White Head was what they called him. His notoriety forced him to wear a hood, or cap, to get away with his shenanigans.

“It was the kid with the white head,” people would scold as he tagged the town with his can of spray paint.

Ray was White Irish. Not Red. Not Black. He had eyes as blue as the band of a rainbow, a raspy voice arcing into puberty. We met over spitballs. He shot as good as he got and took detention like a badge of honor. We spent many an afternoon in secret places where the only intruder allowed was a shaft of sunlight.

Our lives hadn’t touched in 5 years and we met coming out of two neighboring houses one day. He came a little closer and gave me the lop-sided grin, no trace of the braces that had once bruised my lips.