My phone rings. I catch only a glimpse but enough to see who it is. Mom. Ugh, I bet she wants to use the car. Doesn’t she understand that a teenager like me needs it more than her?
My assumption checks out when I receive the text from her, saying, “Need the car. Come home now.”
“Who was that, Kate?” Tracy, a friend of mine, asks.
“Mom,” I groan, half sighing. “She’s using the car. I think I have to go now.”
Grabbing the keys on the dresser, I mutter some curses before leaving Tracy’s house. I have only been there for a short time, and now mom wants me to go home. Why can’t she let me be happy for at least a moment?
“One day I will have my own car and she won’t be able to tell me when to use it,” I grumble angrily as I slide to the driver seat.
The car starts to move on the damp road. While driving, I look around, admiring the view. I love this part of town. It is all green along the way, unlike the crowded midtown. There are only the trees, the road and me. Peace.
Suddenly I see something—a figure—on the roadside. After driving a few meters ahead, I realize that the figure is a little child, standing alone. He is staring up at the dark grey sky and he is rubbing his eyes, which can only mean that he is crying.
Strangely, instead of driving away, I stop my car across the little boy. It seems like there is something that encourages me to find out more about the kid. I roll the window down to get a better look. He doesn’t look like a homeless child. He is dressed well, not torn nor dirty. But there is no one around the area. Then what is he doing here?
I can also tell that he has blue eyes when his head turns with the help of light reflection. Those blue eyes show a very deep sadness. Grief. Despair. Any word for it. Looking at him in this state, especially his eyes, I feel like crying too. I do not know his name. Physically, there is nothing particularly interesting from him. If you take a quick look, he just looks like another random crying kid—most probably because the parents leave them alone or the child is pleading for something.
I don’t know, maybe it’s the eyes. Although come to think of it, there is nothing so special about them. Blue is not my favorite color, black is. I am so used with the eye color. Tracy has blue eyes and so does thousands and millions of people in the world. Or could it be that I’m just feeling sorry for the boy? Well that’d be weird, because I am not the kind of person to care for such things.
I continue on staring. He hasn’t stopped crying. I really want to hold his hand, to pat his shoulder and cheer him up. But who am I to him? It will look bizarre, for a Kate, the girl who typically enjoys bullying other kids to suddenly care about some unknown random kid crying in the middle of nowhere. Or maybe even worse, people will think that I am the one who make him cry.
As my brain tries to decide whether to approach the kid or to leave him be, my conscience—or my heart, whatever— aches seeing him crying. My conscience is telling me to do something, but my brain (which by the way, I am sure is sick) forces me to stay put.
I am still arguing with myself about this when my phone rings again. I take a brief look at the screen. Mom, which means I have to go now. She must have been waiting for me. I glance at my watch, only to realize that I am so late. I have been taking too much time observing the boy that I neglect to remind myself of the time.
I start the engine and drive away. I’m sorry, blue-eyed boy. I can’t help you. I really am so sorry. Guilt floods my chest. I hope we get to meet again, some day.
***
Ever since the day I change a lot. At least, that’s what my friends say. I can feel it too, but I don’t think it’s a bad kind of change. Apparently, that isn’t how my friends see it. To them it’s bad. Real bad.
