“Shhh.” Evil Eye Mason interrupts with a sharp whisper from her perch.
“… promise to…” Weirdo attempts to continue in a whisper before Ms. Mason smacks her palm on her desk.
“Mr. Henry!” she shouts. Weirdo’s mouth slams shut, and he grudgingly looks her way. I’m happy to know at least part of his name.
“Sorry,” he says.
“I should hope so. You’re new, so I’ll give you a pass this one time. But understand, son, there is no talking in my classroom. This is a time for studying. Quietly. This is not social hour.”
A couple of the other girls giggle softly. Ms. Mason kills their giggles with a glance. She reminds me of a bird. A very mean bird.
“Sorry,” the boy says again before pulling a pad and some charcoal pencils from his bag.
I’m happy for all the information I’m getting. His last name is Henry. He’s new to school. And he’s an artist.
Before going to work, the boy smiles at me once more. While I’m left gooey from the sentiment, he opens his drawing pad and flips through a few sketches in search of a blank page. I can’t help but notice both that he’s talented and that his subject of choice is… intriguing.
Ears?
As if he can hear my thoughts, Mr. Weirdo Henry brushes a stray wave from his eyes and glances at me one final time. He shrugs and smiles slyly, as if to say, “So what? I like ears.”
I shrug and smile back. What I’m trying to say without words, and what I hope he understands, is, “Hey, we all have our things.”
He’s back to drawing before I can give it another thought, and I’m forced to continue my math homework in silence. But halfway through problem number 3, something dawns on me: the boy’s sweatshirt in my room has to be the one Weirdo Henry is talking about. Apparently it’s not from the reject pile, like my note said.
>Feeling a little better, I trick my brain into thinking about other things. The annoying doctor this morning; Jamie flirting with Jason; Jamie flirting with Anthony. White shoes, red boots, silly slippers, black shoes, brown sneakers…
Wham!
My eyes are open wide once more.
I try shaking my head. I try thinking of the shoes again. I even try thinking of other unpleasant thoughts, like Jamie’s upcoming… situation.
Nothing works.
Exhaling loudly, I decide to let my mind go. Trying not to think about it is only making it worse.
I pull the blankets up to my chin and blink into the pitch-black bedroom.
And suddenly, I’m in a cemetery.
Being there makes me shiver now.
I’m at a funeral. At least I think I am.
I can’t distinguish much except for hazy black shapes that could be people, and neutral stone beyond them in every direction. In my nostrils: the unmistakable scent of fresh-cut grass. It could be 8:30 AM or 3:14 PM. It’s overcast: I can’t tell.
I don’t understand the scene, but it makes me feel heavy just the same.
And alone.
And afraid.
I consider whether to turn on the lamp and add details of this memory to today’s note—right underneath musings about the “weirdo” that Jamie mentioned—but, ultimately, I stay where I am.
It’s obvious that the mourners today triggered this particular memory. But knowing why doesn’t soften the blow of the harsh underlying reality.
I remember forward.