I was a collector of things no one else wanted. My most prized possession was a slightly fuzzy baseball glove—a hand-me-down from my older brother, which I kept in my backpack at all times.
Then came Marcus. Marcus didn’t collect things; he collected fear. He had a cruel smile and shoulders that seemed to take up the whole hallway.
“What’s in the backpack today, Bobby?” he’d ask.
It started small. A shove against a locker. A spilled tray of tater tots. Then, the backpack itself became the target. The first time, Marcus grabbed it and tossed it onto the top of the chain-link fence, forcing me to climb for it while the other kids snickered and watched. My ceramic owl shattered that day.
The bullying became a ritual. Every day, I would walk to school with my backpack clutched tight, and every day, the fear would build until it was an unbearable knot in my chest. My grades slipped. I stopped talking at the dinner table. I felt like I was living in a perpetual state of waiting for the next blow. I felt completely alone.
One day, Marcus cornered me by the bike racks. “Show me what you’ve got in there today, Bobby.”
I held the backpack tighter. I could feel the leather of the baseball glove. I knew what Marcus would do to it. I shook his head.
“No,” I whispered.
“What was that? I didn’t hear you.” Marcus stepped closer.
“Leave me alone,” I said, his voice stronger this time.
Marcus laughed, a harsh, barking sound. He lunged and ripped the backpack off my shoulders. As he did, the zipper broke and the contents spilled onto the pavement. Out rolled the fuzzy, brown baseball glove, a small, worn token of a simpler time.
Marcus picked it up, tossing it from one hand to the other. “Look at this, guys! Bobby’s little baby blanket!”
“Hey, Marcus, give it back.”
It was Lily, a quiet girl from my science class.
Marcus froze, surprised by her intervention. “What’d you say?”
“I said, give it back,” Lily repeated, stepping forward.
Marcus sneered. “What are you gonna do about it?”
“I’m going to go get a teacher,” she said.
For a moment, Marcus stood there, glaring. He could have easily ignored her, shoved her aside. But something in her simple, unwavering stance, and the sudden shift in the other kids’ silence, stopped him. The silent crowd was no longer on his side. Their snickers had been replaced by a quiet, expectant stillness.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Marcus tossed the glove back toward me. It landed with a soft thump in the dirt. He then dropped the broken backpack and walked away, his friends trailing behind him. The air seemed to exhale.
Lily helped me pick up the scattered books and broken zipper. Neither of them said anything, but as they stood there, a quiet understanding passed between them. The next day, Lily waited for me at the end of the hallway. We walked to the playground together. We didn’t play baseball, but we sat on the bench and talked, a shared space where the weight of my backpack felt a little lighter.
The bullying didn’t stop overnight, but it changed. Marcus still gave me dirty looks, but he didn’t touch my backpack again. And I found a new kind of strength, not in fighting back, but in knowing that I wasn’t alone. I still had his collection of misfit treasures, but now, I also had a friend, and a little bit of my old courage back.