From what I could tell from across the room, that boy was no ordinary boy. With shimmering cyan eyes and a smile that stretched ear to ear, just the sight of him made me want to smile as well. The way he held himself, even, was a wonder. I could tell he wasn't that tall, maybe around my height, yet... he made himself appear much taller. Like a giant. Maybe that was his body size as well, however I wouldn't be one to notice that and point it out to you. I was as skinny as a stick back then.
He was a freshman, new and excited and just as gullible as any other freshmen that dared to step into this damned school. The first day, I witnessed as him and a fellow bunch of nerdy looking kids were pelted with bullets of hate and cruelty, also known as batteries. I could tell he was in pain, not only from the bruise on his face or the way he flinched, but also from how his eyes instantly lost their shine. His eyes had brimmed with tears, blue shading into a dark, dark color I can't even force myself to describe. And yet, not even an hour after that, I saw him sitting there during Biology, grinning with all of his might, even with an icepack slapped over his cheek.
Sometimes the way he could hold himself so high and happy made me angry. Okay, all of the time. He was always smiling, always just about ready to leap from his seat as his heart burst with joy. I could just tell from his eyes, those ocean blue eyes, that he wanted to, so very badly. It was also easy to tell that nobody else in that damned room wanted any of that joy. They all just wanted the bell to ring so they could scurry themselves home.
That boy was quite the intelligent one. Unexpected from him, really. I remember one time when we were partnered up in Maths. I was never any good at things like that. Numbers and equations and variables and especially geometry flew right over my head. Whose idea was it to put letters into math equations anyway? Yet the way he sat there beside me, completely bent over the table as if it was some exercising tool, he spoke so clearly suddenly everything made sense. That was probably the most enjoyable day of Maths I could say I ever had.
That was one of the only times I interacted with the boy. As much as I wanted to, he looked much happier alone. And he wasn't the only one alone. We were alone together. I guess I'm trying to justify myself to you. It does no good, I realize that. So I stayed in my little corner, and he stayed in his.
But I was always watching him. Watching him smile and smile and smile, even when there was nothing to smile about. Even if there were bullies looming over him like a pack of lions, he their fresh prey, his lips were still curved upwards. I'm certainly running out of ways to say the word smile by now. But sometimes, as I observed him from across the room, a phenomenon would occur. On some days, such as one particular Thursday that I can still remember clear as a winter night, his smile would fade, and the shimmer and his eyes would darken, and even his golden blonde hair seemed a little less golden. Some mornings I would spot him rubbing at his eyes, and when he removed his chubby little fists, there would be heavy, dark gray bags encircling underneath. He forced his smile a little more on those days. It was a little less bright. A little less energetic. But I can't blame the guy, his cheeks must have been hurting.
On that one particular Thursday, I had been late. I believe it was a dentist appointment. Upon arriving on the dreaded hell-hole, the time had already passed 12 o'clock. As I settled down into my spot, books and folders spread out messily around the one person table that I had claimed for my own, I happened to glance over, taking a curious peek at the corner. The blonde boy who I paid so much attention to usually sat on the edge of the stage, his legs thrown over the side kicking and playing a slightly annoying drum tune. But on that Thursday, he instead sat below, huddled in against the nearby trash can. Of course, I had been concerned. His head was buried deep in his arms, and he was so tightly curled up, it looked as if his back was about to snap. From my far away spot, I could see his whole body trembling like a fallen leaf, and if I had been better at reading signs back then, I would have recognized that he was crying. Crying with sobs only audible to him. Because he was the only one there to listen to himself.
For the rest of the day as I passed him in the hallway (by then I had memorized his schedule, and knew exactly when I was about to run into him), instead of great big stomps and oddly graceful glides, he stepped with little shuffles that brushed against the floor like a broom. And instead of holding his head high enough to touch the sky, it was hung low enough to bury himself 6 feet under. When I was able to catch his eye, they were darkened, bloodshot, and his eyelids hung as he forced them to stay open. I had to wonder for a moment what could have been the cause, but that wonder was not enough to drive me to ask.
I never talked to him beyond a few worksheets. All business, no fun. And I never happened to brush past him down town, or in the mall. It wasn't like we lived in a very big city. Just a small community of about 2,000 in all. A tiny town that probably wasn't even on any maps. It was amazing that I didn't see him anywhere. But I didn't think of asking him if he was busy ever. I never thought of making friends with him. He was happy alone, and as was I.
As the winter waned and snow melted and the grass began to grow, people's spirits began to lighten up. Sports were starting up again, so the jocks finally had a chance to release their tensions in other ways, rather than slapping girls on the behind and kicking trash cans over. After school activities kicked off, playgrounds were opened up, and people felt a little more free. Most importantly, the school president elections were finally approaching. I say most importantly, of course, because I happened to be the top running candidate. It was in the bag. If there was one thing that did me good in those four years, it was getting some juicy experience on my transcript.
In my freshman year, I had been voted into the school council, despite some conspiracies that I was going to corrupt the system just because I came from the UK. I don't exactly know who started that ridiculous rumor, but I still silently shake my head at them to this day. I had run for President in my Sophomore year, however I was outvoted by a Senior, which was no surprise. But my Junior year was no question. Even if I wasn't the most pleasant friend, and maybe I was a little bit intimidating, the people of that school still knew I was a strong politician and could get them what they wanted. Like air conditioning.
Unsurprisingly, I won the election. As I stepped up to the podium to make my acceptance speech during one morning meeting, I scanned the crowds. I wasn't looking for anyone in particular, I suppose. At least, that's what I thought at first. But there was one thing that struck me on that morning; the blue eyed, golden haired boy who had been made my scientific observation subject was missing. But I thought nothing of it, and simply read through my speech.
The day passed with no sign of the boy.
And as the next came, as was the inevitable cycle, he still did not show.
And the next, as well.
Before I could blink, a week had passed. Lunches had grown boring, with nobody to watch. I simply stared at white papers, instead of a vibrant smile. My eyes had begun to hurt because of it, and I silently cursed the boy for not being there.
That Saturday, as I went through my ritual of reading the newspaper, as my younger brother fooled around with his toys, an article caught my eye. It wasn't supposed to be eye catching, however it caught my eye anyway. I still remember exactly what it said. "15 year old boy commits suicide, family devastated." I was about to flip the page, move on from the rather depressing topic, but a certain name in bold stopped me cold. Alfred F. Jones.
I had seen that name before. And as I skimmed clumsily over the article, I racked my brain, desperate to think of where I had seen it before.
Alfred.
Alfred.
Alfred.
Suddenly it hit me. You may ask what that feeling was. The only way I can describe it is being thrown into a frozen river. My blood ran cold, a gasp escaping from my mouth, and I struggled to breathe. Sweat poured from everywhere, the beating of my heart pounding and echoing in my ears.
I had seen that name before from a sideways glance. Scribbled in big, bold letters on the top of papers.
Alfred F. Jones.
The boy with sparkling cerulean eyes, a chubby face, perfectly shaped rectangular glasses, golden blonde hair with that one oddball strand that stuck straight up.
Alfred F. Jones.
The boy who, on every Monday, brought in a bagel with cream cheese and a mug full of warm milk. And on every Tuesday, who wore a pair of worn down dark blue converse with white stars on the sides, the laces never tied. Who, on every Wednesday, ate a bag of Smartfood popcorn and a turkey sandwich on white bread, while all the other days he had wheat. On every Thursday, who, right in the morning, would listen to the same song on repeat again and again until class began, music as loud as it would go. And on every Friday, that boy held the front door open for every single student as they left, giving them a bright smile accompanied with a friendly "have a good weekend!", yet he received nothing in return but a shove and a quick insult under cold breath.
Alfred F. Jones.
The boy who wore a mask every day. The boy that, even when he didn't want to, forced a smile onto his face and said "things will be alright." The boy who, even if he didn't speak up a lot, spoke to the whole world with that smile of his. It said "things will be alright." The boy who was shoved into lockers, pushed against walls, stripped of his backpack so he had to go garbage digging. The boy who, no matter what, continued to smile through it all.
His mask had worn off finally, broken down from all of the beatings and screams, the paint chipped until there was no more color. No more smile.
From what I could tell from the very first time I laid eyes on him, that boy was no ordinary boy. With dead ocean colored eyes and a frown that cast a shadow on the whole room, his teeth bared down on his bottom lip until it bled, rivulets of salty water streaming down his cheeks. Just the thought of him makes me want to cry as well. The way his body, legs splayed out around him, bent limp over the edge of the tub. He seemed so small in that moment. Like an ant, worthless to the rest. A razor gripped in his right hand, he watched with an exhausted spirit as deep red washed over his arms, draining into the once clean white tub and staining it scarlet. In that moment, for once, he couldn't force himself to smile. However, I wouldn't be one to notice that. His mother had found him, tried to rescue him, but it was too late.
Before I could say a single word to him, before any hope could have been given, that boy was gone. That boy with a magnificent smile that, every day, without fail, would brighten my day up.
That boy named Alfred F. Jones.