Writing To You

            I was told by a friend that writing helps. I don’t know if it’s true. Hell, I don’t know fantasy from reality anymore. Sometimes I can’t tell when I’m thinking of a memory. Sometimes I can’t even see what’s in front of me. But she told me writing helps, especially when you are writing to someone you love. So that’s what I’ll do. I’ll write to you.

Dear John,

            Remember the first time we met, John? I do. I don’t think I’ll ever forget. It’s imprinted in my head, and at night, the memory replays over and over.

            You were walking home, head down, shoulders slumped. Your old backpack was full to its brink, but you still had to carry a lot of books in your hands. You were just concentrating on the gray pavement under your feet. Your shoes were worn, and there were holes littered across the contours of the fabric. The ground was wet with a lot of puddles. It had rained earlier that day.

            I remember seeing you thinking There goes the weird kid. There goes the kid who can’t even afford a nice shirt. There’s the kid who’s so nerdy, he raises his hand for every question.

            We were in middle school, John. But you know what the worst part is? I didn’t know your name. All I knew about you was that you wore geeky glasses that were taped at the top. All I knew was that you were incredible at school, and that I was mad that you understood Math.

            I remember watching you that day. Now normally I wouldn’t have noticed a kid like you. You were like Harry Potter when he was under his cloak; invisible. I remember one of my friends pulled at my shirtsleeve and scoffed in your direction. I was popular back then. I was popular for all of the wrong reasons. I realize that now, John. I wish I had then.

            I remember my eyes tracing your slow movements. You were off balance from the weight of your backpack. I remember seeing a streak of gray. It was one of my friends. He ran up behind you and pushed you. You stumbled and fell right into a puddle.

            Now normally I wouldn’t have noticed or cared. In fact, I probably would have laughed. But that day we had gotten a talk from one of the teachers about bullying and how much it hurts. I want to say I was inspired by it. But I wasn’t, John. I felt guilty. But I did want to make a change.

            The schoolyard cleared as its tenants left the school. I remember I walked over to you. I was trembling, John! I was so nervous that someone would see what I was about to do. Of course, John, I’m now ashamed that I was that vain. But back then, I thought that middle school was like the wild; eat or be eaten.

            I reached you. You were on the ground, sweeping your hands across the ground to find your glasses. I remember glancing around and crouching down beside you. You stiffened beside me, remember, John? I picked up your glasses. One of the lenses was laid on the ground in a crushed heap, the shards looking sharp and I didn’t want you to cut yourself. I made sure the broken lens didn’t have any shards in it.

            I silently took your hand and placed the glasses in it. Your fingers were trembling. I closed your hand around it, careful that the good lens didn’t get smudged.

            Slowly, I picked up all of your spilled books. I noticed a lot of them weren’t needed for that night’s homework, but I didn’t comment. A math book was splayed open with notes written in your neat handwriting. I looked at your notes, reading them quietly. I never liked Math, John. Of course, later you knew that. But I was amazed. I actually had an idea on how to do the problems after reading your notes. You made it so simple.

            I remember looking at you, my eyes as wide as saucers. You see, John, I was failing Math at the time. I had C’s in everything else, but this failing grade would cost me my spot on the football team. Seeing how good you were gave me a moment of inspiration.

            Of course, I had planned on helping you and then leaving. That was my full intention. No words spoken or exchanged. No eye contact. No true interaction. But that changed, John. It changed for the better.

            I sat on the soaked ground, the seat of my jeans becoming drenched. I stared at you before I finally spoke.

            “You wrote these?” I asked with awe. You looked confused, John. I almost wanted to laugh at your expression.

            Silently, you nodded your head. Kind of like how they do in the movies when someone’s in awe.

            “Can you teach me?” I blurted. You sat there, staring at me, absolutely stunned. You didn’t answer, and I started to fidget nervously. I needed help, but I was embarrassed.

            Finally, you answered. You said, “Yes.” That was all you said on the subject. It was so quiet, I almost didn’t hear. I remember smiling and picking up the rest of your books. I stood up, and then held my hand out to help you up. Of course, it was habitual. I always did it during football, so I didn’t really even notice the gesture. You later told me how much that gesture meant to you. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but I had changed you, and all I did was beg for your help.

            I gave you your books and turned my back to you. I smiled over my shoulder as thanks. I waved goodbye.

            As I left, I could have swore I heard a faint, “Thank you.”

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