The Most Obnoxious Kid

Paul was the most obnoxious little boy I knew. He was loud and disgusting and everyone hated him, but he was the only thing that made Sunday school entertaining. 

“Paul is putting the Bible down his pants!”

“Paul is farting during choir practice!”

“Paul is eating a page from the Old Testament!”

Unfortunately for me, I had to sit next to him in class. On our first day, he threw his backpack on the table and looked at me in disgust.

“I can’t believe I have to sit next to a girl,” he said. “How old are you anyways?”

“Six,” I said.

“I’m seven so I’m older so you have to respect me because I’m older.” He had a lisp because he was missing his front teeth. His belly button was showing since his Cheeto-dust-stained shirt wasn’t big enough to cover his chubby stomach. His lips were smeared with chocolate. 

He didn’t look respectable at all but he was older and Mom always told me not to judge a book by its cover.

So I said with a shrug, “Ok. I’ll respect you.” 

I started to second guess my promise by snack time. Paul had devoured all his snacks in less than three minutes, and began eyeing my chocolate pudding cup. 

“Are you gonna eat that?” he asked. 

I protectively scooted the pudding closer to myself. I was saving it as a reward for finishing my carrot sticks. 

Paul understood, but then something else caught his eye. He pointed at my box of crayons. 

“What about those? Are you gonna eat those?”

I shook my head and giggled because he had to be joking. Right?

I was too shocked to move when he reached into the box, pulled out a pink crayon (my favorite color, by the way) and bit into it. I watched him eat all of it. 

The teachers didn’t even believe me when I told them what he had done. Eating a whole crayon seemed too crazy even for Paul. 

When my mom came to pick me up, that boy had the audacity to wave good-bye to me saying, “Bye, Angela! Thanks for the snack!”

And of course, my mom was beaming. “I’m so happy you made a friend at Sunday school!” she chirped. 

“Mom, he's not my friend. And he ate my crayon.” 

She laughed. “Of course he did, sweetie. He’s a very hungry dinosaur!” Mom pointed at Paul who was now pretending to be a T-Rex. 

That’s when I decided that the Devil did indeed exist and his name was Paul. 

Sitting next to him every week was a form of torture. He constantly invaded my personal space. He would put his face close to mine every time he burped and then he would ask “Did you smell that?” He continued to eat art supplies. 

All the other kids stayed far away from him, and no one was willing to trade seats with me. The teacher felt bad for me but there was nothing she could do. 

My mom absolutely adored him because she never saw him in his true form. One night after dinner, I walked past my parents’ room and heard Mom saying to Dad: 

“You know Paul Miller, that sweet little boy who Angela is friends with at Sunday school…?”

I stopped at the door and rolled my eyes. I told Mom a trillion times that Paul was not my friend. 

“…he has leukemia.” 

I didn’t know what a “leukemia” was but I was sure that Paul would find some way to make it edible. I decided to quit eavesdropping but then I heard my mother begin to weep. 

“He’s only seven…he’s just a little boy.”

My father’s voice came in inaudible whispers, trying to comfort her. I went back to my room feeling like Sunday school was about to be different. 

Paul didn’t seem to change much at first which made me wonder why Mom had created such a fuss. But within a few months, Paul’s usual energetic personality became toned down and his antics were less frequent. 

The other kids weren’t thrilled because they relied on Paul’s silliness to get through the boredom of Sunday school. So, they found other things about him to make fun of. 

“Paul is wearing a hat! That’s against the rules!”

“Look! Paul is bald! That’s why he’s wearing a hat! He has no hair!”

“Paul is bleeding all over the Bible verses!”

It was true. Paul was bald and he was bleeding all over the Bible verses. Blood streamed from both his nostrils and dripped onto the pages. It was such a mess. I gave him a tissue from my pocket but it wasn’t enough. 

His mom picked him up early and he never came back to Sunday school again. 

***

Mom took me to visit Paul in the hospital the following week. I didn’t really want to, but Mom looked so upset, it was hard to say no. 

Paul’s hospital room was the saddest place I had ever seen. All the walls were gray. Paul’s mom had put up a small framed picture of Jesus on the drawer next to his hospital bed.

When Mom and I walked in, Paul was looking tired, watching TV with his mother. His eyes lit up when he saw me and he started waving. 

“Hi, Angela!” he squealed. 

His mother took one look at his toothy grin, and her face became scrunched up with emotion. She bursted into tears and wouldn’t stop crying. 

“I’m so…glad… he… has a friend…to visit him. He looks…so happy,” she wailed between sobs.

Mom led Paul’s mother out of the room, but we could still hear her sniffling. 

“She does that a lot,” Paul said with a shrug. “It’s getting kind of annoying. People always cry when they see me now, but they say it’s ‘cause they love me. Are you here ‘cause you love me?”

“Ew, no.”

“Thank God,” he sighed. “This place sucks, but I get to play all the video games I want. Do you wanna play Mario Kart?”

I gasped. Mom said that video games were junk for the brain. I only got to play Sudoku or crossword puzzles at home. 

“You get to play video games?”

“All day,” he boasted with a smile. 

“Lucky! I wish I were sick too!” 

I went to see Paul every week after that and we would play Mario Kart together for hours. I realized that he wasn’t so annoying anymore. But he was annoyingly good at racing games. It took me two weeks to win against him. 

Before I went home each time, his mom would have me pray with them. We would sit next to his bed and pray to the picture of Jesus. Paul and I would make funny faces at each other while his mother’s eyes were closed. It was so hard to contain our laughter, sometimes I was afraid our lungs would pop. 

We had a lot of fun, but eventually even I could tell that Paul was getting more frail with each passing week. He used to be so chubby but now I could see his cheekbones. He offered me his pudding cup, saying he wasn’t hungry. His skin became the same shade as the gray hospital walls. He fell asleep during Mario Kart. His mom started crying harder during our prayer sessions. 

Soon, Paul could barely stay awake. He was constantly going in and out of consciousness. 

“Say a prayer, baby,” his mother begged him. “It’s your turn to say a prayer.”

He struggled with every bit of energy left in his little body to open his eyes. But he didn’t look at Jesus. He didn't even look at his mom.

He looked at me.

There were tears streaming down his hollow cheeks. It was the first time I ever saw him cry. 

He whispered, “I wish — ”

Then he went back to sleep. 

Forever.

***

Dear Paul, 

I’m twenty-three years old now which means you would be twenty-four. You’ll always be seven in my mind, though. Don’t worry. I still respect you. Always. 

I just wanted to ask, again. What did you wish for? I’ve been wondering all this time. I come to your memorial every year and wish that all of our unspoken words could be carved into our tombstones. I keep begging you for a sign. You used to be the talkative one when we were together, even when you were fading away. Now, I’m the one who has to carry our conversations. I’m the one who has to play pretend. 

I try so hard not to cry. I know that you hate that. 

You’re still the weirdest person I’ve ever met. I wish I could have seen the person you would have grown into. Everyone else is so boring. 

I’m sorry for being so ignorant. I wish I understood what you were going through. I wish we had more time. I wish, I wish, I wish. 

I miss hanging out with you. 

I brought you some crayons. 

I'll leave them by the flowers from your mom.

Your friend, 

Angela