Neville at the Edge
Neville at the Edge
Inthe lazy, sun-dappled days at St. Joseph’s Novitiate, where the beach seemed to hum with the scent of jasmine and the distant promise of monsoon clouds, there was a little haven we boys held dear — the Milk Bar. It was a humble shack just beyond the school’s creaky gates, its tin roof glinting under the noon sun, its wooden counter cluttered with frothy glasses of Milo, bottles of sweet vanilla milk, and a jumble of pencils and dog-eared notebooks for forgetful lads like us. To us, De La Salle boys, it wasn’t just a shop. It was a sanctuary, where the weight of prayers and the Brother-Superior’s stern frowns dissolved into the clink of coins and the soft buzz of our chatter.
Neville was always there, a gangly boy with limbs that seemed to outgrow him, as if they belonged to a taller shadow. His parents had sent him to the Novitiate dreaming he’d don a Christian Brother’s collar, but Neville, with his twice-failed year and a grin that twinkled with mischief, had no such plans. He was a quiet rebel, lingering at the edges of our little world, his eyes holding secrets he kept to himself, like pebbles tucked in a pocket.
Neville wove his silent rebellion in the study room, where the air was thick with the drone of scripture. Beneath the desk, his leg would dance to a tune only he could hear, his stifled giggles a secret shared in glances with those of us who noticed. The Brother-Superior, bustling about with his endless rules, never saw the spark in Neville’s eyes. But we did — those of us who caught how he turned dull hours into a private adventure.
I was Denzil then, just another boy hunched over my notebook in the study hall, my pen scratching out answers I wasn’t sure of. I didn’t know Neville well, but sometimes I felt his gaze, soft as a breeze rustling the frangipani trees outside. He watched me, I later found, with a quiet curiosity — perhaps it was my untamed hair that refused to behave, or the shy curve of my smile. To Neville, I was a riddle, a boy who fit in yet stood apart, like a lone pine on a hillside.
One afternoon, during the games period, our paths crossed in a moment as fleeting as a cloud’s shadow. Neville, late again, was kneeling by the door as punishment, the dusty floor pressing into his knees. I stood nearby, waiting for my turn at football, the sunlight weaving a haze of dust between us. Then I caught his eye — a quick, conspiratorial wink, as if we shared a secret no one else could guess. I glanced down, suddenly conscious of the new jockstrap beneath my half-pants, an awkward sign of growing up. Neville’s grin told me he saw it too, and for that instant, we were allies in the unspoken language of boyhood.
That night, in the dormitory where moonlight slipped through grimy windows, I felt a faint touch on my leg. Half-dreaming, I thought it was a trick of the shadows, a whisper of the night. But a quiet unease stirred, like the first rumble of a far-off storm. The next morning, old Hector, the dormitory monitor with his grizzled, hawkish and yet gentle eyes, took me aside. “Saw Neville near your bed last night,” he said, his voice low, his brow furrowed. “Be careful, lad.”
I nodded, a weight settling in my chest, though I couldn’t name it. The air seemed to shift after that, the jasmine’s sweetness tinged with something I couldn’t grasp. Neville and I never spoke of it, and soon the monsoon arrived, its rains washing the dust from the lanes and the questions from my mind. But I still think of those days at the Milk Bar, of Neville’s quiet laughter and the way he moved through our world like a breeze — unseen, yet leaving ripples in its wake. He taught me, without words, that youth is a tender mystery, woven with shadows and whispers that linger long after the rains have swept through the hills.
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