It has become part of my routine, just like brushing my teeth and stuffing my books. When the last bell rang, I knew it wouldn’t take long for them to wait. Liam, Trent, Wes three variations of the same type of cruel kind. They were always near the East Gate, which the teacher couldn’t see. I didn’t even try to avoid them. I think a part of me believed that if I didn’t act that way, they might be boring. You’ve never done it.
Today they threw my lunch box out of my hands and smeared peanut butter and jelly on the sidewalk. They then laughed as if it was a comedy special and walked away to celebrate each other.
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I was sitting on a bench near the bike stand and pretending not to be an object. However, my hands were bitten so closely that my nails were bitten by my skin. I stared at the Black Pop and let out a tear. I told myself you were 16, not 6. don’t cry. Don’t give them.
I heard the engine. It wasn’t like the usual scooter or wine mixture that drove some older people. It was different – deeper. A low, groan that seemed to pulsate along the sidewalk. I didn’t see either. I thought it was just the person who came.
But that wasn’t the case.
The noise stopped right in front of me. Then I heard the boots on the floor. heavy. How she made about the bar fight and biker – the bar. I looked up and froze.
He was huge. Not only is it big, but the bears are big in a big way. There is no currant head shemmer in the sun, a steel wool-like beard, no arm that tattoo could not die. A leather vest over a black t-shirt, a chain on a belt, sunglasses from when he finished something important. He lived in three and looked like someone who buried several bodies in each individual.
He sat next to me as if it was the most natural in the world. He didn’t say a word. I leaned straight up, raised my arms on my lap, scanning the streets as if waiting for something.
Or someone.
I noticed a boy on the other side of the street. They laughed again. Trent pointed at me and brought his hand to his hand, as if he was screaming something cruel. But he didn’t have a chance.
The biker stood up.
He didn’t move anytime soon. He didn’t even speak. He was like a mountain that just rose from the ground and saw it. That’s all.
He calmed down, measured how he destroyed you, and didn’t have to grab her laugh with her throat. Torrent lowered his hand. Wes took a step back. After Liam said something, they turned around without another word and rushed along the street. The biker was sitting next to me again.
It should buy you for a few days,” he said. His voice was as deep as the gravel of a mixer.
I stared at him. »Why are you helping me?
He saw me for the first time. His eyes were bright blue and almost silver. Because I was you once.
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his beaten wallet. Inside there were faded photographs of two children on a dirt bike. One of them looked very similar to me.
And because I made a promise to her father before his death.
My stomach started to spin. Did you know my father? I almost asked the voice in the whisper.
But he already stood up and returned to his bike. It saw it was just above me to set the chain when I saw it sewn into the leather on the back of his vest.
In memory of Gabriel Strickland.
My father’s name.
My heart beats in my chest as he wears down and the engine makes my thoughts own.
The next Monday I waited on the bench and didn’t know if he was really showing. But at 3:17pm he was there. Same as Guardian Angel, who has the same bike and oil-dyed boots.
He didn’t say much about this or the next day. He just sat down with me. After a while I began talking about school about how the kids behaved and how difficult it is to feel invisible and still be chosen. Sometimes he growls. Sometimes he laughs.
Finally I asked him what his name was.
“People called me Goose,” he shrugged. â» was even worse. “
I laughed harder than I had for a few weeks. A few days were weeks. Guns has become part of my routine, like the bullying I had before. Except for the present, things were different. The boys never returned. Goose scared her so badly that they were more prisoners than approaching me. I even noticed the teacher. One of them asked if this guy was my uncle on the bike.
“I think I said that.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about what he said about my father.
One afternoon we talked again. They said they had made an appointment to him. Before he died. What a promise? “
The cancer hesitated. He was not safe for the first time. He then pulled out the same photo. This time he made me hold. A boy who looked like me? That was my father.
We were 14 years old. I fled from Akron’s group house. I lived in a dream of building a stolen dose of ravioli and bicycle.
I blinked. My dad never told me that.
He won’t t. Gabe wanted to leave it behind. He was encouraged by a wonderful couple. I didn’t do that. There’s more time for Juvi than at school.
I went back to the photo. “What was that promise?”
Goose rubbed the back of his neck. “He got sick. Cancer. I visited him near the end. He said—‘If anything happens to me, make sure my kid never feels alone like we did.’”
I swallowed. “He knew he was dying?”
“Yeah,” Goose said quietly. “But he didn’t cry. Just held my hand and made me swear.”
He stood, like he always did. But before he left, he turned back.
“You’ve got more of him in you than you think. Just… don’t be afraid to let people in.”
I didn’t cry until he was gone.
Senior year came fast. So did college applications. I started tutoring underclassmen, joined the robotics club, and even stood up for a freshman who was being harassed. I figured Goose would’ve approved.
I saw him less often, but he always came back. Birthdays, holidays. Sometimes out of the blue. Sometimes just a text:
“Still got your back. – G”
Eventually, I learned to ride a motorcycle too.
Last summer, I rode with him to a bike rally upstate. It was the first time I saw Goose smile without hesitation. Said it felt like passing the torch.
That night, around a campfire, surrounded by chrome and old leather, I told the story—about the bench, the bullies, the promise.
A woman leaned over and whispered, “You’re lucky. Most people don’t get their guardian angel in real life.”
I smiled. “He’s not an angel. He’s Goose.”
So now, every May 10th—my dad’s birthday—I ride to that same school bench. I sit there for a while, even if no one shows. Just in case some kid needs to feel seen.
Because once, I was them.
And I made a promise.
If this story hit home or made you smile, give it a like or share it with someone who might need a reminder: sometimes the smallest act of kindness can echo for a lifetime.
