I first saw Berkeley. He was the only kid in the room including me that wasn’t jumping around singing an annoying song. I decided to at least try to get acquainted with him. I walked over to him and noticed he was shacking a little bit, but I paid no attention to it.

“What’s your name?” I asked him

“Berkeley.” he replied.

“My name is Francisco. Francisco Emilio.”

That was about the only time that I ever used my last name. He seemed to avoid eye contact with me. He kept looking at the floor as if it were the one talking to him. I got a little closer and sat down in front of him.

“Where did you come from?” I asked.

“Calloway City.” he answered.

“I came from home.” I said. “But I was taken away.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because my father said that he couldn’t take care of me any more.”

It was a bit difficult at first but we soon started to have a progressed conversation. We talked about what happened to us before we came to the orphanage, in which I felt more sorry for him than I was with myself, because he had been through a lot more than me. He spilled every detail.

We told each other about our selves later. We told each other about our interests; or at least I did, for he told me that he didn’t have any interest. At lunch on that day we sat together and talked more about other things.

“I like baseball, football, and basketball.” I told him.

“I don’t like sports.” he told me. “But I like movies.”

“You see, you do have interest.” I asked him. “What movies do you like?”

“Old movies.” he told me. “Do you like old movies.”

“Some”. I said.

We both found that we had some similarities. We both hated the food there. We did not play very often. We both liked old movies. And we both dislike all the other kids there, because they drove us crazy. At night when every one was asleep we would whisper things to each other from both sides of the room.