Once again, I return with an OC-P.O.V. story, this time about one of the school's popular girls, sitting in Biology class, thinking about the young boy beside her.
Twelve years old. He is only twelve years old. I look at him, sitting next to me, studiously poking at our frog, a tiny frown on his face. My heart goes out to him, a mouse among cats.
Earlier today, I saw him get shoved into a locker by Bonz, one of the school thugs. Nobody, of course, in the entire, crowded hallway saw what happened. Bonz had a way of being invisible like that.
No, Spencer Reid had nobody to stick up for him. I don't, I'm ashamed to say. I like my popularity. It took years of hard work to get where I am, I'm not about to throw it away for a scrawny runt like Spencer. I'm not going to throw it all away because I have a conscience.
In my mind, sometimes, I call him Spence. He doesn't have any friends to give him the nickname, so I do. I've never talked to him outside of class, and even in class anything we say is of a strictly educational nature. Often times, though, I have to force down down a sort of maternal instinct to coddle the boy.
The frog's leg gives another twitch. Spencer's scalpel carefully eases the skin and muscle back from the guts, or something like that. Frankly, I didn't read the chapter... I wince and step back. He looks up at me.
"You aren't nauseous, are you?" He asks softly. I almost break. He's got the softest little voice you can imagine. I wish I could hug him, tell him I'd protect him, let him know that he has people on his side.
"I'm fine." I snap, holding my hand over my mouth and I gingerly poke the frog.
"Careful, we can't puncture it's lungs." He says. He freezes, a look of abject horror on his face, as if suddenly realizing he 'talked back'. He corrected his first lab partner once, and got punched in the face immediately. The teacher immediately made him switch partners, but didn't even file a disciplinary form. Instead of punching him, like he apparently expected, I back off. He relaxes a tiny bit.
"Whatever, Spence." I say, shrugging nonchalantly. He looks back up at me. My eyes widened fractionally in horror at my utterance of the nickname.
I glance around the room. When nobody looks at me, accusing me of fraternizing with the 'runt', I breathe my own sigh of relief. I offer him a tiny smile. He responds with an upward twitch of the lips before returning to our frog.
Has the poor child forgotten how to smile? I, once again, push down the urge to embrace the kid…