We called him “Indestructo.” No matter what risks he took, he survived. He did not just survive. He landed perfectly, with an understated swagger.
I was 13 when we met, and he was unimaginably older, to my eyes, a manly 16. He was bright, and a gymnast, said to have Olympic potential. I was new at a swanky and clannish private school—which started in kindergarten and ended at 12th grade. Most of the students had formed their tribes at age 5. He treated me with gentle courtesy.
He had wavy black hair, long eyelashes, and brown skin. He was the oldest of six brothers. Boys, girls, men, women, babies, cats, dogs, horses, maybe turtles and hamsters found him charismatic. He had a Steve McQueen/Marlon Brando level of coolness.
The morning of the SAT test, he and other boys climbed a high voltage power tower. Tom Lewis had the misfortune to touch a live line. He was burned and fell some distance. Indestructo carried him to the car. Tom lived, with scars and a lost spleen.
An incident on the tennis courts above the campus got Indestructo, his brother, and a girl expelled. I never knew the details; I just knew it was something scandalous.
When I was 15, I got to join his tribe.
