If your enemy is hungry, give him food to eat; if he is thirsty, give him water to drink.  In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head, and the LORD will reward you (Proverbs 25:21-22).

Tony Sanchez has made the sixth grade miserable.  I mean, seriously, I've come to hate going to school -- because he's there.  He calls me Stickboy and pushes me into the urinal just about every time he passes me in the bathroom.  He flicks me in the back of the head during math lessons, when Mr. Anderson is up at the board -- and if I ever try to tell on him, I get it at recess.  He pushes me down and calls me Stickboy and says that I don't actually have a penis (while I can assure you that I do).  And he makes me pay him "tribute."  It's not technically stealing my lunch money, since he doesn't forcefully remove it from my hand or my pocket; I give it to him.  But basically I'm paying Tony for "protection" from Tony himself, so it is kind of like stealing.  My Dad says that it's the oldest trick in the book -- and that I should stand up for myself -- but it's really the only trick I've got.  What else is a "Stickboy" supposed to do against a monster like Tony Sanchez?  He's got to weigh, like, 200 pounds -- in the sixth grade!

Well, the school year is finally finishing -- thank God!  And I'm hopeful that the 7th grade won't be so bad.  I'm hoping that Tony will get held back again (it had to have already happened, like, four times considering the size of the guy!).  But even if we both make it to Middle School, I'm pretty sure that the power dynamics at the school are going to shift.  They say that everything changes in Middle School.  And, well, I say that any kind of change between me and Tony Sanchez is a very good thing.

Tonight, we're having our end-of-the-year banquet / sixth-grade graduation thing.  We're all supposed to wear our nicest clothes and put gel in our hair and use good table manners as we sit with our family's in the school cafeteria.  Each family is supposed to bring their own dinner plus a dessert to share with other families in a big old dessert buffet.  My Mom and Dad had to come straight to the banquet from their work -- so we get to enjoy a big red-and-white bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken (original recipe) instead of something home-baked.  Though my Mom feels the need to apologize and explain herself to the other moms at the banquet, I think the Kentucky Fried Chicken suits me just fine (beats the heck out of a casserole any day).  I'm half-way through a drumstick, though, when I notice Tony.  He's sitting at a table by himself.  He has on a large red polo shirt with grease stains on the front, looking pretty pathetic.  And he doesn't have any food, except for a bag of Fritos.  For a moment, I have to admit, I feel kind of smug about this bittersweet ending to his reign of terror on my sixth grade life.  It serves him right, the way I figure, that he's all sad and lonely, seeing how he treated the rest of us throughout the school year.

But I can't enjoy the chicken and the biscuits, while Tony is in my line of sight.  I feel kind of sorry for the big guy.  I don't know why, really, but I just feel sad for him.

So I butt into my Mom and Dad's conversation with Aaron Bartley's parents, and I ask if it would be OK for me to invite Tony Sanchez to come over and join us.  My dad gives me a questioning look, but he shrugs his shoulders and says it's all right.  My Mom looks into the bucket and says that there's still plenty of chicken left to share, so sure, why not.  So I walk up to Tony's table and I ask him if he'd like to come and join us for dinner, at least until his parents arrive.

"They ain't coming," Tony says.

"Well, then come on over and have some dinner with us.  Do you like KFC?" I ask.

"Yeah," he shrugs, not really making eye contact with me.  Then he follows me over to the table and sits down across from me, next to my Dad.  The table creaks under his weight, as he sits down.  He immediately falls into the chicken and biscuits without a word of thanks.  Typical Tony.  I start to wonder what I've done to myself, inviting this cretin to share our dinner table -- just because I felt sorry for him -- but then I notice that Tony is crying.  Not big baby tears, just a bit of wetness at the corner of the eyes and choked-back, uneven breaths of air in between bites, almost as if he is just really, really hungry.  But I'm pretty sure he's crying.  I try to look away, pretending not to notice his tears.  The rest of the night, Tony doesn't say anything.  He and I go up and get our certificates, along with the rest of our class, and then we return to our table.  And when the ceremony is finished and the desserts are eaten up, Tony stands up to leave without another word.  My parents try to ask him a few questions, but he answers with the minimum word count.  Mostly he just looks at his feet until he finally decides to stand up and make for the door.  I wonder at the bizarre turn of events throughout the evening.  I wonder what it all means.

Before he leaves, Tony turns to me and says, "Thanks for dinner, Jeff."  And then he walks out the door.  Honestly, I still don't know what it all means, except that I know he called me "Jeff," not "Stickboy."  The first time all year that he used my real name.