When you first saw Juan Ruiz, you would think, “What a good-looking young man. And he seems happy!” 

You would be right.

The seventeen-year-old was a good student at Markham High School – primarily As’ with a sprinkling of Bs.’ He played the trumpet in the Marching Markham Mad Dogs Band and in the local orchestra. He did everything possible to support his classmates.

Everything except talk.

The first word he learned as a baby was “Sometimes,” and he never spoke any other word but “Sometimes.” When asked how he was, he would respond, “Sometimes.” If a teacher asked him for the answer to a trigonometry problem, he would say, “Sometimes.” If his father asked him if he was cold, he would reply, “Sometimes.”

He was the equipment manager of the school’s baseball team. He outran all the players. He could throw like a pro but would not stay in the batter’s box, so he was happy to be the manager. Secretly, he spent many hours in the automated batting cage, consistently hitting blistering, hard line drives. But no one ever witnessed his prowess with a bat.

His writing skills were college-level. Term papers were detailed, thorough, and convincing. He wrote music performed for the school by friends in the choir. His critical thinking skills exceeded the average high school student IQ.

But again, his verbal skills were limited to “Sometimes.”

His father thought he should be placed in a separate school for special needs kids. His mother wanted him to have as normal a life as possible by letting him attend public school with his friends. She won out.

He went stag to his senior prom because he was too embarrassed to “ask” for a date, not even via paper, text, or email. He spent much of the Enchanted Night sitting alone or serving punch and cookies to classmates. Always with a smile.

Several young ladies forced him out onto the dance floor to the cheers of his classmates. They were shocked to witness his terrific dancing skills — courtesy of his mom.

Then things changed.

Every school has thugs — bullies who began perfecting their skills in elementary school, and by high school, those skills were fine-tuned enough for more trouble than most principals could deal with. If you looked up “bully” in the dictionary, you would find the definition and probably a picture of Darrell Harris. Darrell and his two friends, Rick and Wayne, strolled in as the gym fell silent. Together, they were called the Trio of Evil. 

They just sauntered into the gym, stopped the dance, and popped the tower of balloons by the food table – intent on ending a memorable prom night.

“Run away and hide somewhere, you crybaby,” Darrell said as he picked up the

serving ladle from the table and threatened Juan with it. “You’re just a weirdo dummy.”

“Sometimes,” Juan said with a smile.

“See, you can’t even talk right,” Darrell proclaimed. “You will never be worth anything. I think I’m gonna use you for a punching bag.” He jumped up on the stage and grabbed the microphone. “Hey, everybody. Gather ‘round and watch how much damage I can do to this guy.”

“Sometimes,” came from Juan, but this time it was different. There was no smile and his voice was lower. His eyes narrowed as his hands rolled into fists.

“Is that all you can say? Is that the last you will ever say?”

“Sometimes, but not today, Darrell,”

“Hey, it spoke! Did everybody hear that?” Darrell said for all to hear. Then he made a big to-do of a roundhouse swing, but it missed Juan’s face by several inches. Darrell never saw the blow to his solar plexus, followed by a one-two combination to his face. 

But he felt them. Boy, did he feel them!

His right hand fell useless to his side, but his left hand grabbed at his face when Juan delivered a smashing fist directly to Darrell’s jaw. He already was having trouble breathing, but now the pain in his jaw was so great he couldn’t yell at his buddies. He couldn’t even swallow. He briefly saw the vicious uppercut coming just before it met his chin and lifted him off his feet. As he fell backward and before he blacked out, he realized that Juan continued to say, “Sometimes,” but never smiled.

Darrell slowly emerged from a swirling cacophony of sounds and spinning images. As he returned to a swaying sense of reality, he focused on that one person holding his head and mopping it with a wet towel. He focused and struggled to say, “You! It is you!”

Juan smiled as he folded the wet towel. He stood and offered his hand to Darrell. As a shaky Darrell regained his balance and some composure, he noticed Rick and Wayne were gone. “Whe … where are my boys?” he asked.

Coach Malone replied, “They left in a hurry out the gym side door and into the night. They figured they should be somewhere else at this time.”

Darrell and Juan stood staring at each other – one boy smiling and the other waking from a trance. Juan extended his hand, and after a few moments, Darrell took it with a big smile on his own face. “Will we be friends now?” Darrell hesitantly asked.

“Sometimes,” Juan replied and winked.