Barry remembered last year; Christmas. Hiding behind the bus stand, glancing at his watch. Standing in the dark, until sure his parents had left for their party.
Then, moving between yards, staying away from street lights, he’d quietly snuck back to his house.
He had to avoid the sidewalks, move through back yards and narrow alleys, so no one would see him. He didn’t want his parents to know he hadn’t been invited to the party. He didn’t want his parents to learn that the only reason he claimed to have a place to go was to not spoil their night.
So, he had claimed to have been invited to a Party, they had been invited to a place they wanted to go. They left, happily.
Now Barry slinks home, and using the backdoor key, entered his house. He entered, then stood in the dark and cried. Cried like the Nobarry, he was.
He couldn’t turn on a light or the T.V. for then the neighbours would know he was home.
He stood crying in the dark. Then, he stopped. He stopped because he was Nobarry, and being alone, not being invited, was normal.
His eyes adjusted to the dark, and Barry went to his bedroom. He took off his suit, hung it in the closet, pulled on his pajamas.
Then he sat on the floor, and felt sorry for himself.
It wasn’t that he wanted to go to that Xmas Fete; he didn’t. He didn’t like the people, didn’t like parties. He had cried because he was pathetic.