Every story worth telling is a love story, said someone I used to love very much.
But this is not that story.
I remember his name. His name was Charles. Blond hair raked sideways. Cowlick. Small for his age (twelve, thirteen) and his ears stuck out, which, with the cowlick, gave him a somewhat comical look. Could have been the model for Dennis the Menace. A boy, an ordinary boy, one day possessed. One ordinary Saturday afternoon, he calls, this classmate I hardly know. What does he want? Why can’t he speak? It sounds as if he’s being smothered. Speak!
I want to see you, he blurts at last. He wants to know if he can come to my house. I say no and hang up.