The scariest time of day is just after lunch and on the playground.  It’s better if the clouds are low but when the sun is out, yes that’s the scariest time of day with only a few adult eyes roving the playground who don’t play.  No, they don’t really play.

I know a boy who walks through insults.  No one will play with him, so he plays by himself and doesn’t seem to notice the noise of taunting and teasing.   I watch for him near the swing set when his mother drops him off in the morning.  His mother always has worry marks on her forehead, but the boy kisses her goodbye, anyway.

We met at the beginning of the school year.  He didn’t run about the playground trying to fit into games.  He looked around, his bright blue eyes scanning all the children, laughing, fighting, crying or hiding; surviving.  The sun was high, the entire school exposed and running like ants outside the tunnels of their slave mill.

Turning back to my quiet place, he was there, right next to me, his big blue eyes staring.
“Hello,” he said.  I said nothing.

He told me his name, but I won’t tell you.  He’s my friend now; none wanted him, so I keep him safe, at least on the playground.

“Why are you always at this swing set?” he asked. “There are lots of places to play.”  He reached out his hand; I shied away.  It was broad daylight; I needed to stay in the shadows, so he sat down and played in the grass next to me.

Once a playground assistant came to him and asked what he was doing.  “Looking for a four-leaf clover for the girl who won’t tell me her name.”

“What girl?”

“The girl who can’t come out into the sun because she’s afraid.”

The playground assistant peered into the shadows where I stood and narrowed her eyes at me.  I became suddenly angry at the intrusion.  Adults always come too late and always pretending. The playground assistant shied away.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said to me.  “People don’t understand.”

“What does that mean, ‘people don’t understand,’?” I asked.

My friend shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s what my mother says when I’m sad that nobody likes me.”

“I never told my mother nobody liked me,” I said

“Where is your mother now?” he asked.

“Sad.” I said.

My little friend didn’t sympathize.  He gave a little shudder, looked about the loud, clamorous playground.  The worried-looking playground assistant always glancing our way.
“Would you like to come home with me?  You can stay in my room, out of the sun, and play with the toys I have in the closet,” he said.

“Who would take care of you on the playground if I’m in your room?” I asked.

“Does it need looking after?  The playground?”  he asked.

“Sure,” I said.  “Every playground needs looking after, where else would adults go to pretend everything is okay?”