Personal Narrative-Blood Brothers

“I put it back here. See?” I said, pulling out my creation from behind the box of “K’nex” parts. Reaching farther back, I grabbed another one and handed it to the boy next to me.
“Yes!” Russell exclaimed upon seeing his prized spaceship. He began attaching and removing K’nex pieces from his model. K’nex, a toy building system, was the one thing that brought Russell and I together in the first place. It became the sole activity we wanted to do in the Pre-K class and caused us to dislike nap time, since any interruption of our fun and creativity was a hassle. As a result, Russell and I only talked to others when needed, making us the quietest in the class, even though we talked to each other the most.
One day, as Russell got up to go the bathroom, he bumped into another boy, who dropped a handful of Matchbox toy cars he had been carrying. “Thanks a lot, Russell!” the
boy, Ryker, said. Since Ryker didn't talk to me much, I didn't know him very well. It didn't matter much. I didn't want to talk to a kid who had gotten into trouble multiple times.
“You were in the way,” Russell murmured. He walked past Ryker, who glared at him as he left, but I ignored Ryker. After Russell returned, he and I added to our K’nex models. Russell’s small shuttle grew into footlong spaceship with wings, while my car turned into a tank with eight wheels.
“Hey, move away,” a voice said. “We want to play here.”
Russell and I both looked to see Ryker holding a handful of his cars while a few of his friends stood behind him.
“We’re playing here. Go away,” Russell told them.
“No. We want to use those books.” Ryker motioned towards the shelf above the boxes of K’nex parts.
“Go somewhere else,” Russell said. Ryker and his friends’ glares failed to make us move. Giving up, they walked over to the shelf next to ours and began setting up books as ramps. At one point, one of them grabbed a Matchbox car and slid it across the linoleum floor onto one of the books. Upon letting go, the car flew through the air and landed on another shelf. Soon a flurry of hands were pushing and shoving cars in various directions. The toy cars slamming the shelves made sounds like indoor hail.
Without warning, I felt something hit my back.
Turning around, I saw a boy come and pick up the car he had launched at me. He laughed and said, “You know, you should move.” I wanted to ignore him, but fearing the worst, I turned to Russell.
“Hey, maybe we should—” I started to say, but then a toy car flew by and hit him on the head. Russell turned to look for the culprit, and in the process his head collided with the edge of the bookshelf. Right away, his face squeezed together and his cheeks reddened. Then his mouth opened and let out a low howl. Russell sat there, open-mouthed, the noise getting louder, tears falling, while holding the side of his head.
I sat glued to the ground and just looked at him. Ryker and his friends were staring too.
The teacher, doing a painting activity with some other kids, didn't hear Russell. The five or six of us, dumbfounded, remained sitting and watched Russell, who showed no signs of stopping. I wanted to say something, to make him feel better, but my whole body was a statue.
I remember a nagging feeling in my mind stopping me from telling the teacher. I
had never talked to Mrs. JoAnn much, and almost always responded to her with a nod or shake of my head. I much preferred staying in the comfort of silence. Besides, Russell and I had always thought that nothing bad would happen if we never did anything wrong. But now everything had happened so quickly and simply seeing my friend crying overwhelmed my five-year-old mind.
Many minutes passed, and bit by bit, something in my mind changed. I don't know what, but a small part of me began pushing my legs to move, and my mouth opened. “I'm telling Ms. JoAnn,” I said, my voice shaking. And the boys stayed there, eyes following me as I carried myself over to the middle-aged woman helping kids mix paint.
“Ms. JoAnn…” I started.
She turned to look at me. “Yes, Henry?”
I swallowed, and managed to let out two words: “Russell’s crying.”
“Where?” She stood up and walked towards the bookshelves. “Russell?” she called out.
He looked at her, eyes puffy. “Come on, let’s go.” She motioned towards the door but Russell continued sniffling. Mrs. JoAnn attempted to help him up, and only after much coaxing and persuasion did he begin to move.
I followed the two to the office. Mrs. JoAnn picked up a binder, flipped through it, then dialed a number on the office telephone. She said some things and handed the phone over to Russell. All he did was shake his head or utter phrases like “I can't hear” or “He threw it.” Mrs. JoAnn said some more things on the phone and then hung up. She sat Russell down and told him to explain what had happened. He talked between sobs, and Mrs. JoAnn had to tell him to slow down and talk so she could understand.
At one point, seeing Russell struggling, I blurted out, “I saw it.” Mrs. JoAnn hadn't noticed me standing at the door, but she still asked me to tell her everything. And I did. After a brief explanation, she told me to go back to tell Ryker and the others to come to the office. I did that too.
A few weeks later, Russell and I were back playing with K’nex. I spotted Ryker with a large book in his hand, and seeing that it was a LEGO Star Wars Encyclopedia, I rushed over without thinking, and asked, “Hey Ryker, can I see that book?”
He looked back straight into my eyes. “No. You're not my friend, remember?”
The feeling of defeat that followed soon became realization as the events of the past flooded back to me. My hands picked up my new K’nex creation, a helicopter, and I looked at Russell as I thought of what had happened on that one day. I thought about how we played by ourselves, with K’nex, and how Ryker had wanted us to leave. I thought about Ryker and his friends playing with their Matchbox cars, and Russell. Russell hitting his head, Russell crying, everything else…
But perhaps the most important thought was the quietness, fear, and personality put aside to help a friend.