This Side of Providence by Rachel M. Harper

Valentín?”
    He’s still smiling, oblivious to the implication. I force myself to match his smile.
    â€œNo, César. I will never want to do that.”
    Before I can finish my sentence he’s out the door and halfway down the hall, singing “La Cucaracha” to a group of sixth-grade girls at the water fountain. When friends ask me if I’m making a difference I think of moments like these and wonder if I can ever truly help anybody.
    It takes several minutes for the room to finally empty, and only then do I notice Cristo sitting in my chair, his feet propped on the desk like he’s been waiting all day for me to come find him. The soles of his sneakers are worn through and they look large enough to fit a man.
    â€œYou need help cleaning out this desk, Teacher?”
    â€œMaybe. You need help figuring out where your feet belong?”
    He drops his feet to the floor. The laces are tied as tight as possible, but the sneakers are still loose. His bare ankles float like buoys in the oversized shoes.
    â€œYou got a box?” he says.
    I grab a cardboard box from the bookshelf and hand it to him. He begins to take the items off my desk, filling the box.
    â€œYou okay?” I ask him.
    â€œSure. Why not?” He packs my books in gently, as if every one were made of glass.
    â€œWell, you didn’t eat during the party.”
    He shrugs. “Wasn’t hungry.”
    â€œAnd you didn’t dance with Krystal.”
    He keeps filling the box.
    â€œAny reason?”
    He shrugs again. “Nope. I just didn’t feel like it.”
    â€œDid something happen between you two?”
    He doesn’t answer.
    â€œYou still like her, don’t you?”
    â€œShe’s all right.”
    â€œAll right? Last month you passed her notes in every class.”
    He picks up a snow globe and examines the miniature world inside. He shakes it before placing it into the box. “I just don’t have the time anymore.”
    â€œFor what?” I ask him. “To pass notes? To dance?”
    He smiles. “You know what I mean, Teacher. To have a girlfriend or whatever.”
    â€œCristo, come here for a minute.”
    He walks over and stands next to me, leaning against the desk. “You’re eleven,” I say, squeezing his shoulder. “You have plenty of time for a girlfriend. What you don’t have time for is to carry the weight of the world on your back. Lighten up. Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”
    He cocks his head, as if he’s trying to hear me better. I know he’s listening, that he wants to understand, but I also know I should be talking to someone else. To Lucho or his mother, or God, if that would help—but to someone who could actually do something. Not to a child.
    â€œI’m okay, Teacher. You don’t have to worry about me, all right?”
    â€œNo, it’s not all right. I’m a teacher. I was born to worry, just like a mother.”
    He touches the leaves on a ficus plant almost his height, pulling a few of the dead ones off. “My mother don’t worry.”
    â€œ Doesn’t worry,” I say, stressing the correct grammar.
    He makes a face. “You know what I mean.”
    I make the face back, mocking him. He laughs, crumbling the dead leaves in his hand.
    â€œHow do you know she doesn’t worry?” It’s an obvious question to ask, yet suddenly I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
    He shrugs, and I can see his eyes deciding to move on, to let this, and so many other things, go. “Anyway, school’s over now. You’re not even my teacher anymore.” He smiles as he pulls away from my hand, backing up in those big shoes.
    â€œWrong. I’m always going to be your teacher. And your friend. I don’t care what the calendar says.”
    â€œI know, I know. That’s why I love you.” He looks surprised as the words come out, almost apologetic,