By Kayleigh Shoen
Tonight I thought about Hoodle. That strange kid from high school, who emanated such brokenness that even the bullies were put off. The worst they would attempt was a taunt from the other end of the hall. “Hoodle,” for the rasp when he breathed, the result of a childhood surgery improperly healed.
I remember that strangled sigh by my ear in Sex-Ed. It was only class I took without the protective gang of high achievers who had been my peers since 6th grade. But there was no AP track for Sex-ed, and if there had been I wouldn’t have been on it. So I was dropped into a class of strangers living a parallel life to mine; one without National Honor Society, SAT prep, or marching band practice.
In this class of strangers Hoodle was the strangest. He was a shy ghost in the desk behind me, who never spoke or raised his hand to answer a question. The other students seemed to know each-other, trading elaborate handshakes and lyrics from songs I didn’t recognize. But Hoodle never spoke. He never seemed to move at all until the day I felt him take my hair in his hand, part it in three sections and weave them together in a long, smooth plait.
I remember the goosebumps on my neck. The horror and the thrill of being chosen. As if he was a feral cat who’d come to sit on my lap, instead of a person. The flush of dread that our classmates would notice and my fate would be tied to his.
I didn’t even know his real name. I’d learn it months later, when I saw it in the newspaper beside the photos of his burnt apartment building. I remember how young his sisters looked in their pictures, with delicate bows at the end of their pigtails. The newspaper printed their school pictures, as if those were the only ones taken of them. Maybe all the other photos had burned.
After 25 years I thought of him tonight. The night air blew in from the window, carrying the coolness from another place, and I caught the smell of smoke from the neighbor’s fire pit. Maybe nobody gets to middle age without a few ghosts. Though I’ve avoided high school reunions, and haven’t checked social media in years, for a moment, he was with me.
In the darkness, I heard the sound of a yearning owl, leaves crunching under spectral feet. Once more I felt those bony fingers at my neck. I rose to close the window, but stopped when I heard his lonesome breath again.
Kayleigh Shoen is a Boston-based flash writer and teacher. She holds an MFA from Emerson College. Her stories have appeared in XRAY, Barrelhouse, Milk Candy Review and elsewhere. Her website is www.KayleighShoen.com.
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