A lot of stories are told by people who are smart, or brave.
I’m neither, but I have a story to tell, though it’s not my own.
Jean, Jean, how can I tell your story without making you a hero draped in robes of silver and crowned with a halo of gold? How can I describe you without lighting on your wide, open smile or your crazy red hair? Why did you insist that you were not the lion in your true name?
If you were here now, you would tell me, “Bella, get to the point!”, just as if I were chattering on about the new flavor of ice cream at Uppy’s. I’ll try, Jean, I’ll try.
Jean, I hope you remember that day. You said, before you died, that you didn’t recall it. Maybe now that you’re in heaven, you can commit it to memory?
It was when you were twelve, and I was nine.
Do you remember the playground, or even the names of the people you pushed away from me? It was Skip Playground, the one with the merry-go-round that the bigger kids would push their little siblings on. The merry-go-round is gone now, but I hope you remember the pattern of colors.
That day, I was sitting, watching the merry-go-round’s blur of wonderful colors, wishing with all my heart to get on. I’ve never had any siblings, let alone an older one, so there was no way I could get onto that whirling article of playground envy.
There were two older siblings, both with hair like dirt and demonic smiles. Do you remember Alison and Dave? They moved away when I was thirteen.
They found me with my legs drawn up to my chin, staring wistfully at the merry-go-round.
“Do you want to get on the ‘round? Do ya, punk?” Alison asked, cracking her knuckles menacingly. Here, Jean, you would start laughing. It was pretty childish, them with their weak adolescent imitation. But I was immature, too, and nodded, thinking this was a chance to finally join the ranks of those on the merry-go-round, as an equal.
Jean, you know I’m so dense. You would always say I wasn’t- but I’m still so stupid. Without you, I-
No, Bella, you would say, tell the story. I’m listening.
When I had nodded, they both began to advance even closer, their shadows falling on my frightened features. Alison had only just kicked me and Dave had only just grabbed my hair when you shouted, “No! Stop!”, from across the playground, and ran to my rescue.
You scared Alison and Dave off with one glare, but that was even more frightening to me. I’m such a mouse, Jean. You knelt over me and smoothed my lank hair down where Dave had rumpled it up and wiped the tears that had started to fall down my face.
“You OK?” you asked soothingly, giving me a hug. “They’re such jerks. I go to class with Dave, and he’s always picking on somebody.”
“Who are you?” I had asked, once you’d released your hug.
“Leo Jean Fritjof, but everybody calls me Jean,” you’d said, smiling.
“Why?” I’d asked.
“Well, Leo is a name for someone who’s brave,” you’d explained. “And I’m not all that brave, nor lionlike, which is the name’s root. And I don’t believe in that zodiac stuff, either.”
Ah, from then on, I was practically worshipping the ground you’d walked on. I hung around at your bus stop, waiting for you to get off and I’d follow you home, just to be around someone so great as to save a little mouse-child from bullies.
You never minded, did you, Jean? Even as I grew older, you were still my hero, helping me out with school or just giving me good advice. And all the time, you’d be smiling.
I remember, once, when I was almost stalking you, I heard one of his friends saying, “Jeez, Jean, doesn’t that little brat EVER stop following you around?”
“Oh, lay off, Mark.” I heard you reply, “She’s a sweet kid, and I’m her only friend.”
That was my first clue, but I never cared. I had my eyes fixed on a shining hero, one who didn’t find me to be an odd child or a bother. You would take me to the ice-cream parlor, or talk to me about the books you were reading –tell me, have you met Huck Finn, yet, up there?- or explained puzzling people to me. Sometimes we would stay out and you would catch fireflies for me, and we would watch them crawl over our palms. You were really my guardian angel, Jean.
And because of me, you’re gone.
It happened only last month.
That morning…I’m so sorry, Jean.
You had told me to stop following him around, as it was giving people the wrong ideas.
Before I could ask what you’d meant, you’d left.
I went through the rest of the day in a daze, trying to figure out what you’d meant. Oh, Jean, I’m so stupid, no wonder you wanted to get rid of me.
It was at the intersection of Cherry and Peach. My air-headedness had reached its peak for that day, and I crossed the street without waiting for the light to change.
Who can fully explain the terror of being hit by a car? The whirling lights, the screeching tires, the screaming pedestrians.
I looked up from my lulled thoughts and saw a bright blue car heading right for me.
I gazed at the headlights, dim perception in my head. The cement had hardened my feet to the road, and I was powerless to move in the few seconds that stood between myself and death.
And suddenly, Jean, you pushed me out of the way. The look on your face as I turned around, mid-fall. The concern for your charge- me. Jean, Jean.
Why did you always say that you weren’t brave enough to bear the name Leo? You are my guardian angel, my friend, the lion.
As the car hit you, everything I saw was thrown into incredible detail- the different rocks set into the pavement, the faces of those people who were frantically dialing 9-1-1 into their cellphones, and the look on your face, Jean.
It had hit you in the side, hard, and then kept on driving. I remember screaming horribly and running to embrace your limp form.
“Jean, Jean!” I’d sobbed, like the idiot I am. “Leo! Leo the brave!”
You’d opened your eyes, clouded, for the first time, and your lips twitched in a shadow of your former grin.
And then I lost you.
Oh, Leo, Jean. Your coat of arms is the lion.
Despite your words.
___________
I was thinking earlier about how the hero of the story is not necessarily the viewpoint char.
And this little story came into being. I don't think I did a very good job- too short.
But whatever.
~Sumi
PS I'm grounded, you might not see a lot of me for a while. 
