The bell at the end of second period rings, and I sit in my seat for a few seconds as the chaos erupts around me. Once everyone’s passed through the door, and the classroom is empty, I slide out of my seat. With a small wave goodbye to my teacher, I brace myself for the hallway. The halls look like a stampede of wildebeests, Lion King style.
*****
“Look at all of these people. It’s like a stampede out there,” I had said to him.
He put on a low, gravely voice, trying to seem scary. But he never could look scary with that infectious smile always on his face. “Long live the king.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the stampede of the hallway. A few people stopped in their tracks. People always stopped for his infectious energy — his amazing, stupid, wonderful energy. He had pulled me along, weaving through person after person. My face was flush with embarrassment by the time we got to my class, but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Run away, Simba.” He put on the low voice again. “Run, and never return.”
I gave him a playful nudge. “Go. You’re gonna be late for class.”
*****
I put my head down while navigating through the hall. I have to be invisible to survive, to make it through each day. I learned early on in my school experience that if you fly under the radar, life is a whole lot less work. You never have to be in the spotlight and everyone leaves you alone. Well, almost everyone. He never left me alone. He just couldn’t let me be.
I pull out my phone as I slide through gaps in the people, and a pang of sadness goes through me as I see my lockscreen. It’s him. He’s laughing, his hair pushed over to one side of his head. His eyes are twinkling in the way they always did right after he made a joke. He’s lunging toward the camera. I remember him not wanting me to take this photo, but it just captured him so perfectly; I had to keep it.
Just seeing this photo makes me want to forgive him, but I know I can’t. I need time. I have to accept that sometimes, that smile can’t fix everything.
I slide into my seat in class a second before the bell rings, so I try to put the thought out of my mind for an hour. The kid sitting next to me has his shirt on backwards. The worst part is I don’t think he knows. I wonder what his story is?
*****
“What’s her story?” he asked me. The two of us were sitting under a tree during lunch, and he was gesturing to a girl with bright blue tips in her hair.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said you wanted to be a writer, write her story.”
I chuckled. “Ummm . . . her mom is overprotective. She got the dyed tips in order to get back at her mom for not letting her stay out at night with friends.”
He had such an impressed look on his face. I just wanted that impressed look to stay there a little longer. “How about that guy? What’s his story?” He gestured to a kid with a big math textbook on his lap, snacking on some trail mix.
“He has a huge math test next period, and completely forgot to study last night. Oh, and he forgot to bring lunch, so he’s eating trail mix that’s been in his backpack since last week.”
He was laughing so much at my descriptions — I just wanted to capture that moment in a bottle and relive that laugh whenever I was feeling sad.
*****
The bell rings and I pack up my notebook, as everyone rushes out of the classroom. Once the classroom is empty, I head outside to find a spot for lunch. I sit up on a shady ledge, and pull out my laptop and a PB&J sandwich. My fingers hover over the keys for a few seconds, as if trying to think of an idea on their own. I’m just about to take a bite of my sandwich when I get a text.
It’s from him. Of course it’s from him. There’s a guy in jeans and a white shirt, the text says. What’s his story? I ignore the text, and go back to my writing and my sandwich. A few seconds pass before another text comes in. He’s trying to say he’s sorry. I look up and see him a few feet away, in jeans and a white shirt, wearing a small half-smile.
I swallow, mustering up my resolve, and punch out a text. I’m sorry, I just need some time.
I see his face fall as the text comes through, but he quickly shoots a text back. I have all the time in the world. I see the text, smile, and go back to my sandwich.
*****
“Look at all of these people. It’s like a stampede out there,” I had said to him.
He put on a low, gravely voice, trying to seem scary. But he never could look scary with that infectious smile always on his face. “Long live the king.” He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the stampede of the hallway. A few people stopped in their tracks. People always stopped for his infectious energy — his amazing, stupid, wonderful energy. He had pulled me along, weaving through person after person. My face was flush with embarrassment by the time we got to my class, but my cheeks hurt from smiling.
“Run away, Simba.” He put on the low voice again. “Run, and never return.”
I gave him a playful nudge. “Go. You’re gonna be late for class.”
*****
I put my head down while navigating through the hall. I have to be invisible to survive, to make it through each day. I learned early on in my school experience that if you fly under the radar, life is a whole lot less work. You never have to be in the spotlight and everyone leaves you alone. Well, almost everyone. He never left me alone. He just couldn’t let me be.
I pull out my phone as I slide through gaps in the people, and a pang of sadness goes through me as I see my lockscreen. It’s him. He’s laughing, his hair pushed over to one side of his head. His eyes are twinkling in the way they always did right after he made a joke. He’s lunging toward the camera. I remember him not wanting me to take this photo, but it just captured him so perfectly; I had to keep it.
Just seeing this photo makes me want to forgive him, but I know I can’t. I need time. I have to accept that sometimes, that smile can’t fix everything.
I slide into my seat in class a second before the bell rings, so I try to put the thought out of my mind for an hour. The kid sitting next to me has his shirt on backwards. The worst part is I don’t think he knows. I wonder what his story is?
*****
“What’s her story?” he asked me. The two of us were sitting under a tree during lunch, and he was gesturing to a girl with bright blue tips in her hair.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said you wanted to be a writer, write her story.”
I chuckled. “Ummm . . . her mom is overprotective. She got the dyed tips in order to get back at her mom for not letting her stay out at night with friends.”
He had such an impressed look on his face. I just wanted that impressed look to stay there a little longer. “How about that guy? What’s his story?” He gestured to a kid with a big math textbook on his lap, snacking on some trail mix.
“He has a huge math test next period, and completely forgot to study last night. Oh, and he forgot to bring lunch, so he’s eating trail mix that’s been in his backpack since last week.”
He was laughing so much at my descriptions — I just wanted to capture that moment in a bottle and relive that laugh whenever I was feeling sad.
*****
The bell rings and I pack up my notebook, as everyone rushes out of the classroom. Once the classroom is empty, I head outside to find a spot for lunch. I sit up on a shady ledge, and pull out my laptop and a PB&J sandwich. My fingers hover over the keys for a few seconds, as if trying to think of an idea on their own. I’m just about to take a bite of my sandwich when I get a text.
It’s from him. Of course it’s from him. There’s a guy in jeans and a white shirt, the text says. What’s his story? I ignore the text, and go back to my writing and my sandwich. A few seconds pass before another text comes in. He’s trying to say he’s sorry. I look up and see him a few feet away, in jeans and a white shirt, wearing a small half-smile.
I swallow, mustering up my resolve, and punch out a text. I’m sorry, I just need some time.
I see his face fall as the text comes through, but he quickly shoots a text back. I have all the time in the world. I see the text, smile, and go back to my sandwich.