Chapter 3
When I first met River Mahlon, he was the new kid in school.
We were in the fourth grade, and it was during a brittle January that his family moved to town. Getting a new kid in Rockwood, a new student at Rockwood Elementary, was a pretty big deal to a bunch of bored fourth-graders. Actually, it was a pretty big deal whether it happened during elementary, middle, or high school. A new kid always stuck out like a red bird on a ponderosa pine tree. And, it was especially exciting to have a newcomer arrive in the middle of the school year.
River got placed in Mrs. Crawford’s class. I still remember that first day back from Winter Break. I remember my red-cold hands hanging up my backpack and jacket on the wall with hooks. I remember sitting down at my desk with my tie-dye style binder, and then noticing a tall boy standing over by Mrs. Crawford’s desk.
The other students gradually dribbled inside, the bell rang, and Mrs. Crawford brought River with her to the front of the room to introduce him. She told us his name, that he was from Hawaii, and that his parents were in the military. She said his family had moved to our little Washington town because of the air force base twenty minutes west of the highway.
We all just sat there, staring at River like he was an alien. We had never had a newcomer from Hawaii. I, personally, had never met anyone from Hawaii, and I would bet money that was also the case for my peers.
Mrs. Crawford had River take a seat at his desk. He was one row in front of me and two spots to the right. Mrs. Crawford interrupted our usual routine to give us a lesson on the geography of Hawaii. She pulled out a big map and presented a slideshow, but I don’t think anyone had been paying attention. At least, I hadn’t been.
I was fixated on this strange, tall boy from another world.
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River attained instant popularity in Mrs. Crawford’s class, and then eventually across the whole fourth grade. Whenever the opportunity arose—usually at recess and lunch—kids were swarming around him. Everyone asked him questions about what it was like to live in Hawaii: Did he surf? Had he ever seen a shark? Could he play the ukulele?
I kept my distance (I didn’t really have a choice) but found myself watching him from time to time. I wanted to learn more about him just like the other kids did. I wanted to ask him questions about Hawaii. The combination of my shyness and the effort it would have taken to get through the other kids to talk to him, however, kept me at bay.
A week after River started school with us, I came into Mrs. Crawford’s classroom on Monday morning and proceeded with my getting-ready-for-the-day routine: putting up my backpack, hanging up my jacket, grabbing my tie-dye binder, and sitting at my desk. But, soon, I discovered that I could not complete my routine as per usual.
Mrs. Crawford had rearranged all the desks in the room, creating a new seating plan. I was never especially fond of big changes, and at nine years old, alterations to the classroom seating plan were some of the very biggest changes life could throw at me. I hesitantly strolled around the room, checking the names taped to the desks.
I found my desk in the middle of the room. The location was fine with me; actually, it wasn’t very far from my original spot on the flat, moss-colored carpet. But in this new seating arrangement, there were pairs of desks set up around the room, one right to next to another. The desk abutting mine had the name, River Mahlon, taped to it.
When River sat at his desk next to me that morning, he smelled like maple syrup. His sandy brown hair was cut in a high-and-tight style, one that his father had given him, although I didn’t know that at the time. At the time, I didn’t make the military connection and thought the hairstyle seemed odd for a kid from Hawaii. Shouldn’t his hair have been longer, shaggier?
River was the first to say something.
“Will you make me a promise?”
The bell hadn’t rung yet. Our peers were still rushing into the room, chatting, laughing, finding their new seats. River’s question had alarmed me, though I tried not to let it show.
“Okay,” I said.
“Please,” River looked right at me, “don’t ask me about Hawaii.”
I considered this and once again said, “Okay.”
“I’m tired of people asking me questions about it.”
River looked away and seemed to stare into space.
“I didn’t even live there for very long.”
I stared at him but didn’t say anything.
“And I’ve lived other places, too. Nobody asks me about the other places. And no, I never surfed or drank out of any coconuts with a straw.”
He paused, then spoke again: “I went to a humungous school where everyone already had friends. I got made fun of because I wasn’t as tan as everyone else. And my brother and I . . .” His voice trailed off for a second. “We just hung out in our tiny house while our parents were always at work. That’s what Hawaii was like.”
Another bout of silence.
“Where else have you lived?” The question came out of my mouth delicately. I wasn’t sure if speaking right then was a good idea or not.
He looked at me. “California. And other places that I don’t remember as well because I was too little. But California was probably my favorite place.”
“I’ve never been there.” Saying that felt like an understatement. I had never been outside Washington state.
“It’s nice. We lived near a theme park. My mom took me and my brother there a lot. And there was a cool pizza place we could walk to.”
The bell rang. Mrs. Crawford took attendance and started our English lesson. River was so intent during the lesson that he didn’t speak to me again until recess.
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My friends back then were Chloe Gibson and Grace McDonald, the same Grace McDonald who had been voted Prom Queen our senior year of high school.
At some ambiguous point during our middle school years, Grace had become determined to force her way into the popular crowd. Chloe, naturally, followed suit. They both had success and remained part of that popular group throughout the rest of middle school and on into high school. I’d gone a different way, and my friendship with them had dissolved over time.
During morning recess that Monday in fourth grade, I was playing with Chloe and Grace, like I always did. The three of us were at our usual spot on the playground: at one of the brick walls that we could bounce a ball against. We were bouncing our ball, one of the only purple ones, and talking about the gifts we had received for Christmas.
“I got a necklace with a little butterfly on the chain,” said Chloe. “It has yellow jewels in it, and I want to wear it for Spring pictures.”
“You can’t wear that for Spring pictures, Chloe.” Grace said it like it was the most obvious truth out there. “Butterflies are my thing. Everyone knows that.”
“What if I take it off as soon as the pictures are done?”
The conversation continued on in that manner, while I mostly remained quiet. Before recess time was up, River Mahlon, along with six-or-so other boys, crowded around another brick wall that was just a few feet next to the one we had claimed. The boys took turns bouncing their own ball against the wall, but bouncing wasn’t really the right word—whacking was more like it. Two boys in particular started whacking the ball so hard and playing so chaotically that, all in a flash, their ball managed to invade our space, collide with our purple ball, and send it flying up to the flat roof of the school building.