Meet Me Where the Oak Tree Grows

He bought it. Nobody really cared what his actual name was; everyone just called him "Dummy."
So, every morning at school, Dummy's first task was to hand over his allowance, making sure these self-proclaimed "big shots" were content. He
couldn't stand wasting anything. Even if his sandwiches and snacks were stomped into the dirt, he'd still clean them off and eat them, heading home
with footprints all over his clothes.
His grandma was getting on in years. She would gather extra recyclables to sell just to give him a little more pocket money, hoping to make his life a
bit better. How do I know this? I once crossed paths with his grandma while collecting recyclables myself. She was a kind old lady with gentle eyes,
much like Dummy.
But kindness often attracts bullies. I could barely fend for myself, so all I could do was yell, "The principal's coming!" whenever they dragged him into
the boys' restroom. I didn’t call for a teacher? Because they just didn't care.
When his clothes were covered in footprints, I'd help brush off the dirt to make it less obvious by the time he got home. After school in winter, I'd tidy
up the classroom so he could leave early. It got dark quickly, and his grandma would worry.
He was different from me. No one was waiting for me at home, but there was always a light on for him. Kids without a place to call home don't look
forward to going back.
Over time, I realized he wasn't as clueless as they thought. His name was Angie—a rather lovely name. He knew who treated him well and who
didn't.
When I helped him, he'd thank me and bring me breakfast the next day. Every day, he had a snack—a hotdog. He used to eat it secretly before
school, but later, he started sharing it with me. Half for him, half for me. Because everyone laughed at him for being dirty, he'd hand me the food with
cautious eyes.
He'd say, "I'm not dirty. These are really clean. Please don't look down on me." He'd call me his good friend, the only friend in the class. He said if he
didn't comply, they'd go after his grandma. Since I hung out with him, I became the class's second "Dummy."
From then on, I wasn't Lana anymore; I was "La Dummy." They said La Dummy and the real Dummy were the perfect pair. They teased that the two
dummies were in puppy love. They scribbled "Dummy's wife" on the back of my notebooks, asking when I'd marry that Dummy.
They laughed like demons fresh out of hell. The innocence and cruelty of youth were painfully clear.
In eighth grade's second semester, we got a new homeroom teacher. Ms. Costa was young and had that true educator vibe.

She was tough but fair, and she tackled everything. Every week, she'd hold class meetings, stressing the zero-tolerance policy on bullying. Reporting
to her actually worked. I wasn't the butt of tasteless jokes anymore, and Angie stopped going home with bruises.
He was thrilled, saying he'd bring me a whole hotdog tomorrow to thank me for speaking up. I told him that'd be great and promised to bring him a
little gift too. We both cheered for the justice that finally came.
Angie adored the balloons sold at the school's south gate, especially the ones shaped like cute animals. But his pocket money was always snatched
away, so he never bought any. The next day, I got to school early. With the five bucks I had saved, I bought him two balloons.