All Which Remains

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Arron

He hates me. Crap, how did I ruin it so fast? I kick myself. I don't like bothering him, but I want him to stop ignoring me.

He isn't looking at me, and he isn't going to talk to me, so I have to be annoying.

"Hey, Ramelan. What's your favorite color?" I ask as I look up at him while sitting criss-cross on the floor.

"None of your business," He replies, before going back to read his book. Our teacher had given us study time, but none of us are taking the time to study. Except for maybe a few of the kids in the back of the class. The smart ones.

"What's your favorite book or book series?" I ask him again, and this time I get in his face. He doesn't even say anything. He just continues to read.

"Rammeelllaaan..." I start acting like a younger sibling that hasn't been getting enough attention.

"Shut up," He says, slamming his book closed. "Why won't you just shut up?" Ramelan glares at me, gets up, and goes to the teacher. She nods, and he leaves the classroom. Fadhlan comes up from behind me.

"You messed up," He says, shaking his head sadly. "You shouldn't have pushed so much." I feel like crying, I really didn't mean for him to get so mad, I just— I don't know what I'm doing.

Why do I care so much?

Why do I feel like if I don't become his friend something bad will happen?

"Yeah, I know. I'll leave him alone now," I say. I feel so guilty and horrible.

I walk back to my desk.

I walk home that night after detention. Mom greets me at the door again, and tells me that dinner is on the table. I feel so crappy, and I don't really want to talk to anyone. I eat the omelet and rice that Mom had prepared, and go up the stairs to my room.

My room is covered with dark blue paint, with a bed against the window. There's a closet near the bed; a lot of bookcases, even though there aren't enough books to fill them all. Beside my bed, there is a desk. My room feels sparse and desolate.

I sit down on the bed, and stare out the window. I can feel my eyes glazing over.

I'm so tired, I don't want to go to school tomorrow. I don't want to go to school ever again. I lay down on my bed, and I hear Mom knock on the door.

"Can I come in, Arron?" She asks through the door.

"Yeah," I say. She opens the door and walks over to me. She sits down at the foot of my bed.

"How are you doing?" She asks.

"I'm fine," I respond, stuffing my face in my pillow. I hear her sigh.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No– Yeah. I do."

"What happened, then?"

"I messed up. There was someone that I really wanted to be friends with, but I annoyed him to the point that he hates me." My eyes start to fill up. I feel Mom shift on the bed. She reaches for my hand.

"It'll be okay. Sometimes you just have to let someone go. And I know that it hurts right now, but eventually... The pain goes away. Not fully, but it becomes background noise." She squeezes my hand. I know that she's right, but I can't give up on him that easily. I'll give him space.

I'll leave him alone.

Maybe he'll come to me?

"You're right, Mom," I say.

"I'm always right. You should listen to your mother more often." I lift my face out of my pillow. She's smiling at me. "Do you have any homework?"

"No, I did it all during Detention," I say as I sit up. Mom runs her hand through my hair. I had taken it out of its bun as soon as I got home, and now it hangs loosely around my shoulders. She reaches for the rubber band around my wrist, and I hand it to her.

"Your hair is beautiful, you know. You need to take better care of it." She clicks her tongue at me. I roll my eyes. She gathers all of my hair and puts it in a messy ponytail.

"Thanks," I say. "Mom, do you think that I'm a good person? Pretend you're not my mom for a second." I fiddle with the edge of my shirt.

"Hmm... Objectively, yes. I do think that you're becoming a good person. But no one is automatically a good person. You have to work at it, but being "good" depends on who you ask. Let's say that you help out a homeless person, they would view you as a "good" person, but if you ask some rando on the street, they might not think that you're a "good" person. People make a big deal about being "good" or "bad"; it's all subjective." She pokes me in the chest where my heart is. "What really matters is that you think you're a good person. No matter what you do, though. No one is fully good or bad. You'll make bad decisions and good ones, just believe in yourself. That's all that's of consequence." She pulls me into a hug. I can tell that she's thought long and hard about this subject. I might not know anything about her or her past, but it's obvious that she used to think that she was a "bad" person.

I hug her back.