"During my high school years, a boy from my neighborhood named Malcolm chose me to be his friend for a season. His elbow nudged my book in the public library one Saturday afternoon as he sprawled forward across the table feigning some conditionâboredom, I suppose. His voice was like shadowâas whispery and as indistinct as shadow, due to an adolescent change. âDo you want to wrestle?â he asked. I have never met anyone since who speaks as Malcolm spoke: He daydreamed; he pronounced strategies out loud (as I raked elm leaves from our lawn and piled them in the curb)âabout how he would befriend this boy or that boy, never anyone I knew; Malcolm went to a different high school. âFirst,â he said, âI will tease him about his freckles. Then I will tease him about his laughâhow his laugh sounds a little like a whinny sometimes. I wonât go too far. You should see how his wrist pivots as he dribbles down the court. âHeâs got these little curls above his sideburns. I wish I had those.â (He would catch me up on the way to the library.) âWhat are you reading? We read that last year. Not really a war story, though, is it? Want to go eat French toast?â"
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Academics from the United StatesJournalists from the United StatesMemoirists from the United StatesPeople from San FranciscoHispanic Americans
Original Language: English
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Richard Rodriguez
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