Short story feature

I am a little envious of one of my best friends, who has some mad writing skills.  Sometimes when I'm reading her writing, I think "how on earth did she know to write that into this scene??"  She has some incredible insights about people and situations in her writing.  Her writing is realistic, descriptive, and often inspiring.  So even though I don't have the writing skills that Hannah does, I'm so glad I get to read her work.  I can't wait to see her become a published author someday so that the world can also benefit from her skill.  But for now, I'm happy to be able to introduce one of her recent short stories!

Charlie

Hannah Tacci   -   1-24-2018

He had bucked teeth, was overweight, and the reek of drool, medicine, and body odor rested on him like a cloud. He didn’t often change his clothes, and his style certainly didn’t vary: T-shirt, sweat pants, and crocs. There was never a day when he wasn’t seen sporting his plastic Captain America wristwatch. He was thirteen. The kids at the school dubbed him “the Beluga,” partially for his size and partially because he was just that white. The last time he had a shower was in question, but one could guess it had been at least a week judging by his greasy hair.

That was Charlie.

No one liked him, and everyone knew why. The guy had no social boundaries or skills, no hygiene. He couldn’t even take a hint to accept the breath mint offered to him by the one nice girl in class. His classmates shoved by him in the hall, locked him in the bathroom, and barricaded him in at the top of the playground firepole, forcing him to slide down it after crying at the top for fifteen minutes.

Strangers stared at him, and his parents’ friends talked over him like he wasn’t there. “Does Charlie like ice-cream?” they’d say to his mom, even though he was sitting right there.

“Yes!” Charlie would yell, forgetting his indoor voice, forgetting he “wasn’t a part of the conversation.”

Charlie’s favorite pastime was spending hours upon hours on the computer, decoding things like Binary Numbers, learning keyboard shortcuts, and playing Chess. He could beat anyone at Chess, but no one knew because no one played with him.

But Charlie didn’t mind. He never did. He was always the first one to offer someone else his seat on the bus. He always brought his teacher a packet of stickers on the first day of school. He always prayed for the kids in his class.

Charlie would come home from school, and his mom would say, “How was your day, Char Char?”

He’d smile that buck-toothed grin and say, “Good.” He never told her that someone stuck gum on his chair in the cafeteria or that “Handsome”—the “cutest” boy in Math class—broke all his pencils. What was the point? Charlie figured that one could still get A’s with a piece of gum on their pants and half a pencil.

His mom would hug him and gently remind him to swallow.

He’d then go to his room and look at the Captain America poster on his wall. Jesus was Charlie’s first hero, but Captain America would forever be a close second. Someday, Charlie would be like Steve Rogers: picked on at first, but he wouldn’t mind. He’d still be good, and someday, he’d be great—maybe even save the world.

He never got that chance. You see, Charlie died a week before his fourteenth birthday. His brain condition slowly took over until he had no fight left. But Charlie never complained.

No one at school cared once he was gone, except maybe the teachers and the breath mint girl. The other kids just had to find someone else to pick on. Why would they care? They were all better than him. Maybe. Then again, maybe not.

I wonder if the world couldn’t use more Charlies.