by Paul Hostovsky
Everybody called him Toby,
though his real name was October,
though nobody knew that except the teacher
who assured him his secret was safe with her
that first day in September, when he came in
early, before any of the other kids
and introduced himself to her,
and told her about his hippie parents
who had named him October
because they loved October
and because they got married in October
and so a year later in October
he was born October. She said
she thought it was a lovely name and a lovely
story. But he said it was an affliction.
He told her how the kids in his old school
called him Ock. Or else they called him Brr.
They made fun of him in cruel ways, like rubbing
their arms and stamping their feet when he passed,
saying: “Brr, it’s cold in here.” They teased him
about June, the bookish girl with the thick glasses,
saying lewd things like: “It feels like October
in June.” It got so bad he had to move away
and start his life over. His hippie father
put in for a transfer. His mother who did macrame
could do macrame anywhere, so they moved
here. And he started anew, with a new name,
a new identity. It was not unlike
the federal witness protection program,
except his parents felt guilty as hell
and were never prosecuted.