"Leave him alone!" I yelled as I walked out of the orphanage gate and saw several bullies from Spring Park School pushing the deaf kid around. I didn't know him, but we seemed about the same age. He lived in the old white house across the street. I'd often seen him on his porch, doing nothing but making funny hand movements.
In summer, our Sunday supper was usually just watermelon, which we had to eat outside behind the dining hall to avoid making a mess. That was about the only time I saw him—through the high chain-link fence surrounding the orphanage.
The deaf kid began making rapid hand signals. "You're a stupid idiot," said the bigger bully, shoving him to the ground. The other ran behind the boy and kicked him hard in the back. The deaf boy's body shook all over; he curled into a ball, shielding his face. He looked like he was trying to cry, but couldn't make a sound.
I ran back through the gate into the thick azalea bushes. I uncovered my homemade bow, crafted from bamboo and string, and grabbed four arrows—also bamboo, with Coca-Cola tops bent around the ends for sharp tips. I ran back out, an arrow cocked in the bow, and stood there breathing hard, daring either bully to touch the boy again.
"You're a dumb freak just like him, you big-eared creep!" one said, grabbing his friend and backing out of arrow range. "If you're so brave, kick him again now," I said, shaking like a leaf. The bigger bully ran up, kicked the deaf boy in the back as hard as he could, and then dashed out of range again.