Best Smile

Jesus wept and no one slept that well all week long.  

Angel died at Ricky’s knife in the company of friends; East Side meets West Side, without an overture. Retaliation’s in the air; West wind’s sure to blow East soon.  And almost as an aside, one boy gets beat up for not joining in. And I put my arm around him—Jesus—not too close—just enough for him to know I can be human.  No touch policy at our school, of course.  And no cry zone for the tough.  

But Jesus is weeping …and has been all morning —Silent tears at first—A sort of seeping from a well—Red around the eye sockets. 

A blank stare on the face of Gabe—Ricky’s other close friend here now for Jesus, at his side, stoic—no tears—“don’t cry” someone must have taught him.  But not Jesus.  

His red eyes, though they are really more green, are penetrating. 

In a completely unrelated, disconnected bit of irony, he has just been voted “best eyes” in the 8th Grade Poll, though he doesn’t know it yet; nobody knows yet because the results haven’t been released. Tomorrow. 

Not today.  

Today his friend is dead.  Today Jesus weeps for his homie—not the dead 15 year old victim.

He cries for his best friend, the 14 year old prime suspect—Ricky. 

And I ask Jesus why he and Gabe weren’t with “him” at the time.

 “Not everyone does that,” he answers between near silent sobs.  And Ricky, behind bars, will never know he was just voted

“Best Smile.”