Making Friends

Damion

I walked into the school, smiled at the receptionist, and joined the other parents there to pick up kids. I waited until Oliver’s teacher had a free moment and approached her. I liked to check in with her at least once a week if time allowed.

“Hello,” I greeted.

“Ah, Mr. Whittle,” she said with a smile.

“Damion, please,” I insisted. “How’s he doing?” It was the same question I asked every time I saw her.

The start to my five-year-old’s school career had been rocky. I was assured kindergarten was hard on a lot of kids. It was a big change, and some struggled a bit more than others. My son wasn’t struggling with the learning but with being in a new environment with kids he didn’t know.

“He is a bright young man and a pleasure to have in class,” she answered.

“But?” I asked, knowing there was something she wasn’t saying.

She smiled. “He’s had a difficult week. The class has been doing group projects, and Oliver is so far advanced, he either does all the work or doesn’t do any of it. He would much prefer to work alone. Because he’s so much more advanced, he gets done early, and instead of using the time to play a game with the other kids, he reads.”

I chuckled. “That can’t really be a bad thing, right?”

“Absolutely not, but I think it would be easier for Oliver if he could make a couple of friends. He’s a very quiet boy.”

I nodded, looking over to the corner of the room that was set up as a reading nook. He was only in kindergarten but was reading books meant for second and third graders. I was proud as hell.

“He takes a while to warm up, but he’ll get there,” I told her.

“I’m sure he will. With the school year over in another month, I’m not sure he’ll have time to make friends this year. Hopefully, next year will be easier for him.”

“I’m confident he will find a friend,” I told her.

I waved my hand, getting his attention. He put the book he’d been reading back on the shelf, grabbed his backpack from the hook, and made his way to me. “Can we go now?” he asked.

“Yep. Say goodbye to your teacher.”

I ushered him out the door after saying his goodbye, got him tucked into the backseat of my small Nissan, and pulled out of the school parking area. He was staring out the window, a pensive look on his face. He was a thinker. I couldn’t see anything wrong with being a thinker. He was going to be a well-read adult. Reading broadened the mind. I was an avid reader myself and liked to believe he inherited the habit from me.

I could not get myself to care nearly as much as his teacher did about his lack of being a social butterfly. He wasn’t completely withdrawn—he was selective about who he talked to. I was the same way.

“Did you have a good day?” I asked him.

He shrugged. “It was all right.”

“What did you do today?”

“We worked on the letter Z and wrote sentences. I already know Z. It’s an easy one, but there are not a lot of words that start with Z.”

I laughed. “No, there aren’t. Did you play with anyone at recess?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

I took another approach. “Do you like the other kids in your class?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you tell me the names of some of the kids?” I asked, hoping to get him to open up.

He looked thoughtful. “There are a lot of kids, Dad. I don’t know them. I sometimes play with Jason, but he likes to play basketball a lot. I don’t like basketball.”

“Maybe you can play on the playground or play tag,” I suggested.

“He doesn’t like to do that.”

“Maybe one of the other kids does.”

“I like to read my book. Sometimes, I like to look for bugs.”

I grinned. “That sounds like fun to me. Maybe I’ll call Timmy’s parents and see if we can have a playdate.”

I glanced in the mirror to gauge his reaction. He looked less than thrilled. “Do we have to?”

“Timmy is a good kid. You guys live in the same building. It’s good for you to have friends close by.”

“Timmy likes to pick his nose,” he complained. “It’s gross.”

I cringed at the thought of boogers running amuck. “It is a bad habit, but other than that, I think you two had fun the last time you played together.”

“I’d rather not,” he said, sounding like an adult version of himself.

I chuckled. “All right, we’ll talk about it again later. What should we do this weekend? Do you want to go see a movie? Maybe go to a museum?”

The moment I made the suggestions, I thought about what my grandfather had said. He was right. Oliver and I spent very little time outdoors. We didn’t go fishing or hunting like I had done with my own father at his age. We did go to the park now and again, but we never really got out and really dirty. I looked at him in the mirror again. He was my spitting image but softer.