Character Types Activity 2

The lunch table had rules. Nobody ever wrote them down. Everybody just knew them.

Rule one: the last one to the table bought the fries. Rule two: nobody sat in Chase's seat. Rule three: you could never turn down a dare. And rule four, the big one: Chase could make a new rule any time he wanted.

Wes had been sitting at that table since September. He knew every rule by heart. He knew them because he was always the one they landed on.

Chase had given him a nickname too. Toolbox. It started because Wes worked Saturdays at his grandfather's repair shop. In about a week the whole grade was saying it, even kids who had never sat at their table. Wes laughed every time, like it was funny. He had gotten really good at laughing.

Devin laughed the loudest. Devin sat on Chase's right and repeated everything Chase said, one second later and a little louder. In all the months Wes had known him, Devin had never once said anything that Chase had not said first.

Nadia sat at the end of the table. She drew all the time, mostly people, and she was quick, so when Chase aimed a joke at her she usually had one ready to fire back. She also kept her sketchbook zipped inside her bag at that table, which she never did anywhere else in the whole building. Once, in the hall, she stopped Wes and said, "You know Toolbox is not a compliment, right? They have one for me too." Wes told her it was just a joke. Nadia looked at him a second longer than she needed to. Then she let it go.

On Saturdays, Wes worked at his grandfather's shop on Delaney Street. It was a small store that smelled like solder and old paper.

Grandpa Miles was seventy-eight. He had huge, rough hands and he kept every screw he had ever acquired in coffee cans on a shelf above the workbench. He never rushed. He never raised his voice. When Wes asked him a question, Grandpa Miles usually waited a long time before he answered.

That fall, Grandpa Miles let Wes build a radio out of the parts bin. It took six weeks. Wes cleaned every piece, soldered every wire, and sanded the wooden case by hand. When he finally plugged it in, music came out. Miles put down his coffee, listened for a whole minute, and said, "You built a good machine, Wes."

On Monday, Wes brought it to school.

He set it in the middle of the lunch table and turned it on. For about four seconds, it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Then Chase picked it up and held it over his head. "New rule," he said. "Toolbox has to earn it back."

He threw it to Devin. Devin threw it down the table. Wes went one way and then the other way, reaching, while everybody laughed. Then the radio crashed down on the tile floor and something inside it cracked.

Chase looked at it. "Relax, Toolbox," he said. "It was junk anyway."

And Wes laughed.

That was the part he kept thinking about later. Not the throwing. Not the crack. The laughing. Nobody made him do it. He did it himself, right on time with everybody else, while six weeks of work sat in pieces next to his shoe.

Wes was quiet at the shop that Saturday. He swept the same piece of floor twice. Grandpa Miles let him be quiet for about an hour. Then he set a coffee can on the bench between them and started sorting screws.

"Tell me about your friends," Grandpa Miles said.

So Wes told him. Not all of it. Enough of it.

Grandpa Miles sorted for a while without looking up. Then he said, "Do you know Sal?"

Wes did. Sal came by most Sundays, and the two of them argued about baseball for hours and loved every second of it.

Grandpa Miles looked at Wes for a long time and then said, "About fifty years back, my truck died out on Route 9 at two in the morning. Snow coming down sideways. I called four men that night. Four men I ate lunch with every single day." He dropped a screw in the can. "Not one of them picked up. But Sal... Sal drove three hours through that mess to help me out of that jam and he never said a word about it. Not that night. Not since."

Wes waited for the rest.

"Anybody can be good to you when it costs them nothing," Miles said. "You want to know who a person is? Watch what they do when it costs them something."

Then he handed Wes a screwdriver and that was the whole talk. They worked until six.

Wes thought about it Sunday. He thought about it on the bus Monday morning.

At lunch, Nadia had her sketchbook open. She was finishing something for art class. Chase reached over and slid it away from her.

"New rule," Chase said, holding it up where she could see it. "Nadia's drawings are public property." He tossed it to Devin.

Wes was already standing. He did not even remember deciding to stand and yet, he had risen. Then he spoke.

"Give it back."

The table went quiet. Devin sat there holding the sketchbook and looking at Chase.

Chase smiled the same smile he used for everything. "It is a joke, Toolbox. Why is everybody so sensitive?"

"My name is Wes."

He picked up his tray and walked away. As he neared the door he heard Chase behind him, already moving, already back out in front of it, "New rule. Nobody sits in Toolbox's seat." The table laughed right on time. Wes kept walking.

Nadia caught up with him at the doors. Devin trailed behind her, holding the sketchbook. He handed it to Nadia without saying anything about it. Then Devin said, "Your radio was good, Wes."

Chase had never said that. Nobody at that table had ever said anything like that. It seemed that perhaps Devin could express original thoughts.

The three of them sat on the cold concrete steps outside the gym. Nadia looked out at the parking lot. "I knew all of it," she said. "I have known since October. I just kept sitting there."

"Why?" Wes asked.

She shrugged. "Same reason you did."

Wes thought about the snow on Route 9 and four men who did not pick up the phone. Then he looked at the two people freezing on the steps beside him, and he knew exactly what he had.

The lunch table had rules. No one had written them down and no one had ever needed to.

Rule one: the last one to the table bought the fries. Rule two: nobody sat in Chase's seat. Rule three: you did not turn down a dare, ever, regardless of the dare. And rule four, the one that held the other three in place: Chase could invent a new rule whenever it suited him.

Wes had been at that table since September, and he could recite the entire code from memory, largely because he was the one it always seemed to land on.

Chase had given him his name as well: Toolbox, on account of the Saturdays Wes spent at his grandfather's repair shop. Inside of a week the whole grade began calling him Toolbox, including people who had never once sat with them. Wes laughed every time. He had become extremely good at laughing.

Devin laughed loudest. He sat at Chase's right hand and repeated whatever Chase said roughly a second later and slightly louder, an echo with a delay on it. In all the months Wes had known him, Devin had never once said anything that Chase had not said first.

Nadia sat at the far end. She drew compulsively, people mostly, and she was quick enough that when Chase aimed something in her direction she usually had something loaded and ready to come back with. She kept her sketchbook zipped inside her bag at that table, which she never did anywhere else in the whole building. Once, in the hallway, she stopped Wes and said, "You know Toolbox is not a compliment, right? They have one for me too." Wes told her it was just a joke. Nadia held the look a beat longer than she needed to and then she looked away and let Wes have it his way.

Saturdays, Wes worked the counter at his grandfather's shop on Delaney Street, a narrow storefront that smelled of solder and old paper and had not changed its sign since before he was born.

Grandpa Miles was seventy-eight and had enormous scarred hands worn from work. He kept every screw and piece of hardware he had ever acquired sorted into coffee cans on the shelf above the bench, and each can was labeled in neat block capitals. Grandpa Miles did not rush nor did he raise his voice. When Wes asked him a question, Miles had a habit of letting a long silence go by first, as though the question deserved better than whatever occurred to him immediately, and Wes noted and appreciated his thoughtfulness.

That fall Grandpa Miles turned him loose on the parts bin and let him build a radio out of nothing. It took Wes six weeks to clean every component, solder every joint, and sand the wooden case by hand until the grain came up smooth as skin. But when Wes finally plugged it in and music came out of it, Grandpa Miles set down his coffee, listened for a full minute, and delivered his entire review: "You built a good machine, Wes."

On Monday, Wes brought the radio to school and he was excited to show off his work.

He set it in the middle of the lunch table and switched it on, and for approximately four seconds it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Then Chase snatched it off the table and lifted it over his head. "New rule," he announced. "Toolbox has to earn it back."

He lobbed it to Devin, who caught it and slid it across the table. Wes went one way and then the other, hands out, reaching, playing his assigned part in it while the table came apart laughing, until the radio crashed down on the tile and something inside it cracked.

Chase looked at the wreckage without much interest. "Relax, Toolbox. It was junk anyway."

And Wes laughed.

That was the piece he could not put down afterward. Not the throwing, not the crack, not even the line. The laughing. No one had forced him into it. He had produced it himself, on cue, right on time, while six weeks of his own work lay in pieces on the cafeteria floor next to spilt ketchup and milk droplets.

Wes was quiet at the shop that Saturday and he swept the same eight feet of floor twice without noticing he had done it. Grandpa Miles let him have the better part of an hour before setting a coffee can on the bench between them and beginning, with no particular urgency, to sort screws.

"Tell me about your friends," Miles said.

So Wes told him. Not all of it. Enough of it.

Miles sorted for a while without looking up. Then he said, "Do you know Sal?"

Wes did. Sal turned up most Sundays and Grandpa Miles and he argued about baseball for hours at a stretch, with rising tension at times, yet they both appeared to regard it as the high point of the week.

Grandpa Miles looked at Wes for a long time and then said, "About fifty years back, my truck died on Route 9 at two in the morning, snow coming down sideways. I called four men that night. Four men I ate lunch with every day of my life." He dropped a screw into the can. "Not one of them picked up. But Sal... Sal drove three hours through that dreadful weather to help me out of that jam and he has never mentioned it since. Not that night. Not once after."

Wes waited for the rest of it but there was no rest of it.

"Anybody can be good to you when it costs them nothing," Miles said. "You want to know who a person is, watch what they do when it costs them something."

Then he handed Wes a screwdriver and that was the whole of the conversation. They worked until six.

But Wes deeply considered the story that Grandpa Miles had told him. He turned it over Sunday and he turned it over again on the bus Monday morning.

At lunch Nadia had the sketchbook open on the table, finishing something due sixth period. Chase reached across and slid it out from under her hand.

"New rule," he said, holding it up where she could watch it. "Nadia's drawings are public property." He flipped it to Devin.

Wes was already standing. He did not even remember deciding to stand and yet, he had risen. Then he spoke.

"Give it back."

The table went quiet in a way that lunch tables almost never do. Devin sat holding the sketchbook, looking at Chase.

Chase gave the same smile he gave everything. "It is a joke, Toolbox. Why is everybody so sensitive?"

"My name is Wes."

Then Wes picked up his tray and left. He was not even clear of the table before he heard Chase behind him, already moving, already back out in front of it. "New rule. Nobody sits in Toolbox's seat." The laugh came in right on schedule. Wes kept walking and found, to his surprise, that the whole thing went much smoother than he had thought it might.

Soon Nadia caught him at the doors and someone else was behind her.

It was Devin holding the sketchbook. He passed it to Nadia without comment and said, "Your radio was good, Wes."

Chase had never said that. No one at that table had ever said anything remotely like it. It seemed that perhaps Devin could express original thoughts.

The three of them wound up on the concrete steps outside the gym. Nadia looked out across the parking lot. "I knew all of it," she said. "I have known since October but I just kept sitting there anyway."

"Why?" Wes asked.

She shrugged. "Same reason you did."

Wes thought about a snowstorm on Route 9 and four men who did not pick up the phone. Then he looked at the two people freezing on the steps beside him and understood exactly what he had.

The lunch table had rules. No one had written them down because no one had ever needed to.

Rule one: the last one to the table bought the fries. Rule two: nobody sat in Chase's seat. Rule three: you did not turn down a dare, ever, regardless of the dare. And rule four, the one that held the other three in place: Chase could invent a new rule whenever it suited him.

Wes had been at that table since September and he could recite the entire code from memory, largely because he was the one it always seemed to land on.

Chase had given him his name as well. Toolbox, on account of the Saturdays Wes spent at his grandfather's repair shop. Inside of a week the whole grade began calling him Toolbox, including people who had never once sat with them. Wes laughed every time. He had become extremely good at laughing.

Devin laughed loudest. He sat at Chase's right hand and repeated whatever Chase said roughly a second later and slightly louder, an echo with a delay on it. In all the months Wes had known him, Devin had never once said anything that Chase had not said first.

Nadia sat at the far end of the lunch table. She drew compulsively, people mostly, and she was quick enough that when Chase aimed something in her direction she usually had something loaded and ready to come back with. She also kept her sketchbook zipped inside her bag at that table and nowhere else in the building. Once, in the hallway, she stopped Wes and said, "You know Toolbox is not a compliment, right? They have one for me too." Wes told her it was just a joke. Nadia held the look a beat longer than she needed to, and then she looked away and let Wes have it his way.

On Saturdays Wes worked the counter at his grandfather's shop on Delaney Street, a narrow storefront that smelled of solder and old paper and had not changed its sign since before Wes was born.

Grandpa Miles was seventy-eight and had enormous scarred hands from years of hard work. He kept every bolt, screw, and loose piece of hardware that he had ever acquired sorted into coffee cans on the shelf above the bench, and every can was labeled in the neat block capital letters. Grandpa Miles did not rush andhe did not raise his voice. When Wes asked him a question, Grandpa Miles had a habit of letting a long silence go by first, as though the question deserved better than whatever occurred to him immediately, and Wes noted and appreciated his thoughtfulness.

That fall Grandpa Miles turned Wes loose on the parts bin and let him build a radio out of nothing. It took six weeks as Wes cleaned every component, soldered every joint, and sanded the wooden case by hand until the grain came up smooth as skin. When Wes finally plugged it in and music came out of it, Grandpa Miles set down his coffee, listened for a full minute, and delivered his entire review: "You built a good machine, Wes."

On Monday, Wes brought the radio with him to school.

He set it in the middle of the lunch table and switched it on, and for a brief moment it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Then Chase snatched the radio off the table and lifted it over his head. "New rule," he announced. "Toolbox has to earn it back."

He lobbed it to Devin, who caught it and put it down on the table. Somebody else slid it across the table while Wes went one way and then the other, hands out, reaching, playing his assigned part in it while the table came apart laughing, and then the radio crashed down on the tile and something inside it cracked.

Chase looked at the wreckage without much interest. "Relax, Toolbox. It was junk anyway."

And Wes laughed.

That was the piece he could not put down afterward. Not the throwing, not the crack, not even the line. The laughing. No one had forced him into it. He had produced it himself, on cue, right on time, while six weeks of his own work lay in pieces on the cafeteria floor next to spilt ketchup and milk droplets.

Wes was quiet at the shop that Saturday and he swept the same eight feet of floor twice without noticing he had done it. Grandpa Miles let him have the better part of an hour before setting a coffee can on the bench between them and beginning, with no particular urgency, to sort screws.

"Tell me about your friends," Grandpa Miles said.

So Wes told him. Not all of it. Enough of it.

Miles sorted for a while without looking up. Then he said, "Do you know Sal?"

Wes did. Sal turned up most Sundays and Grandpa Miles and he argued about baseball for hours at a stretch, tensions rising intermittently, and yet they each appeared to regard it as the high point of their week.

Grandpa Miles looked at Wes for a long time and then said, "About fifty years back, my truck died on Route 9 at two in the morning, snow coming down sideways. I called four men that night. Four men I ate lunch with every day of my life." He dropped a screw into the can with a clink. "Not one of them picked up. But Sal, he drove three hours through that weather to help me out of that jam and he has never mentioned it since. Not that night. Not once after."

Wes waited for the rest of it but there was no rest of it.

"Anybody can be good to you when it costs them nothing," Miles said. "You want to know who a person is, watch what they do when it costs them something."

Then he handed Wes a screwdriver and that was the whole of the conversation. They worked until six.

But Wes deeply considered the story that Grandpa Miles had told him. He turned it over Sunday and he turned it over again on the bus Monday morning.

At lunch, Nadia had her sketchbook open on the table, finishing something due sixth period. Chase reached across and slid it out from under her hand.

"New rule," he said, holding it up where she could watch it but not reach it. "Nadia's drawings are public property." He flipped it to Devin.

Wes was already standing. He did not even remember deciding to stand and yet, he had risen. Then he spoke.

"Give it back."

The table went quiet in a way that lunch tables essentially never do and Devin sat holding the sketchbook, looking at Chase.

Chase gave the same smile he gave everything and responded, "It is a joke, Toolbox. Why is everybody so sensitive?"

"My name is Wes."

Then Wes picked up his tray and left. He was not even clear of the table before he heard Chase behind him, already moving, already back out in front of it. "New rule. Nobody sits in Toolbox's seat." The laugh came in right on schedule. Wes kept walking and found, to his surprise, that the whole thing went much smoother than he had thought it might.

Nadia caught him at the doors and someone else was behind her.

Devin was holding the sketchbook. He passed it to Nadia without remark and said, "Your radio was good, Wes."

Chase had never said that. No one at that table had ever said anything remotely like it. It seemed that perhaps Devin could express original thoughts.

The three of them wound up on the concrete steps outside the gym. Nadia looked out across the parking lot. "I knew all of it," she said. "I have known since October. I just kept sitting there anyway."

"Why?" Wes asked.

She shrugged. "Same reason you did."

Wes thought about a snowstorm on Route 9 and four men who did not pick up the phone. Then he looked at the two people freezing on the steps beside him and understood exactly what he had.