When I was small, silly, pointless, I waited for a crazy boy to sit down next to me and ask a question I had never imagined. I would wonder about him, hope for him, wring my hands in agony. He never came.
It was about me and so it never escaped my head. Trapped, he was. Trapped in my stupid head. And my stupid head was too stupid to know that he wasn't really what I wanted at all. Because I found it; I didn't need the boy in the least. I was happy, sweet, contented, and so he escaped.
I know he climbed out of my head; I felt him crawl out of my ear; I heard him like a train when it must scream through people and windows to reach you. But I didn't guess it was him until later.
One fairly ordinary day, I was sitting outside of school, waiting for my dad to pick me up. Without much warning, someone dropped down next to me.
Now, this wasn't a normal school; it was a community college and was responsible for the destruction of over 23,000 kids every two years. And so I had by no means seen everyone in the school, let alone met them. Which meant that, whoever this kid was, he was of no importance to me and so I hoped he would leave me alone. I was reading, you see, and I was tired and didn't wish to disturbed.
Alas! it was too late for such hopes! Much too late.
"Can you see time, do you think?"
My fingers twitched and I was surprised enough that I didn't think before I spoke. "Oh, yes. I can see it when the sun falls, when the grass dies, in the stuff above my head." But then I paused, knowing that I had lied and that he had asked the question with full knowledge that the answer was no. And so I continued, "All right, I can't see it. Not any better than I can see the wind; which isn‘t all that great."
And then I looked up. He was an odd-looking kid. Angular, small and yet completely different from anyone I had ever seen before. I felt like a child when he first sees an ocean or a thunderstorm; it must be impossible. His eyes were a flat blue and framed by rectangular glasses; his mouth was wide, twisted and his hair a mess of colorless static.
"Can you see it?" I asked, referring to time as I hoped he guessed.
But he wouldn't answer and his eyes rolled into the back of his head, his voice lilting in something I couldn't understand. Somehow, I wasn't frightened and was certain that he was neither having a seizure nor dying of a heart attack.
"Oh, I get it. You're one of those kids that loves messing with people. You're one of those people who will convince someone that if they drink too much soda that their stomach will turn into an armadillo and crawl up their throat to eat their tongue. Or maybe you just stand outside of movie theatre's for hours and then when someone finally asks you why, you just hit them in the face."
I watched him, trying to gauge his reaction, but he only smiled thinly, letting his eyes show only the scarcest twist of surprise.
"Are you happy?" he inquired quietly, staring at his feet.
"You know, it's strange that you should ask. I really, really am. It‘s not as hard they think." I stopped, watching him, unable to do anything else. And then I asked him the same question.
"As far as I can tell. And that's not far at all."
"You mean it's possible that you're completely wrong about what being happy is and that you may find out in the future that it's nothing like you thought?"
He nodded slowly, staring at me more avidly.
"You remind me of someone. Someone I talk to on the internet. He is a psycho, although possibly not quite as insane as you. But of course I've never met him so it's hard to know. I bet his name is much cooler than yours."
“Is his name Gaia?” he asked.
“No. Prokaryote,” I answered, almost glad for some reason.
"I'm awfully conceited, you know," he said.
"Oh, I don't have time to think about myself. There are way too many other interesting things to think about." I watched the tree over his head and tried not to wonder what the hell was happening. Perhaps it just wasn't happening.
"Are you thinking about me?" His smile broke on his face and I could see the glass in his mouth; maybe it was his teeth.
I made a face, unsure but unaware. "Sure. A little bit." I stared at the ground and then looked up again.
"Jesus isn't the only one who dances on sunbeams," he sang, his voice cracked. I felt odd, like I couldn't be frightened, like it wasn't permitted.
"Why do you do that?"
"Ah, I just get tired of my voice. We need to change to be ourselves."
"Or just die. I think I'll go somewhere when I die. You make me doubt." He said nothing. "Oh, you're a Protestant, right?"
"I try to be. But I can't really know if I am." His voice was soft and I knew I didn't like his eyes; and yet I didn't know it.
"At least you know what a protestant is."
"People are ignorant." He paused. "But if there are things we don't know we can't expect other people to know the things they don't know," he sang, again.
"I told you not to do that. It's scary."
He didn't respond, just stared at me. My eyes got stuck on his shiny skin.
"Can I hold your hand?" he asked, putting his hand out.
"My dad will be here and he'll--"
"What will he do?"
"He'll be freaked out if he sees me--"
"So? Isn't that the point?--some of the point. C'mon, don't you like freaking people out?"
"Fine," I said, putting my hand in his. At first I couldn't tell if his hand was incredibly hot or freezing cold. I simply had lost my sense of almost everything. After a moment I realized his hand was warmer than mine but it was only a passing thought and got stuck in the back of my mind.
"Who are you?" I asked. But he ignored me. "Where did you come from?" He still wouldn't answer. "I bet you were homeschooled. I bet you like to read, climb trees and eat salad for dessert. I bet you're smarter than everyone you know and so you're always bored. I bet you're the freaking craziest person I've ever met."
He was smiling finally and yet he wasn't as surprised as I thought he should have been.
"I . . . am a something that doesn't know the right road and can't remember the right story," sang the voice that might live in my nightmares.
"Don't do that. Please. I can scarcely understand you."
"I can't be understood." He stared, eyes studying me like I was a picture in a book he liked. Perhaps because I was unsure of reality, I did not feel self-conscious in the least. I looked back at him, but I knew that my gaze was useless compared to his. After what could have been awhile, he slowly slid his hand out of mine, touching my fingertips last and taking a moment to drop them.
"Let's go somewhere. I want you to go somewhere with me," he said, watching me in a bemused way.
"Why?"
"Because we've already been here." It seemed logical at the time.
"I have to stay where my dad will be able to see me when he gets here."
"Don't worry, he'll still be able to see you. Dad's can always see . . ."
All rationality gone, and too much curiosity to resist, I agreed. I shoved my book into my bag and slung it over my shoulder. He grabbed his back-pack and stood.
"I'm going to leave my shoes," I added.
"All right," he said, taking his shoes off and dropping them. They didn't match his clothes at all and I wondered.
"You know, those shoes are grandfather shoes and they don't look right."
"If you'll come with me, I'll show you shoes that match." It didn't make sense. He put his hand out as we walked up the ramp and I held it. Like a four year old child with her step-father. Why was I doing this?
"You aren't going to drag me into a corner and rape me or anything, are you?" I believe I smiled.
He didn't respond, but raised my hand to his lips and kissed it, mouth twisted and eyes narrowed. And I still went with him.
He led me into the building and all I remember was thinking, ‘Hey, that's my old art classroom,’ and, ‘Hm, that kid can see us from his seat but he doesn't look particularly surprised. Are we not as scary-looking as I thought?’
"Where are we going?"
"A place."
"Well, I don't have forever, my dad will be--"
"Then you should walk faster," he said sharply, pulling me along.
"I don't walk fast. I meander whimsically."
He laughed and began walking very slowly. And then we reached the door again and he pulled me through, throwing himself down under the stairs and motioning for me to sit next to him. I let my bag fall and dropped down beside him.
"Sit closer," he said. I scooted a little closer and leaned forward; he draped an arm across my back. I didn't speak, more confused now but still too innocent, too surprised to protest. I felt his hand on my neck and in my hair and I tensed. "Don't do that," he ordered, his voice soft.
"It echoes in here," I said, staring at the ceiling.
"I can only do to you as much as you let me, you know," he sang, staring at me darkly.
"How about you talk so I can understand you?"
"Come closer."
I scooted closer to him and he kissed my cheek. I blinked, too startled to move. And then his lips moved to mine and I felt him kiss me but I didn't respond. After a moment, I removed his arm from around and moved an inch or two away.
"Talk to me. C'mon, I've already told you stories."
"No, you haven't," he laughed, his mouth crooked.
"Yes, I told you about that boy that you remind me of. C'mon, talk to me."
"You're beautiful," he whispered, kissing my cheek again.
I shrugged. "That isn't about you. I'm leaving if you won't talk--in your normal voice," I added.
"Fine." He looked bored, and stared at his feet. He told me a little bit about his sister, and then about how his brother has CP and how he has to take care of him. He went to Highschool in Utah. A place called Brighton. "Would you ever go to Utah?" he asked, sounding a little more interested.
"I believe I would. I hate California."
"No, you don't."
"All right, I hate attributes of California."
He smiled and I didn't want to look at him. "I want you to come closer again. C'mon, just lean against me while I talk." I obeyed and he wrapped his arms around me and told me about his History class.
"I hated my History class," I said.
"I've found out that History is extremely fallible, you know?"
"The class or History?"
"Both."
"I suppose. History is very fallible but I dearly wish that a class would at least tell the truth that we know. They just lie. My History teacher hated me because I disagreed with her. She was about four feet tall, probably."
"You didn't hate her." How did he know?
"Okay, I didn't. You know who I do hate? My English teacher. She insults the students and tells them they're too dumb to understand. I want to burn her, drown her, and then peal all her skin off and crucify her."
"That's what I want to do to you," he said into my ear.
I laughed but I wasn't sure if it was funny. "I really need to go." I pulled out of his arms and stood, picking up my bag.
"Can I walk by your shoes?"
"What?"
"It's an expression."
"I thought the expression was walking IN someone's shoes."
"Well, that's impossible. Let's at least try to be realistic."
"I'll be out again. I get out of Psych in between three-thirty and four-thirty."
"I want you to take my shoes."
"And then I'll give them back when I see you again?" I don't know why I asked.
"Sure. What's the difference between an hour and a day? An hour doesn't see the sun come and go, does it?"
"I suppose so. Days are just wiser, right?" I was distracted, wanting to get away from him but never wanting to leave.
"What's between three-thirty and four-thirty?"
He was mocking me. "An hour. But I need to go." And then I turned and ran. I wasn't scared. No, it wasn't fear. I was just turned inside-out; flipped upside-down and sure he could still see me; see right through me.
When I reached the grass I just stood. I shook. I kept bringing my hands up to my mouth and then letting them fall again. My mind was twisted, torn and smiling.
And he knew. Of course he knew. I have never had someone so deliberately torture me. When he looked at me before I ran, I could see it in his eyes. He knew I was out of mind, and he knew he had caused it. I knew he was mocking me and he loved it.
I called my mom but was unable to speak or comprehend what she was saying. And so I just hung up and sat down, picking a dandelion and staring at it like it contained my last hope. After a moment I saw him. He walked past and then returned, dropping down next to me and laying his head on his back-pack.
"I was told that I can't see. Can you see me?"
"I don't like that. That whole 'reality is all in your head' thing. Your head messes with reality, reality messes with your head, but they are entirely separate. Although it's true that we must accept that one will never truly know the other. Okay?"
But he didn't respond. I looked away, truly unaware of who had spoken last or what the hell was going on.
"I have to go." My dad had just driven up and I stood, grabbing my shoes. I looked back when I heard his voice.
"Hey, don't worry," he said. I made a face and threw myself into the car. What did he mean? Worry? Worry about what?
It was only a day and a half later that I realized. I was sitting in class, dreading seeing him; frightened that he would be waiting for me. And so I told myself, "Stop worrying". And then it ate me and I died.
