Fragments

0.5

0.5

            "I beat up a teacher," Adam, the boy in front of me says. The teacher hasn't come to History yet so he's turned around in his seat, talking to me like I'm the most interesting person in the world. Somehow everyone seems to know my name, and Adam feels the need to be the only kid in the school to talk to me.

            I raise my eyebrows, far from impressed. "You beat up a teacher?"

            He rests his arms on my desk and leans forward, causing his brown-blonde hair to fall just above his eyes. "You sound so enthusiastic."

            I deepen my look.

            "Okay." He holds up one of his palms a little, like he's waving a white flag of defeat. "It was a student teacher and he was like maybe a year or two older than me, but that still counts as a teacher." His Australian accent thickens near the end as his face scrunches up, still unhappy about the guy he may or may not have beat up. When he had walked into class, another guy had stood a little straighter and called him British Boy as if it was the biggest insult in the world. When Adam corrected him, I could have sworn I mistook the childish words as a bunch of f words slung together with a few other offensive things.

            I let my gaze float around the uninteresting, dark classroom and when they return, Adam is still staring at me intently, waiting for me to ask him the award winning question. I sigh.

            "Why did you beat him up?" I ask. Before he can respond, another, more important question is brimming in my mind. "Did you get sent all the way to New York just for that?"

            He avoids my eyes and shrugs. "And a few other things."

            As if he flipped a switch, Adam quickly grows cold and he refuses to look at me until one of us decides to change the subject. Instead of asking what other things which seems like a no-go zone, I stay silent. Adam stiffens.

            "So what did you do?" he wonders. His eyes drift again to mine and I realize they're grey. "I'm guessing you didn't beat someone up one too many times. You don't look the type."

            I push a wave of hair behind my ear and lean on my hand. "And what type do I look like?"

            He stares at me for a few moments, tilting his head this way and that as if he's assessing me. Eventually he stops and squints his eyes at me, but continues looking me over like I'm some kind of zoo animal.

            "Drugs?" he says, as if more to himself than me. He shakes his head. "No, you're not pale or skinny enough for that." I wonder if that's a compliment or an insult. "Maybe you-"

            "I jumped off a bridge."

            His eyes widen a little, but they're more curious than shocked. When he doesn't say anything I become more aware to the numb, creeping it's way deeper and deeper inside me. Slowly, I roll up one of my navy blue sleeves – the uniform that we're all forced to wear, excluding the boys who get a blazer – to reveal a series of blue and purple bruises.

            "It was last week," I say nonchalantly, quickly rolling it down and turning my eyes to stare out the window at the grey day.

            "You must of hit the water pretty hard," he mutters.

            "Sometimes you just don't feel things."