Nice Boy

Nice Boy

Bimse sat one the edge of his bed, lobbing the football from his right hand to his left. From his left hand to his right. And so on.

His mother passed Bimse’s open door.

She stopped to ask why he was so glum.

“I wanna play football today,” he said. “But the other kids won’t play.”

“Why not?” his mother asked.

“Cause they’re mean and they’re selfish.”

“How?” she asked.

“I’m willing to share my football,” he said. “Nobody else has a football. I’m willing to share like a nice boy. I’m willing to share but they don’t wanna play with me.”

Bimse stopped juggling the ball so he could pout.

“You are nice boy,” his mother said. “So why don’t they want to play with you?”

“I don’t know,” Bimse said. “All I ask is for one little thing. One simple, little thing for being such a nice boy who shares his football.”

“What’s that?” his mother asked.

“All I ask is we play by the rules where I always win. It’s not asking much, seeing as I’m the only kid with a football and I’m willing to share it.”

“I see. So what will you do instead of playing football today?”

“I guess sit here wishing the other kids were as nice as me.”

“Okay,” his mother said, leaving him.

Bimse went back to tossing his football between his hands.

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