He was part of that neighborhood boy gang. My sister and I had just moved to the area, the newbies on the street and also, the only girls around their age in the neighborhood.

Back in the early nineties, we actually went outside to play. Our parents forbade television during school nights and so we had to come up with our own devices for entertainment. My sister and I would play in the “river”—the stormdrain that often had flowing water after rain. The playground in the private elementary school across the street that we didn’t attend. And the secret passageway through shrubs, only big enough for someone our size.

Then there were the boys. They were annoying on bikes and the things that boys do.

One time, all three of them (plus the youngest brother of one of them who was 5 years younger) chased my sister and me into our garage. We closed the door on them and laughed in relief.

A few hours later, the doorbell rang. My dad answered and said that it was for me. He went back to the dinner table while my sister and me went to the door wondering what it was.

The younger brother stepped out from hiding and held a plastic bat. One that couldn’t have done anything. My sister and I screamed and we slammed the door shut. After that day, we avoided the boys and even as we grew older, we always regarded them as the bullies of our street.

So earlier this week, I heard from my dad that one of the boys—the chubby one—had just died. Not from natural causes. It was sad as I heard the story from my parents. I never really did exchange any words with any of the boys. Even though we were in the same grade through elementary school, middle school and high school. But childhood is childhood, not predicting the future…at alll.