Bruce Brown - Roberto, Bobby and Bruce

My name is Roberto. I live with my parents and two siblings in a small, modest home that my father and his brother built shortly after arriving from Italy in the 1950s. My mother stays home to look after her bambinas, while my father works in the construction industry, building homes mostly, but would take on any project if it meant a paycheque. He is a good provider and rarely misses a day of work. He always says, in his broken English, If I not a work, you not a eat. We laugh every time he tries to express himself in a language that is truly foreign to him, and extremely difficult to master.

I am the eldest, and being the firstborn comes with great responsibility. If there are chores to do around the house, I am always the one called on to do the deed. Delegating responsibility to my younger brother and sister for the menial and mundane duties of everyday living is always an option, but I have to be stealthy and offer up some form of compensation that would make it worth their while. Since money is scarce, I offer to take them to the park or to let them stay up late to watch a movie on our old black and white television while mother and father are either asleep, or out on a date. My parents make a point of going out for dinner and a movie at least once a month. I believe that this helps them to reconnect and stay together for as long as they have.

With a name like Roberto how could I be anything but Italian? I am 13 years old and attend a junior high school in the nations capital, Ottawa. I have been told, by those who know me, that I am a gentle soul who stands about 5' 7 and have an average build. I always wear a white short-sleeved shirt, dark dress pants and shiny black shoes. My shirt pocket holds a piece of plastic called a pocket protector, which contains pens, pencils, erasers, and an assortment of school-related paraphernalia. My shoes are always polished and I take pride in my appearance, but I am not arrogant like some of my classmates. I am quiet and like the simple things in life. I wear thick, black-rimmed glasses that are held together at the bridge by a strip of electrical tape, which I borrowed from my fathers toolbox. As I have already mentioned, money is scarce, so repairing my broken spectacles is my only option.

The students in my junior high are stereotypically rude, lewd and illogical. I would later learn that this is due to an undeveloped frontal lobe. They are especially mean to anyone who does not wear the latest and most expensive designer clothes, or who dress in ways that scream nonconformity. I choose to ignore the fashionistas and dress in a manner that makes me a walking target for unrelenting teasing and ridicule, but I dont mind.

I am an above average student who loves music more than anything. I certainly enjoy it more than math, and who can blame me? You are allowed to pick your own instrument in grade seven, provided there are enough to go around and my instrument of choice is the trumpet. I carry my trumpet everywhere, even on days when I do not have music or band practice. In fact, I cannot recall ever being without my inanimate friend.

My friend, Bruce, and I attend classes together, including music and band. We are inseparable, and share a love for music. While spending much time together, we still manage to respect each other's space and need for time alone.

The hallways are always crowded. When the morning bell sounds to begin the school day, students rush to their lockers to gather their books, binders, pens, and make it to their respective homerooms before attendance is taken. They remind me of the running of the bulls on a good day, with the odds clearly stacked in favour of the bulls.

Today seemed like any other: go to school, attend a few boring classes, eat lunch, maybe sneak in a band practice, hang out with my friend, then come home. Boy, I could not have been more wrong. Unbeknownst to the entire student body, and me, something out of the ordinary was about to take place. A peer, who had the same first and last name as the famous movie actor, Gene Hackman, was in the hallway making a spectacle of himself. Hack, as he likes to be called, felt compelled to hurl insults at anyone who made the mistake of making eye contact with him in the hallway, or simply because you happened to be in his way.

As my friend and I attempted to navigate our way through a maze of students on our way to our homeroom, an event was about to take place that was as inevitable as the sun rising and setting, or a summer solstice, or Bobby H. having his lunch stolen for a record twenty-fifth consecutive week. The school's resident bully and I "accidentally" bumped into each other in the hallway. Hack appeared to take a run at me with the intent of trying to hurt me, or at the very least, get my attention, which he did.

Initially, I thought that this had to be unintentional, but then quickly came to my senses and realized that this was no accident. My first clue should have been when I felt Hack drive his shoulder into my chest with enough force to cause me to fall back, drop my trumpet, and break my glasses. If that wasn't enough, he then proceeded to call me every derogatory Italian slur that he could think of, and I must admit that, for a Neanderthal, his vocabulary was impressive. Hack did this in the hope that he would elicit a response from me, but he failed to do so.

To my surprise, and disappointment, the majority of students who witnessed this random and gutless act of cruelty against one of their own, began to cheer the bully on. The bully's confidence was buoyed by this artificial and perverted display of adoration and approval, and as a result, the taunting intensified. To the dismay and bewilderment of a now rabid crowd, I calmly picked up my glasses and trumpet and proceeded to walk away like Clint Eastwood in a cheesy Italian western. This was not the response that either Hack, or the student body, were expecting, or hoping for. They wanted him and me, the sacrificial lamb, to duke it out right then and there. But this was not to be, which further aggravated our little bully, who desperately wanted to prove, at least on this day, that he was the Alpha male, and that I was nothing more than an object to be toyed with.

Wanting to make a statement, or simply to save face, Hack shouted to me, "Quad. 3:30. Be there." The hallway suddenly became very quiet and still as the students slowly began to move to their respective homerooms. I was unfazed by this declaration of war, and went about my day as though nothing had happened.

Bruce worried for my safety, and told me as much. I really didnt know what to tell him except that he need not worry. For whatever reason, I didnt appear to be overly concerned about the certain beating that I would have to endure in front of some 300 students at the end of the school day. Perhaps all would be forgotten. That's it! Our resident bully challenged kids to fight every day, and rarely would anyone show for what would surely be a lop-sided pummeling. How many idiots would actually honour their promise to meet the Hack in the quad after school to have their faces noticeably and painfully rearranged? What parallel universe did I think I was living in? Of course, there was going to be a fight after school, provided the bully had someone to fight. Would I be dumb enough to accept an invitation to my own funeral? I wasnt sure, but I still had a few more hours to make up my mind.