Aaron

The second seat in the third row of my first period English class is not a special seat.

It's not supposed to be, I should say. It is, to me. It's the seat my eyes stay rested on throughout most of class. And when my eyes aren't on it my mind is. Thinking of possibilities as the other half of my brain, the sensible side, screams at me to focus on English which is the reason I'm here for first period to begin with.

The second seat in the third row of my first period English class is the seat assigned to Aaron. He's tall, dark haired like all of those Prince Charmings discussed in the English book I never use. Aaron doesn't use his book, either. He doesn't carry a backpack and he dresses in as much black as possible. He's too old for this class to begin with as he was held back in the fifth grade which is why his body is infested with tattoos that we all know he had long before he turned 18 last semester.

He has a girlfriend. He doesn't like her, though; she's something to do when he's bored which seems shallow but he's one of those artists who will lose his mind if not kept busy. She keeps him busy.

The second seat in the third row of my first period English class is not consistent. He's always changing. His hair, his eyes, the style of clothes he wears, the people he talks to, his opinion of himself.

His opinion of me.

Each day, in and out he changes. I think he's looking for perfection or for some sort of salvation from the random scheme of things or from the chaotic toll of his life. Or maybe he just likes change.

He's always Aaron, though, that much is for sure.

The second seat in the third row of my first period English class is coated in sharpie ink. He draws all over the tables and the chairs and himself and other people. He speaks through images; the façade that his speech gives him could quite possibly make him appear to be the most obscene person in the room, but through observation and admiration I know he's more than he lets people think he is.

The second seat in the third row of my first period English class is now empty. He decided he was too good for all of this and dropped out.

The second seat in the third row of my first period English class is always the same now. No one sits there, no one cleans off the sharpie, and no one feels quite the same now that he's gone. At least, I don't feel the same. I feel a lot heavier.

I was walking through a nearly empty school two months and three weeks after he left. I'd forgotten something in my English class, where I had been after school for tutoring, and had to go retrieve it. I found the door was unlocked and the room was not empty.

In the second seat in the third row of my English class sat Aaron, his hand tracing over the drawings on the desk.

He didn't look at me, whether he knew it was me or not, I don't know. If he was aware that I was the one interrupting him I sure as hell hope he gave a damn that it was me over anyone else. I hope it meant something.

"She broke up with me," he admitted. "I didn't know where to go but I found myself here. I didn't want my mind to consume my common sense."

"That's okay."

The second seat in the third row of my English class was being increasingly envied by me as I watched his fingers trace over the wood of it wordlessly, the silence somehow offering a sense of comfort. I imagined him tracing me like that-my skin, my bones, my scars all memorized by his artistic hand. I imagined myself tracing over the ink on his skin.

My drifting mind was caught by his voice slicing through the silence. "Do you remember me?"

I nodded. "I think so, yeah. Alex?"

"Aaron," he corrected. I'd like to believe that he understood that I knew exactly who he was, I knew that he sat in the second seat in the third row of my first period English class, I know how he smelled and how he looked and I can remember exactly the first words I said to him.

He stood up suddenly and turned to me, letting me see his tear stained cheeks. He kicked the chair that bore the creations of his mind across the room with all the power in him.

When he spoke, his words were not as harsh as his actions. He sounded tired. "I'm not crying over her, you know? I'm crying for me, for the past. For what should have happened to make today better. But today isn't better, it is worse, and nothing can change that."

My eyes grew a little wider and my heart seemed to gain ten pounds as I felt it drop into my stomach. I wanted to hug him, or better yet kiss him, and swear to him that I could make it better if he let me. But my feet stayed in place; my blood ran cold and kept me unmoving. I didn't know what to do or say, and he saw that, and he nodded.

The second seat in the third row of my English class was empty, its past inhabiter now at the door. I looked at the desk and saw my name scribbled on it with black sharpie. My real name, not the one that everyone in my English class calls me.

When I took the steps necessary to have the desk right in front of me, I could see my name clearer. It had three lines through it and I wasn't sure if they were there as part of the original thought or an after thought of regret.

As I traced over my name, I heard the door open but I did not hear footsteps. My heart beat loudly in my chest 105 times before his voice cut through the silence.

"Thanks for listening, Mr. Johnson. You were a great teacher."

I heard footsteps walking away from me and the door close as I sat down in the second seat in the third row of my English class whose sharpie infested surface was now displaying an array of blending colors as my tears mixed with the ink of his mind's beautifully corrupted thoughts that did not revolve around me as mine did him.

The second seat in the third row of my English class is not a special seat.