C
Rotimi Shonaiya
Xavier was a friend of mine when I was about ten years old. We were about the same age, and yet he was much taller than me, but that’s mostly my fault. We met when I was playing baseball during the summer. He enjoyed playing sports a lot more than I did. In fact, I only played baseball because my parents forced me to. They didn’t want me inside watching cartoons all day.
Xavier lived across and two houses down the street. He looked a bit like me except he was more solidly built from playing sports and had lighter skin. Because we lived so close to each other, we went over to each other’s house quite often. Whenever he came over to my house we would play on my DS, but we had to take turns, because he didn’t have a DS. Luckily his brother, whose name I can’t remember but I know began with the letter ‘C’, had one.
He was about six years old, and short, pretty damn fat, and I can only remember him ever wearing blue shirts. It’s a shame I can’t remember his name, especially since I have only hated one other child as much as I’ve hated him. (That’s another story). If a robot could model perfectly the epitome of a spoiled little brat who thinks everything that isn’t already his should be his, C would slide out of the tail end like the little turd he was.
C came over to my house and brought his DS and stupid