It’s funny, though, cause Charlotte’s so much like me—same age, likes the same stuff—but when I watch her wipe her dirty hands on her clean shirt without worrying bout gettin’ in trouble for dirtying up new clothes, we also seem real different.
Just then, Bobby comes back. He’s changed into a new T-shirt with a big picture of Superman on the front and is carrying a large suitcase in his hands.
“What’s that?” I ask, forgetting for a second that Bobby’s been trying real hard to ignore me from the beginning. I figure maybe he’ll start liking me if I say and do the right stuff, just like Charlotte did.
Bobby hesitates, then finally says, “Wanna see?” I nod enthusiastically and stand to move in his direction. Charlotte keeps drawing.
Bobby settles down on the edge of the perfectly cut grass, resting the suitcase on a patch of colored sidewalk. The suitcase is brown and tattered and ugly. But he carries it like it’s important, so I’m anxious to see what’s inside. He opens one silver latch, and next the other. Then creaks the lid open til the hinge clicks in place. I look eagerly, but ain’t nothin’ inside but a bunch of dirty-looking rocks.
“It’s my rock collection,” he declares proudly. I try to hide my disappointment by pretending to cough. “See, I’ve been collecting these rocks since I was seven.” He begins pulling rocks from the pile.
I decide to take a closer look. There are big rocks and small rocks. Some that look like sparkly diamonds and others that look a lot like dog poop. I try to quickly count how many rocks he got. I count twenty-nine, then stop cause Bobby is looking at me funny.
“Can I touch ’em?” My question is cautious, but he responds with a smile.
“Sure.” Bobby hands me a rock the size of a peach pit. Its weight in my hands is solid. I run my hands cross the face of the rock, which is smooth and cold like metal. But the underside of the rock is the opposite. Jagged with dips and dents and bumps. Where it’s jagged, the rock is brown like dirt, but where it’s smooth it’s the color of half-burnt charcoal. I ain’t ever seen a rock look like this one.
“Where’d you get it?” I ask.
“I found that one when I was nine,” starts Bobby, “when I went away to summer camp for the first time.”
“Summer camp?” I repeat as I turn the rock over and over in my hands. Each time it turns, it changes into something new. Up, flat and shiny. Down, coarse and dull. Up, gray like fog. Down, brown like mud. Up, beautiful. Down, flawed.
“Yeah,” continues Bobby, “it’s a science camp that I go to every year. But that year was my first. I didn’t have any friends yet, so I kept to myself, mostly. Until I found this rock.” He takes the rock from my hands and holds it up proudly. “This rock is how I made friends.”
“Really? How?” I scoot closer. If a little, ugly rock made Bobby some friends at summer camp, maybe it can work for us now, too.
“Well, it was our third night of camp,” begins Bobby’s story. I settle in to listen, while Charlotte continues to color. “Like I said, I didn’t have any friends yet. It was time for Campfire Circle and—”
“Campfire Circle?” I interrupt.
“Oh yeah,” Bobby says, “it’s when we would group off by age to roast marshmallows and tell stories and do other cool stuff by the fire. I was in a group with two other boys—Marty and Kevin, both third graders like me. They were already friends with each other, but not with me.” Bobby is twirling the rock in his hands as he talks, like the stone can put him back in front of that fire.
“That night, I decided I didn’t want to hang out with these boys that didn’t like me. So when our camp counselor wasn’t looking, I snuck away.”
“Where did you go?” I ask, watching the magic stone spin in his fingers.
“I tried to go back to my cabin, but it was really dark and I got lost. I circled around the wooded campsite for what felt like hours, but I never found my cabin. Instead”—he holds up the rock triumphantly—“I found this!”
I wait for more, cause the way he tells the story, I can’t figure why the rock is so important. Besides the fact that it can be pretty and ugly at the same time, ain’t much special bout the rock.
“Well,” continues Bobby, “it’s actually more like this rock found me. I was wandering around in the dark, looking for my cabin, when I tripped over it. I landed flat on my face, got a bloody nose and everything.” For some reason, Bobby seems happy bout this last part. I half smile, not sure if he wants me to be happy bout it, too.
“I was laying there, nose bleeding, feeling like an idiot,” he continues. “Then I heard some voices getting closer. And when I picked up my head, Kevin and Marty were running my way! I guess they noticed I was gone and came looking for me. Anyway, when I showed them the tiny rock that had my nose bleeding into my camp T-shirt, we laughed and laughed for hours. I was trying to be so big and tough, but I guess this tiny little thing was even tougher.” Bobby smiles at the rock. I smile at Bobby.
“That’s incredible.” I stare hard at the rock and try to imagine something so small doin’ something so big. Like the fireflies, I guess. Tiny, little bugs with lights brighter than the whole sky, even when it’s filled with stars. The fireflies were like Bobby’s rock, in a way. Something small that had the power to bring people together. Bobby and Kevin and Marty. Maybe me and Granddaddy. I heard before in Sunday school that God puts little things along our path for when we need a push in the right direction. I ain’t get it then, but it makes sense now.
“Yeah.” Bobby smiles. “It is pretty incredible.” I smile, tiny, wondering why he’s telling me all this now. He ain’t seem too friendly to me when I first wandered cross the street, when he ain’t even wanna look my way, let alone talk to me. But now he’s being all nice and showing me his special rock collection. I’ve known since first grade that boys can be weird, and this boy ain’t no different.
“Charlotte, you seen his rock collection?” I look her way and hope she might come over, so we can all play together. But she shakes her head soon as I ask.
“I’ve seen that stupid rock collection too many times! Boring!” She holds out the word boring so that it’s more like two words, booooar-innnnng! Then she rolls her eyes and goes back to drawing. I feel bad for Bobby cause Charlotte’s being so mean, but when I look back at him, he don’t seem to care. He’s too busy studying all his rocks, like he ain’t seen ’em before.
“Check out this one,” Bobby exclaims, “isn’t it cool?” He holds a rock faceup in the palm of his hands, which he holds out to me.
I take the rock—smooth and dark and cool—then listen to a story bout Boy Scouts and first grade. Then another—chalky gray with sparkles along the edges—and a story of moving trucks and new schools and fear. For every rock, there’s a story. I sit and listen and my fascination with rocks grows. I still think most of the rocks are ugly, but the stories make up for the flaws. Each story is full of so much life and memory. Just like the rocks, the stories ain’t always perfect. But seems like just having all those memories, good or bad, is special by itself.