Cults of Personality

I decided to dress a little differently that day. I tucked in a button up shirt, spiffed my boots- "clean" is a good word for the way I looked.

The walk home was especially enjoyable. It was just cool enough to keep me from a sweat without chilling me. I had a good smile on my face, a rare enough occasion as to sweeten its present company.

I passed the same few whom I pass each walk home. My smile would increase, and with a nod I'd say 'hello.' Most responded in kind. Most all, except for one.

He was tall for his age; still in high school. His long, straight, hair, parted sharply down the middle, reached his jaw line. His arms didn't move when he walked, nor his head. His baggy, black pants mirrored the loose flow of his hair as he walked. His eyes would dart toward anything new in view, then return blankly to the fore.

"Hello," I said.

His eyes jumped to me, then away as he scoffed. "hmmpf, preppy," he accused me under his breath, turning his eyes aside. As I said, I wasn't in my normal scrubs. I kept smiling, kept walking, then stopped quite still. I had just walked past myself, or me from years back.

I turned and said, "Young man." He looked back, ready to apathetically shrug off everything I was about to say.

"Rebellion," I continued, "is in the mind. Don't let your eyes fool you."

The readied "whatever" faded from his lips, and I could see the interest sprouting in his eyes and face.

"Have a good day," I said, and went home.

* * *
The next day on my walk home he was waiting for me at the corner. It seemed I had taken on a pupil.