulling pranks on teachers, and even though I knew half of them weren't true, I couldn't help but get caught up in his energy.

"You're fast," he told me one day after watching me play football at recess. "Like, really fast."

I shrugged. "It's not a big deal."

"It is," he said, his face serious for once. "Don't act like it's not."

Robbie never talked about himself, though. Not really. He told funny stories and made jokes, but he avoided anything personal. Still, I noticed things. The way he leaned against walls when he thought no one was looking. How he slowed down toward the end of the day. I wanted to ask if he was okay, but I never did. Robbie wasn't the kind of person who wanted to be asked.

As the school year wore on, Robbie started to change. He wasn't as energetic. He still smiled, still told stories, but there was a tiredness to him I couldn't ignore.

One day, as we sat under the shade of the trees, I asked him something I'd been thinking about for weeks. "Hey, Robbie. Do you want to hang out this summer? I could give you my number."

He froze for a moment. It was subtle, but I saw it—the hesitation. When he looked at me, his grin was smaller, quieter. "Maybe," he said softly. "I'll have to ask my parents."

"You sure? We could go to the park or something."

He nodded, but his eyes didn't meet mine. "Yeah. That'd be cool."

I didn't understand it at the time. I thought he just didn't know how to say no. But looking back, I think he knew. He knew he wasn't going to make it to summer.

A few weeks into summer break, my mom knocked on my bedroom door. "Patrick? Did you know a boy named Robert Schwebes?"

I paused my game, frowning. "No. Who's that?"

Her voice softened. "A boy from your school passed away. I thought you might've known him."

The name didn't register at first. And then it hit me. Robbie. His name was Robert.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the screen. I hadn't even known his real name. It wasn't until sixth grade started, and he wasn't there, that it really sank in. He was gone. Forever.

Now, standing in this park, years later, I think about him. I'm 40 now, but on days like this—when the sun is shining, the air is warm, and the world feels impossibly perfect—he crosses my mind.

"Hey, Robbie," I murmur, my voice lost in the breeze. "Hope you're still bending the rules wherever you are."

The wind picks up, rustling the trees, and for a moment, I feel like he's here. Smiling, running circles around everyone like he always did.

And just like that, he's gone again. But not really.