I write stories too, he said, looking left and right.
Great, I said. It’s wonderful that you write.
I wanted to know something, he said, looking left and right again.
Yes?
But let’s keep walking, he said. I can ask you while we walk.
I thought it was a bit strange, his insistence that we keep walking. But I couldn’t find a reason to refuse. So we began to walk again, I taking long steps in my black leather shoes, and he taking small ones in his dirty white sneakers, trying to keep as close to me as he could.
So what do you want to know? I asked when I saw that he was silent again.
I wanted to ask, he said, how to create the end of a story. I mean, there are a lot of beginnings in the stories I write…but I never manage to end them.
What’s your name?
Yehuda.
Look, Yehuda. There are several kinds of endings, I told him. And the end is really very important, because it gives meaning to the story, and that’s why endings are so hard. They’re hard for everyone who writes, not only for you. I talked and talked, very passionately, until I realized he wasn’t listening. His eyes were searching frantically for something I couldn’t see.
I stopped talking.
We kept walking down the long path from the school gate to the parking lot. Tall bushes grew wild on both sides of the path. Suddenly a vague sense ran through me, like chills, that someone was watching us through them, but I dismissed it.
Tell me, Yehuda asked quickly, as if he were trying to get rid of the words, when you write, do you decide on the subject of the story in advance?
My suspicion, that he wasn’t really interested in a reply, grew stronger. That question had already been asked during the meeting with the students, so why was he asking it again? I answered anyway. On the slim chance that it really was important to him. I told him that in stories, as opposed to essays, there is no real subject, it’s more like a question that preoccupies the writer, and sometimes, while he’s writing, that question turns into a different question, and he doesn’t usually get answers.
Yehuda didn’t even bother to mumble ah-ha. Or nod. He just didn’t listen. His eyes were focused on the bushes, and then on the large dumpster we were passing.
We kept walking in silence. His shoelaces became untied, but he didn’t stop to retie them. His shoulders were hunched, his hands clenched into fists, and he bit his lower lip hard. As if he’s preparing for something, I thought.
When we reached the car, he stopped and said—avoiding my eyes—Thank you.
You’re welcome, I said, and before he started to leave, I said: Wait.
He put his hands on his hips. And his gaze on his shoes.
Now I have a question, I said.
A question? His thick eyebrows rose in puzzlement.
Yes. I want you to explain why you walked with me. You’re not really interested in my answers, so why did you ask all those questions?
No reason, he said.
I don’t think it was for no reason.
You don’t want to know.
But I do, I said. And thought that there was something too knowing about the phrase “You don’t want to know.” Too bitter for a boy.
They…bully me, he said quickly.
Who?
A gang of kids. From the ninth grade. They wait for me in the bushes. Every day after school, he said. I remembered our walk and his frantic eyes.
Are you the only one they bully?
Yes.
What do they want from you?
I don’t know. Once, at recess, I looked at one of them and he told me not to look at him like a faggot, and that’s when it started.
What do they do to you?
They drag me into the bushes and hit me.
And what do you do?
At first, I tried to hit them back, but now I lie on the ground and wait for them to get tired of it.
I leaned on the car and took a deep, heavy breath. I surveyed the bushes in the hope of seeing one of the bullies. Those chickenshits. Taking advantage of someone weaker than them. I could feel my anger rising, and I clenched my fists.
Tell me, does your dad know about this?
My dad doesn’t live with us.
And your mom? She can’t come to pick you up?
She works.
Do you have older brothers?
I’m the oldest.
And the principal, she knows the whole story?
Yehuda looked up at me and chuckled. She knows, but she’s afraid to say anything. So she won’t get a chair smashed on her head, like the last one did.
So what can be done? I asked him, and actually, myself.
Nothing. In the end, they’ll get tired of it and move on to another kid.
I thought again of one of the trying-to-be-wise remarks I’d made at the meeting. “Someone who writes stories does not have the privilege of being hopeless. He has to believe that things can be changed, because there is no story without change.”
But wait a minute, I said angrily. It isn’t possible that nothing can be done about this. What if we go to the principal right now and talk to her?
Yehuda looked at me, disappointed.
I already told you she won’t do anything. And besides, today is Tuesday.
So?
It’s her day off.
Okay, so we’ll go to see her tomorrow, I wanted to say. But I remembered that tomorrow I would be home, far from here.
Yehuda kicked a stray pinecone. It slid along the asphalt until it was caught under the wheels of a car.
Where do you live? I asked.
Why? he replied, looking at me suspiciously.
Will it help if I give you a ride home?
You don’t have to. From here on, it’s all main streets and they won’t do anything to me when there are people around.
You’re sure?
Yes,
