Robert is a Strange Man.

Bobby N.

     Bobby N. is a strange boy. There is just something unsettling about the kid, all the teachers could agree. You know that feeling of entering an empty gas station at 3:00 a.m. in the morning? The one where you walk in, cant smell anything past the intoxicating aroma of fuel, cant hear anything more than the buzz of refrigerators desperately keeping the Mountain Dew cold, cant understand anything past the sentence of 'where is the bathroom?'.

     Not really? How about the one where you lay in bed, sweating  unashamed as you work through your fever. Your skin feels dewy and hot, yet no matter how much you blast the fan you cannot get this itchy feeling to rub off. Your eyes feel swollen and they keep drooping in exhaustion, yet when you close them all you can feel is a headache that bounces around in your head like a Roomba™.

     Still nothing? Fine, does sitting in a closet for hide and seek ring any bells? You know, when you were but a child, sitting uncomfortably in the wooden furniture, your legs cramped and toes pressed hard against the edge. It was cool, for a bit, inside this little compartment, but now your chest wont expand all the way, your eyes are straining against the darkness, and your hair kept sneaking into your mouth, scared as well from the surrounding black.

     Now imagine these feelings, these phenomenons all bundled up into a body of a short 7 year old with the added sensation of "god, you are  just a child" and maybe you too could understand the strangeness of Bobby N.

     Mrs. Garcia could remember a lot of things, something she was very grateful for when it came to memorising lessons or the medication plans of each student - however when it came to her memories of Bobby N., she wished for a glass of bourbon and an extra week of vacation. 

     His eyes unsettled her, no reason to be so stilted for its brown shade. They were small and beady, too far apart from his nose, like two marbles rolling across his face. His hair was long, but barely brushed his narrow shoulders in an annoying haircut (annoying like the feeling of a thin blanket just touching your body), and she could never tell whether it was grease or hair gel that made it shine. 

     She could go on, from head to shoulders to knees and toes, naming every single thing about the young boy that made her skin itch, except whenever she did - rightly so - she felt like an asshole. She was a second grade teacher, yet here she was judging and discriminating a boy for his appearance like some sort of judge who's opinion somehow mattered in the span of things. And so, she simply gave him his candy cane and wished him a Merry Christmas.

     Mr. Jones had no such feelings holding him back. He would watch the child settle into the seat in the back, two place away from the far right (as he always did) and sneered with distrust at the kid. Bobby N. always completed his work, except for the second to last question, Bobby N. with a last name that contained a full stop, Bobby N. that ate bread - just bread - at recess and nothing at lunch. Bobby N. that always wore uneven socks, Bobby N. that could produce an essay worthy 3 grades above his own but had trouble spelling the word 'Friends', Bobby N. that wrote with both hands at once. Mr Jones had no issue with ranting about the boy, and could go on for hours - as his wife will be able to attest to. 

     The name 'Bobby N.' always brought a reaction, one of either apprehension or guilt, and none the wiser than his own mother.

     She would watch her child toddle around (there were no other words to describe his walk) and wonder where she had gone wrong. She wondered, perhaps, if the breast milk she gave him as a child was actually 2% fat. She wondered if the bump on his head he got when he was two was actually a tumour that mysteriously vanished. She wondered if, when he first went trick or treating, someone had injected his candy with some sort of poison that caused Bobby N. to slowly got mad. Unable to answer her endless questions, she sighed and packed 2 pieces of plain white bread into his Captain America lunch box. (She had tried, once, to put butter on the slices, only for the plastic bag in came in to come back smothered with butter and a happy boy eating his plain bread.)

     And yet, dear reader, you may ask, what is Bobby N.'s opinion on Bobby N.? Why its none to complicated, if existent at all. He has never been interested in mirrors, in self reflection, in actually thinking past surface thoughts. Its a miracle he notices anything in life, instead does what is told, does what he thinks, and has no regret or accomplishment for his actions. He simply is. He understand he wants to get to an end goal, understands the action needed to get there, and does said action to receive said goal. This train of thought passes through his head near daily, like a conveyor belt of brain processes, and on the rare occasion where this train is disrupted - he tries again. 

     He does not think outside the box, instead focuses on the very centre others tend to dance around. 

     He was an unsettling, however an arguably normal boy.

     This does not stop his mother when she decides to enrol him in his first therapist session.