Little Boy Lost

They couldn't possibly have been a family. Not all five of them. The burly man and his thin, pinch-lipped wife were obviously the chubby blond boy's parents, or at least close relatives, but the scrawny black-haired boy who hovered around the edges of their family circle like an unwanted and unwilling guest was no more a part of that family than he was the crown prince of England. Even the third boy, probably a friend, who accompanied the blond-haired one seemed more a part of this family than the black-haired boy. He looked nothing like them, for one thing. Where they were burly, he was scrawny; where they were tall, he was short; where their clothes fit perfectly, his were old and baggy; where their faces were round and average-looking, his was thin and bespectacled; and their neat hair contrasted sharply with his scruffy black mop.

They couldn't possibly have been a family.

It was more than just appearance, though. There was an odd, shuttered expression in the little boy's enormous green eyes, an expression that politely but firmly said, "Nobody home, please don't call again later" to any interested observer, and for all that he was standing within six inches of the other four, he might as well have been standing in another universe. You could tell that the others felt it too; everyone in that group who was within arm's reach of the boy kept their thick, beefy arms planted firmly at their thick, beefy sides. And no parents would buy ice cream for their son's friend, but not for the other son. Even if that son didn't look the same as them. Even if he didn't act like them. Even if he simply wasn't like them. Now, as the two larger boys slurped happily at their large chocolate ice creams, napkins fluttering helplessly to the ground, and the father got out his wallet to pay, the black-haired boy stood slightly off to one side with the mother, obviously not expecting anything.

Perhaps...

A smile, quite unforced. "And what would you like, dear?"

The father blinked. Once. Blinked again. Sharing a half-resentful, half-fearful glance with his wife, he finally turned back to the counter, a forced smile on his face, and grunted, "He'll have a lemon ice."

The cheapest item on the list.

The boy accepted the sweet like a scientist handling a foreign artifact, turning it over in his small hands, examining the bright yellow wrapping before carefully unwrapping it, and finally starting to eat it one lick at a time as the father, frustration scuttling along the edges of his smile, fished out a few bills and snatched up his change the minute he received it. He didn't look at the boy, but every so often the mother would glance down at the lemon ice with decorous disgust, and then look away, nostrils flaring. The black-haired boy's face showed no expression. He concentrated on the ice, his thin little shoulders hunched slightly as though to protect his cheap prize from some unknown assailant. Perhaps he was even somewhat content for now - but his too-ancient, too-weary eyes practically screamed the fact that there were wounds inside his cloistered mind that could not be healed with a smile or a lemon ice.