Penguin Boy

Chester meandered across the half-deserted auditorium, lost in thought, his bow in one hand and violin case in the other. His dad never referred to him as a violinist, but always as a fiddler, implying that Chester was not a “serious” musician.

He dreaded going home. The smell of congealed ketchup and cigarettes was sure to greet him whether Dad was there or not. Dad ate everything with ketchup and made it his life’s mission to never wash a dish. It made Chester sad just thinking about it.

He pushed through the side door, walking slower and slower, the tails on his tux waving slightly with each step.

“Hey, penguin-boy.” The taunt bounced down the empty hall, smacking him with dread. Chester knew what was coming and took off running before the sound of sneakers slapping the floor reached his ears. He rounded the corner, skidding, and ducked into the dark orchestra room.

Seconds later a hand reached through the door and flipped the lights on.

Charlotte stepped into the room, still panting.

“You’re so predictable Chester.”

He looked at her, and didn’t like what he saw… the swollen nose and red eyes.

“C’mon now.” Carefully she took his hand, the touch of skin prompting him to move. “We have to meet the priest about Dad’s funeral.”

“I miss him,” Chester moaned.

“I know. I do to. But we have to do this.”

He stepped forward, nodding, and they left together, still holding hands.