Selective shorts

To hear the boy tell it, he had been holed up in his room since the year 2011, venturing out only for bowls of cereal and trips to the loo.

"I've been in this room since I was four," he tells me emphatically. His complaint asserts the unmistakable tone of authority as if the pronouncement were based on fact rather than feelings. Such is the life of a modern 13-year-old who is wrapped inside of inertia and tucked into a pandemic.

It seems plausible.

He does spend an inordinately long time inside those four walls. However, I know his sister has keys to a car and almost full authority on when to use them, the two caveats being that she tells me where she's going; and that she taxi her brother on the two days a week they are scheduled to attend classes in person.

I have seen him in the passenger seat with a pile of books and bags balanced on his lap and a practiced bershon written all over his face.

I have passed him on the stairs. I am headed up with a laundry basket while he is headed down to rummage through the fridge.

I make a point to catch his gaze as I ascend to the step he just vacated. This is the only way I can continue to measure taller in his eyes.

He knows he's gaining on me. His body is gaining mass but losing some of its softness. A patch of hair over his lip is growing darker.

He's not unhappy about any of this. Not outwardly, anyway.

He is the captive to my audience, but he knows how to play it to his advantage. He does his level best to be noticed and then ignored.

A squeaky wheel, he knows, just gets the grief.

It's a hardship he's borne quietly enough to avoid adults bringing him solutions to problems not of his making.

For him, the virus couldn't have picked a better time. The sequestration shields him from view while the fits and spurts of budding adolescence do their work.

Teams were constantly forming, and Natural Selection seemed to glance off him and land on the kids standing on either side.

He didn't take it personally. Sinking two game baskets seventh-grade year would be enough to show he tried and prevailed. He could move on to other pursuits.

He could choose the games that require him to sit in one place and stare straight ahead.

I would have lamented this a year ago. I would have insisted he join a club or try out for a team. I still worry about the pale sunless corner of the world where he currently stagnates. The inertia threatens to expand his waistline and turn his mind to mush.

I send him outside now and again to assuage my guilt. “Do me a favor, please. Shovel the snow from the stairs and then clear a path in the backyard for the dog.”

He grumbles under his breath but obliges. He heads for the door, wearing short sleeves, short pants, and slippers. From the uniform, I can tell this job won't take long.

But at least it will get him out of his room.