Peter

{i} I was 14 and he was thin

They say there are no starving kids in America, that we need to send all of our resources to places like Africa and Asia. They say Americans have everything they need, that they are greedy and uncaring. They call us fat, they call us lazy. While this is largely true, there is a minority of people that don't fit this standard. No, not minority. A minority implies there are few people, but the fact of the matter is there are many people in America who are starving, many who are cold. These people just don't get their stories told.

He was fourteen when I met him, and thin as a sheet of paper. When I first made contact with him he was sitting on one of those metal folding chairs that make you shiver when your skin touches their surface, and he was staring at his fingers. His back was curved, extending his spine outward and protecting the vulnerable regions of his chest. He seemed to be waiting.

"Hi, sir?" My voice was gentle when I spoke to him, something I had learned from months of volunteering, "Can I get you anything?"

His mouth rested on wires and chicken bones, and his eyes had the shine of thousand year old marbles that were kept in the open. He gave me a smile so small I almost squinted to see it. "Just a water, please," he responded.

I wish I could say I was the type of person who often gave up her free time to help those in need, but in actuality I was the type of person whose parents often gave up their free time to help those in need. I was the type of person who had parents that forced the most recent 'good' thing on their children. I was the type of fourteen year old who was forced to volunteer, despite the fact that all my friends were at a football game I could have gone to. I'm not saying that I shouldn't have volunteered with my parents, but fourteen year old Wendy was not pleased.

I was at a library, a very large one that had events with food and drinks for those who needed it. There was a speaker in the front of the room reading a story to a group of children, and adults and their kids wandered. Some looked at books, others took items from a table with food or hot cocoa. It was loud, the kind where you can't pick out individual voices.

I returned and sat on the chair beside him. I slumped when I sat, a habit I picked up from avoiding the glances of teachers, but he slumped more. When I handed him the water I begged his fingers not to break.

"What's your name?" I questioned.

He took some gulps of water. "Peter," he finally let out. His adam's apple bobbed as he drank more.

I sat in silence. At age fourteen I had no real interest in talking to him, I really just wanted to get the next hour and a half over with when I could leave. I watched my mother from across the room, offering a little girl with four braids a cookie and giving her a grand smile.

I noticed when he stopped drinking, because the gulping noise ceased. "Is that your mom?" he asked. He had a high voice.

I nodded my head as my dad wrapped his arms around my mom's waist, resting his head on her shoulder. He said something to the little girl and she laughed, and my mom turned her head ever so slightly and gave him a kiss.

"That's my dad," I muttered.

"I sort of figured," he responded. There was a hint of a chuckle in his voice.

A little boy ran in front of us, probably age nine. His hair was a mess and he was screaming as he ran. Behind him came three other kids, screaming and running after him.

"How old are you?" Peter asked.

I watched as the three kids caught the boy. One of them yelled tag.

"Fourteen," I said.

He nodded his head. "Same."

There was silence again. If I could go back in time I would tell myself to ask him questions, like where his parents were, where he lived, if he had someone looking after him. I would have brought my parents to him to say hi. But I was fourteen and I didn't care about this skinny blonde kid sitting next to me.

He stood up without saying goodbye, without glancing at me. He stood straight and with his chin held high, like he was a prince. He hummed as he walked away, moving straight towards the exit. He didn't speak to anyone when he left.

I wouldn't see him for a year.