There must be a kid like Coleman in every middle school in America. Probably two. All of you know of them. Most of you know them. You’ve seen them around. Think about it…
The kid who blends into the crowd. Easily forgettable, if the bullies would let them be forgotten.
Not the smartest. Not the dumbest.
Not the most popular. Not the biggest loser.
Not the tallest or thinnest. Nor the shortest or fattest.
Not the worst looking, but certainly not the best either.
Just an average, run of the mill kid. Stuck in the middle. Yes sir, that’s Coleman Stoops.
If Coleman were weather, he wouldn’t be sunshine and he wouldn’t be rain. He would be that overcast haze of gray clouds - the kind that lasts for weeks on end. Maybe a few drops fall here and there. Maybe occasional rays of sunshine peek through. Maybe.
Stuck in the middle.
So, when Coleman frantically climbed the schoolyard tree on his twelfth birthday, he surprised even himself. Not to mention the group of bullies who had chased him up to begin with, and then danced around the trunk’s base far below him.
“Happy Death Day to you…” they sang, over and over again. “Happy Death Day to you…”
Coleman’s nails dug into the bark and he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as they would go. His heart beat so fast, he thought it might burst through his ribs and bounce to the ground, hitting every branch on the way. “Happy Death Day to Stoopy…”
Clinging to that tree for his very life, Coleman flashed back to all of the horrible memories he had accumulated over the past few years that brought him to this lowly, lowly state.
“Happy Death Day to you!”
But none of that was why he climbed the tree that birthday afternoon. He glanced down at the denim jeans, three waist sizes too small, that he wore. What brought him up the tree was those birthday present blue jeans.
The dominoes had begun to fall over the weekend. His mom had dragged him to the mall to go shopping for some new clothes. His sneakers were rife with holes and he needed a couple new shirts and a pair of jeans too. Coleman sighed. Malls were supposed to be fun places where people could decide who they wanted to be and then make those dreams happen.
Not him. The family operated on a tight budget that didn’t allow for luxuries like name-brand clothing. Coleman had never owned Abercrombie, or Hollister, or any other designers who made clothes that cost more than twenty bucks an item.
That’s why Mrs. Stoops proudly strolled into the softer side of Sears. Coleman shuffled his feet, head hanging low, and trailed behind her. His eyes darted back and forth. Was anyone from school around? He hoped not. That’s the last thing he needed - more fuel for their fire.
Heck, Sears wasn’t even in the mall. It was in the parking lot, sure. But not inside the mall. It was a completely separate building sandwiched between the Burger King and the AutoZone, just across from the disgusting movie theater that showed six-month-old films for half-price tickets.
At any rate, Coleman wasn’t the only kid in his class who got teased, though he sometimes felt that he lived his life in their cross-hairs. No matter what he tried to do, their ridicule always managed to find him. Sometimes they mocked his clothes, sometimes his hair, and sometimes the way he pronounced certain words, or even the doodles along the margins of his notebook pages.
They always found something. It didn’t make one bit of difference if he changed his appearance, attitude, or actions. Teasing floated around, he guessed. And always managed to land on his shoulders.
Being in the budget department store would be no different. He peered ahead through the tops of his eyes. His mother was still there. She had approached the check-out counter with—
Coleman gasped. Oh, no! Hannah Falcone’s sixteen-year-old sister, Charity, stood behind the counter. His breathing grew heavy and labored. Would she know him? Would she recognize him? Might she report back to her younger sister that she had seen the class nerd at work… shopping for clothes… with his mother???
“Coleman,” his mom said, “don’t dawdle, sweetie.” She flicked her wrist to say “catch up”. She turned to the girl. “Hun, can you point me toward your Juniors department?” she asked.
Charity smiled. “You’re in it.” Her eyes flicked to Coleman, and his head dropped. He awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. Had she seen him staring? She looked an awful lot like Hannah.
His mom chuckled casually. “I guess I should clarify. I’m looking for the husky section.”
A ten ton pile of bricks fell onto Coleman’s head. The air thickened, he struggled to breathe. Charity’s nose crinkled. He disgusted her. Great. Hannah would certainly learn of their encounter now.
The girl raised a pointed finger. “It’s over there, in the corner.”
“Thank you,” his mom said. “Let’s go, Coleman.” Fantastic. She used his name. As they turned away, Coleman watched Charity’s expression soften. Instead of loathing, he thought he recognized a kindness in her eyes.
Wait. Not kindness… pity.
Husky Corner appeared dark and foreboding. Hairy monsters hid between the racks, awaiting the chance to pounce on unsuspecting fat kids. Rumbling thunder could be heard in the spaces between the shelves. And once, just once, and only for a split second, lightning flashed from the spotlight-bulbs along the track lighting.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said, under his breath.
“What’s that, sweetie?”
He tugged at her sleeve, pulling her ear closer. “Why don’t you just tattoo the word ‘FAT’ across my forehead?” He wasn’t embarrassed. Mortified was more like it.
“Aw, baby. Did you know that girl?”
His face scrunched up. “Not exactly.”
She dismissively waved her hand in the air. “Then don’t worry. Husky doesn’t mean fat anyway. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Your Pop-Pop was built just like you: short and stocky. And your Mom-Mom fell in love with him.” She flapped a pair of jeans off the shelf and held them up to his waist. “Besides, you still may have a growth spurt or two left in you. Boys don’t really stop growing until they’re in their early twenties.”
She draped a few pairs of blue jeans over his shoulder, and pointed toward the sign that read FITTING ROOMS. He slogged over, hoping she was right. Coleman didn’t want to be husky for the rest of his life. He didn’t want to be husky for the rest of middle school! He might not survive without that spurt.