Good Kid

by Brendyn Schneider

This is the story of “Miguel Ramiero,” a guy whose true name remains safely anonymous.

He was the one who laughed out loud when you missed a basket in gym. He was there when you were at your worst, or put you there when you least expected it. He was the guy who made you second-guess raising your hand when you knew the answer in class. Miguel knew how to pitch his voice in such a way that you and your friends would hear the insult while the teacher wouldn’t.

“What are you – a retard?”

His lieutenants would laugh, the blood would rush from your face and Mr. Morris would keep right on going about King Tutankhamen.

Miguel liked to hang out in the hallways, and if he noticed you noticing him, maybe he would ask what your problem was the next time you were in the locker room behind the gym. No chance of escape. His lieutenants knew the exits.

The vice principals knew him, the security guards too. Wasn’t he in that gang fight? Didn’t he get suspended five times?

Yeah, Miguel was one of the bad kids.

Now, imagine the dangerous volts in the air when he came straight toward me one afternoon. Our paths hadn’t ever crossed but I knew enough to cast him as a regular in my fantasies of liberating Copiague Junior High from the clutches of its bullies with my fists of solid steel. Of course, that hate was matched by fear and as Miguel strode down the hall that day, those steel knuckles turned to putty.

“You Brendyn?”

“Yeah,” I peeped.

“Brendyn Schneider? Your dad’s Ed Schneider?”

Dad? Miguel wanted to kill me and my father?

I tried to answer. “Umm…”

His features softened and he clapped my back. “Your father is a great man. You need anything, you let me know, okay?”

He walked away, not waiting for an answer, a good thing too because it would have taken about nine years for me to give him one. One of the most dangerous forces in town had just offered protection? Why? And God only knew how my dad was involved.

“Hey Dad?”

“C’mere, hold the antenna for me.”

That night, I walked into my parent’s room and found my dad, cigarette poised in the corner of his mouth, wrestling with the TV’s aerials. This war raged for decades. It was matched only by the long-running sea battle with the pool filter out back. He handed me one of the aerials and tried to balance a foil extension against the window.

“Dad, how do you know Miguel?”

“Point it toward the kitchen,” he said. “Who?”

“Miguel Ramiero. How do you know him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Wait, you mean Miguel from my catechism class?”

Both my parents taught religious education but I had no idea Miguel actually took classes. I always thought he was up the street, in the Speedy Mart parking lot, drinking Crazy Horse with his friends.

“Miguel Ramiero goes to Religion?” I asked.

“Yeah, he’s in my eighth-grade confirmation class.”

“I can’t believe this. He came up to me before Math today, slapped me on the back and said that you were a good man.”

My dad chuckled. “Nice kid, Miguel.”

“No, Dad,” I said, shaking my head. “Bad kid. He gets suspended all the time. I’m surprised they even let him into church.”

I’ll never forget how serious my dad got when I said that.

He took a drag from his cigarette and replied, “Don’t say that. Miguel’s not a bad kid, okay? He’s a good kid surrounded by a lot of bad. There’s a difference.”

I looked away. Clearly, we weren’t talking about the same Miguel Ramiero.

“I think he’ll be all right though,” he said. “I’m helping him through some stuff.”

My eyes bulged. “What?! How?”

“That’s none of your business, buddy. That’s between Miguel and me.”

It was now the strangest day. Somewhere along the line, my dad had been brainwashed. After years of watching kids get cut down by one of Copiague’s most notorious, there was simply no other explanation.

And yet, as time went on, I noticed a gradual change in Miguel Ramiero. Those evil, snickering sidekicks were jettisoned for clubs and after-school sports. His clothes went from worn and baggy to the epitome of style. You could find him teaching salsa after school and getting the crowd going at pep rallies. He gained a reputation so bright it almost eclipsed that former darker version. Almost. Some of us still remembered.

Every once in a while, I would ask my dad just how he and Miguel were connected but I’d always hit that same brick wall. He’d ask how Miguel was doing, I’d tell him, he’d smile, say, “good kid,” and the topic would be closed.

In senior year, Miguel joined the Drama club. When I saw him walk into the auditorium, my thoughts turned to junior high. Maybe the rest of the class had collective amnesia but not me. If he even tried muttering any sort of indignity, I’d cut him down to size. I was older now and Drama was my domain.

One day, as I sat studying a script, I felt a pat on my shoulder. There was Miguel standing beside an otherworldly-beautiful girl. His talents for insulting kids under the radar had morphed into sneaking girls into the auditorium without Miss Martens finding out.

“How you doin’ man?” he asked.

“Not bad,” I said, trying not to gawk at his friend’s bold choice of clothing. “How’s it going?”

“This guy’s father changed my life,” he said to the girl. “He helped me once when I was in so much trouble.”

I smiled. She smiled. Why were we smiling? I looked back down at my script. It felt feeble and silly in my hands.

“Umm, yeah,” I replied. “My dad’s a good guy. I’m glad he was able to help you out.”

Just then, the bell rang and the class was in motion.

“Well, later B. Tell your father I said, ‘yo.’”

I grabbed my books and followed him into the hall. “Hey Miguel.”

He turned back with a smile.

“What did my…how did…”

The hallway was filling up and the sounds of lockers and sneakers filled the air.

I waved my hand. “Never mind. Talk to you later.”

He turned again and started down the hall. The timing was all wrong and even if it hadn’t been, I’m not sure I could have opened up the topic anyway. I hardly knew the kid and what I did know was rapidly becoming obsolete.

Now skip ahead to about a year ago. While cleaning out my closet, I found my old high school yearbook. Thumbing through the pages, I came across a picture of Miguel. He was standing next to the high school on a green-leaves, bright spring, laughing with friends kind of day. I stared, still wondering about the kid. I called my father.

“Dad, you remember Miguel Ramiero?”

“Who?”

“Miguel Ramiero. He was in your religion class.”

“Oh wow. Miguel. Yeah, I remember him. Good kid.”

“Yeah, see, he wasn’t always a good kid. When I first knew that guy, he picked on a lot of kids I knew.”

“Yeah,” my father sighed. “In the beginning of my class, he was a real punk.”

“Dad, you told me he wasn’t a punk at all. You said that he was a good kid surrounded by bad and that there was a difference.”

“I said that? That’s pretty good.”

“It’s gonna sound funny but after all these years, I’m still a little confused. Going through most of junior high, he was a real low-life. Then, one day, out of the blue, he tells me you’re a good guy.”

My dad laughed.

“What was it, Dad? What happened?”

A few moments passed. Then my father said, “Well, it’s been years now. I guess I can tell you.

“The kid comes in my class, thinking he’s hot stuff, y’know? Mouthing off, bothering the other kids, coming in late. In the beginning, I let it go but I’m watching him. First few classes, he’s sitting with this girl. Then, one night, they’re on opposite ends of the room. She’s trying to hide how upset she is and he’s still acting like a tough guy. When you’re dating at that age, you break up over stupid stuff all the time but something just wasn’t right, so I had him stay after class.

“After everyone leaves, I ask him, ‘So, what’s going on, Miguel?’

“He says, ‘Nothin’. What’s going on with you?’

“‘Why don’t you stop wasting my time?’

‘“Look, man,’ he says. ‘My mother makes me come to this. You think I wanna be here?’

“That’s when I walk over and close the door. The kid’s face drops. That class knew when I wasn’t screwing around.

‘“That’s not what I’m talking about, Miguel. What’s going on with you and the girl?’

“He gets real defensive. ‘Don’t worry about it. That’s none of your business.’

“‘You made it my business when you brought it in here.’

“‘Yeah, whatever. Can I go now?’

‘“No. Look, you need some help?’

“That shook him a little. I don’t think anyone ever asked him that before.

“He says, ‘Nah man.’

“‘I think you do. What’s goin’ on?’

“He looks down and starts shaking his head.

“‘She pregnant?’

‘“Yeah.’

“‘Yours?’

‘“Yeah,’ he says. Now he’s in tears. ‘Her father’s gonna kill me, man. She says she’s gonna tell him and I swear to God, he’s gonna kill me! I wish none of this ever happened.’

“I say to him, ‘You know where she lives?’

“‘Yeah.’

‘“Your dad home?’

“He shakes his head. ‘He don’t live with us.’

“‘Alright,’ I say. ‘Get your coat. Let’s go talk to her dad.’

“‘No way!’

“‘Be a man! Where’s the tough guy now, huh? Sure, all that jivin’ and high talk when it’s easy but when the chips are down, it’s “no way” and “whatever, man.” Quit your crying, get your coat and let’s go.’

“We went to the girl’s house and talked to her dad. Then we went to Miguel’s house and talked to his mom. It was tough for everybody but the families worked it out. They had the baby and the church helped out with getting the kid adopted.

“Miguel and I talked a lot after class that year and I learned a lot about him. He came from a rough home. His dad left when he was really young. His mom was nice but she was an older lady. I don’t think she left the house much. There wasn’t anybody around for the kid to look up to. He started hanging out with a bad element, older kids, punks. I’m not surprised he was a bully for a while.”

“You changed his life, Dad.”

“Sure I did. Well, I helped. He wasn’t gonna do it by himself.”

As I hung up the phone it occurred to me that, though I had always thought of Miguel as a bully, I never stopped to think what made him one.

***

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