John sat in class, absentmindedly doodling in his notebook. Up in the front of the room, Mr. Dewey was droning on about differential equations.
"An equation is differential if and only if..."
John promptly stopped listening. His eyes scanned the rest of the class. A few seats over, Bob had his nose to the desk, snoring the period away blissfully. Up in the front of the room, Jason was copying notes down furiously; his face scrunched in concentration as he absorbed every word Dewey uttered. Jason was the class brain, he would be valedictorian by a wide margin. John went back to doodling.
The harsh blare of the bell rang through the school. Looking up, John saw Bob coming to groggily; and Jason already discussing the day's lesson with the teacher. Taking out his assignment pad, John quickly copied down the night's homework from the chalkboard, and leaned over to pick his books up off the floor. Before he reached them, a foot sent the texts flying off to the very back of the classroom. Glancing up, John saw Bob standing next to his desk with a smirk on his face.
"Awwww, looks like the dork's books don't wanna hang out with him either." Bob walked out the door, laughing loudly to himself.
"Gee," thought John. "I think it stopped being funny after the tenth time."
"John." Mr. Dewey was calling him. "Do you think you could keep your books under your chair just once this year?"
"Yes Mr. Dewey. Sure thing."
"Good. And at least LOOK like your paying attention in class, alright?"
"I'll try my best..." Mr. Dewey was already halfway through the door. Everyday they had the same conversation. Of course, it was always John's fault his things were kicked everywhere. No one would do something that cruel without being provoked. He must have done something to deserve it. He'd been fed bullshit like that for so long he believed it himself. Somehow, writing down his homework quietly was aggravating to Bob. He must write down his homework wrong. He'd have to change.
John collected his stuff and started walking to his locker. Along the way he met with the usual assortment of body checks and thrown objects. An apple caught him hard on the chin. It would leave a bruise. He had provoked all of this people as well, he was sure. He didn't walk down the hall right. He'd have to change.
As he turned the corner, he saw white masking tape wrapped around his lock.
"Shit," he growled, kicking the locker. Further up the hall a group of kids laughed raucously and shouted jeers at him; then walked away. His locker was offensive to people. He'd have to have it changed.
Quickly unwrapping the tape as only someone long used to the activity could do, John grabbed his books and was just closing his locker when the bell rang. He'd have to go to the main office and get a pass.
"I need a pass," he said when the secretary turned to him.
"What for?"
"My lock got taped, I'm late for class."
"This is the third time you've been late this week."
"I know ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Take a seat, Mr. Smith would like a word with you."
John took his usual chair. He seemed to be in the office more than he was in class. He talked with Mr. Smith more than he talked with his own parents. As if thinking of him had summoned the assistant principle, Mr. Smith walked through the door.
"John Daly is here again Joe," intoned the secretary.
"Thanks Gail. John, come with me." Now Mr. Smith was an odd man. He saw himself as the student's friend, their trusted advisor. He had what seemed a permanent smile on his face. He thought he had everyone figured out at his little school; knew how to solve every problem. John knew better. Joe Smith was not smiling now.
"What is it this time John? Water in your locker again? Someone 'push' you into a teacher? Let me guess, someone tied your shoes to a chair again and your late for class." Mr. Smith had taken the view that John was nothing more than an incredible liar. No one could possibly be as hated and abused in the school as he claimed to be; certainly not without a teacher intervening. His stories were merely clever fabrications in the eyes of the administration.
"Close! Tape on my lock."
"Uh-huh. And I suppose you'd like me to write you a pass to class now?"
John stood up, smiling. "Thanks! I'll be on my way then!"
"Sit." John's smile faded as he sat. Mr. Smith began writing him a pass. "Now we've discussed this before. You weren't going to tell me anymore ridiculous stories. Now, here is your pass, but I will see you at detention after school. Am I making myself clear?"
"Crystal." John took the pass, and went to class. He knew Mr. Smith thought he was a liar. It was OK. It wasnÕt important.
John handed the pass to the teacher, and walked towards the back of the room where his seat was. Someone stuck out their foot and tripped him when he was walking by. John stumbled into another desk, the occupant of which punched him in the stomach.
"It's bad enough you're late," said the instructor. "There is no need to cause a disturbance. Now take a seat."
John obliged the man, and wheezed his way to his seat. The way he entered a class offended people. He'd have to change. He began doodling as soon as he had his notebook out.
When he looked up again, the bell had rung. He waited for it to ring again before he went to his locker. He had frees the rest of the day, so there was no hurry. Tossing his books in his locker, he went to the library. He couldn't go to the cafeteria. He didn't eat right. He was changing that. He sat at the far end of a nearly empty table. The two kids at the table moved as soon as he sat down. He must sit wrong. He'd have to change.
John put his head on his arms, and started thinking. He thought about graduation, only a few days away. He went over the days events in his head, cataloging what he needed to change about himself. Maybe then he'd have some friends. He did this everyday, but nothing ever changed. He just needed to avoid sleep. He had bad dreams sometimes. Nightmares. A few spit wads bounced off his neck, but he ignored them. He didnÕt want to sleep...but all the same he began to dream.
It was graduation. Mr. Smith was handing out diplomas. John was next.
"John Daly"
Walking towards the stage, ignoring the booing, he looked for his parents. They werenÕt there. They were to busy to come. But it was ok with John. He understood. The ceremony was over, everybody was chatting with friends and relatives. John sat by himself. It was OK no one was there to see him graduate, it wasnÕt that important.
BEEEEEPPP! The bell startled him awake. John glanced at the clock. He had slept through three periods, it was the end of the day. He stood up to go to detention, but had to sit back down and untie his shoe laces from the chair. He must not have slept right. He'd have to change that. He went to detention, did his math homework, and studied for tomorrow's chem quiz. Detention ended, and he walked out to the student parking lot. He walked right through to the street behind, and began walking home. He knew the way like the inside of his eyelids.
John never made it home that day. He hung himself on a tree at the side of the road. Police estimated about thirty cars drove by before one stopped to see what was going on. It was Mr. Smith, on his way home from work. He ran up to the body, but it was to late. He read the boy's suicide note. It explained nicely that he wasn't bitter, he didn't have any grudges or regrets. It contained his final request. Mr. Smith began to weep.
A few days later, John's class graduated. Jason, the valedictorian, gave a nice speech. Everyone clapped. It went something like this:
"...In my four years I have met more kind, caring, and compassionate people than I had ever hoped to in my life. There is not a mean or spiteful bone in attendance today..."
It went on, but that's not important. Before handing out diplomas, Mr. Smith asked for a moment of silence in remembrance of John. Someone shouted "Yeah right!" and a few students were heard to mutter: "Damned loser, he even delayed our graduation. Why couldn't the dork have died sooner?"
John was buried a few days later, without a funeral. His parents were to busy. But he understood. It was OK. He wasn't that important. Only one person ever put flowers on his grave; a tired, sad Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith doesn't smile anymore. He retired in July and now lives in an old folks home in Florida. The flowers were 'borrowed' the next day by another funeral party. His last request had been the words on his tombstone. "Am I OK now?"