Miss Me Not

"Hey, it's normal to fall behind, especially with the stupid-ass grading module they're using. They'll do away with it in a year, but that won't help us since we'll be long gone by the time they decide to change it," he said, smiling at me. "Do you have your textbook?" he asked when I continued to look at him like a moron.

"Uh, sure," I finally stuttered, pulling out my book from my backpack. "I need to be able to pass the summative exam on chapters five through eight," I managed to get out without wanting to strangle myself.

"World War II," he said without having to open the book.

I looked at him like he had sprouted an extra head. He laughed out loud.

"You're not the first person this term to have a problem with this section. The dates are a bitch, and it's easy to mix up the timeline. I'll show you a few things that I use that help me keep the dates straight," he said, pulling out a stack of index cards.

I could have told him I didn't need the help. That the only reason I bombed the test was because I didn't care enough to study. I figured I'd study enough to retake the summative and squeak out my normal passing grade. While everyone else bitched about the new grading module, it actually suited my study habits. If I didn't feel like studying right away, I could always just retake the test if I failed it. My plan had been working fine until Ms. Jones decided to throw a monkey wrench into my whole strategy by threatening me with a parent conference. I opened my mouth to tell him, but abruptly closed it. I could at least wait until we ended the current study session before I broke it to him.

"First, you should know that sixty percent of the questions on each of the exams come from the subheadings in each section. That means those should be your priority. If you memorize those, you're more than halfway to an A. The rest is a little trickier, but I've learned that dates are always a given. I always make a point to go through the chapter and write down all the dates. It's a pain in the ass, but I think teachers like seeing us suffer," he said, shooting me a grin.

If I could smile, it would be at a time like this. But I can't, so I don't. If things were different, I think I could have gotten lost in his smile or the twinkle in his eye. That pulled at me like there was an invisible string hooked to my abdomen. For a moment, I wished like I had never wished before that I was normal. dded. "That sounds like something she'd do."

"Strangle me now," I said sarcastically, wrapping my fingers around my throat to emphasize my point.

"M, can I ask you a question?"

"Um, yeah."

"You think you'd still go through with it?" he asked.

He didn't need to clarify.

"I want to. I mean, I just want to disappear, leave nothing behind, but today showed me that's not possible. I don't want anyone here to falsely mourn me. I don't know. Maybe if I make it to grad, I can disappear and no one here will ever give me another thought once we walk out the doors the last day of class. What about you?"

"I guess I feel the same as you," he said, sounding anything but sure.

"At least we have each other. One day you'll be away from your dickhead father and I'll be away from my void of a life."

"If I make it that long," he said, running the stick in his hands against the metal railing of the walkway.

I didn't comment. Our friendship was formed on non-probing. He didn't ask about my lack of parental involvement or my inability to touch other people, and I didn't ask about his father or his bruises. We weren't typical friends. We were silent comforters. I felt his pain and he felt mine. We'd been friends since the start of freshman year when we both headed out to the portables during lunch to escape the crowds. It took almost six months for us to talk to each other the first time, and another six for us to actually hang out. He was the only friend I had and yet, there was still so much I didn't know about him.

The bell ending lunch interrupted any further conversation as we gathered our belongings.

"See you in a few," I said, heading toward the math building. Out of all my classes, I minded math the least. The teacher, Mr. Carson, was pretty straightforward. He'd cover the day's material for the first fifteen minutes of class and then give us the remaining thirty-two minutes to figure out the problems for the day's assignment. I usually spent ten of those minutes blowing through the problems, really not caring how many I missed, and would spend the rest of the time doodling in my notebook. I would have preferred to read, but I'd learned long ago that when teachers saw that you liked to read they started to expect more from you, so I doodled. I was a terrible artist, but the monotony of drawing helped make the hours slide away and gave me the excuse of not having to look up. Not that I had to worry about anyone looking at me.

When I first started freshman year, the stares of the other students followed me wherever I went. I could tell they already knew who I was. Maybe I should have been upset that my spotty reputation had followed me, but instead, it gave me the cloak of deception I yearned for. I was no longer the same person I'd been in junior high, but they didn't need to know that. I was fine with their assumptions. I didn't hang with anyone, and my appearance didn't tie me to any particular group either. My never-changing dark wardrobe, sometimes color-streaked hair and tattooed wrist were nothing that you would consider flamboyant. I didn't talk unless I had to, and I definitely didn't participate in anything. The part of me that would have cared died a long time ago.

Mr. Carson started the class off like every other teacher that day by bringing up Mitch's untimely death. "Mr. Wilson wants us to remind each student that grief counseling is available if you need it," he said, sweeping his eyes over us. No one moved. After four class periods of the same exact announcement, we all knew grief counseling was available. It was as if they were waiting for someone to break. To lose their shit, but that wasn't going to happen. No one really cared. Mitch wasn't an athlete, he wasn't a scholar, and he wasn't a geek. He had been nothing but a shadow. A shadow like me. A shadow like James.

The school didn't lose a student, they lost a nobody.

Chapter Three

Sixth period sucked ass. Mrs. Harrison, my language arts teacher, decided that we should get our feelings about Mitch's death down on paper. She assigned a five-hundred-word essay on what we thought about suicide. I stared at my blank page for more than twenty minutes before finally scrawling out "Suicide Equals No Peace" a hundred-and-twenty-five times. I was quite certain Mrs. Harrison had something else in mind for the assignment, but nothing summed it up better for me. I was now in the sound frame of mind that I would have to poke my eyes out if I heard the word "suicide" one more time. Months of thinking it was a viable option for me to disappear without a trace had melted away as quickly as ice on a hot summer day. There would be no escape for me.

The bell rang, ending sixth period, and for the first time in my existence, I was actually relieved to be going to P.E. class. P.E. meant running laps. No essays, no group talk and no grief counseling. No talking. Just running shoes pounding the track.

I placed my fraud of an essay upside down in the basket on Mrs. Harrison's desk before shuffling out the door. I was the last to leave the room. The jostling of the students in the halls made my "no touch" policy tricky, so I waited against the walls of the hall until most of the students had scattered to their appropriate rooms. I would then sprint the distance to my next class, always sliding in just as the tardy bell would chime.

P.E. was easier since we had five extra minutes to dress-out, but I would have gladly given up that five minutes in exchange for never having to dress-out again.

I hated it. Whoever came up with the idea should be hooked to Times Square's New Year's Eve Ball in their underwear. It was criminal to make teenagers strip down in front of each other. Was it too much to ask for privacy booths? Nothing elaborate, but something that would at least help the students keep their sanity. As wrong as the teenage "striptease" seemed, the communal showers boarded on medieval torture. I was pretty sure I would have preferred ancient thumbscrew torture over showering with my classmates. If I was thankful about anything about my time in this institute they liked to call high school, it was the ability to switch our schedules around. I'd managed to manipulate my schedule, making P.E. my last class of the day. No public showers for me. I headed home every day in my sweaty gym clothes, feeling my damp clothes were a small price to pay to avoid the communal watering hole.

Standing in front of my gym locker, I pulled my freshly laundered P.E. shorts out of my worn-out backpack. I had five pairs. Anal retentive yes, but I didn't care. I liked pulling on fresh shorts every day. With my back to the wall, I stretched down the waistband of my plain black t-shirt so that it covered my ass, and then used the toe of each foot to remove my black Vans. Placing my shoes on the bench in front of me, I pulled off my black jeans in one fluid movement. Within seconds, and without looking around, I yanked on my generic P.E. shorts and straightened up. I was putting my Vans back on when a conversation five lockers down snagged my attention.