I, Jimmy Cheng

1. Where The Story Should Have Started

1. Where The Story Should Have Started

So there I was, at the football stadium of Angel Valley High. The match; Angel Valley against Del Monte. The score, 15-3 in favor of the home team. We were about forty five minutes in, at least half way through to the end (or so I was told). In all that time I couldn’t tell which was moving faster; time, or me with my ass on the bleacher.

Despite all the heavy commotion around me (friends cheering their team, mothers calling out their sons, and fathers quietly admiring the cheerleaders), boredom sent me drooling like a mad idiot. Veronica didn’t hate it any less, but she forced herself to smile every once in a while whenever Michael was on the field and happened to turn her way.

I swear, the things he makes her do. It’s a wonder she’s still even human.

A player dressed in Angel Valley colors scored a touchdown. The bleachers descended into a mad frenzy.

“Is the game over yet?” I asked.

“No,” groaned Veronica, as she rested her tired little head on her hand.

“Will it ever be over?” I asked with cosmological significance.  

“No.”

It figured.

My eyes started to itch, and despite the fact that it was only nine o’clock, I felt the growing need to sleep slowly (nay, fast) creeping in. Sleeping on the game wouldn’t have been so bad, but the crowd made it abundantly clear that they weren’t going to let me. They were loud. Stomping, clapping, chanting Angel Valley High like our school was some ancient Mayan god.

“I’m going to go wash my face,” I told Veronica.

The words flew straight past her. She continued to stare out into the field like some half-dead zombie.

Poor girl.

I moved out in search of the nearest restroom, and a concealed corner that was hopefully safe enough for me to bring out my good old friend, Jack Daniel. Fortunately the gym area was completely empty. I could drink to my heart’s delight, and no one would ever know.

I opened the metal lid and downed a sip. The hot taste of burning alcohol brought me back to life, rinsing off the numb sensation in my brain.

Just as I reached the men’s room, I caught a girl open the door right in front of me. And of course, it was none other than Melissa Wyndon herself. Her cheeks, for whatever reason, were soaked with tears. She flinched when we made eye contact, and she covered her face while she stormed away.

There was something wrong with her. Though to be honest, I didn’t really worry about it all that much. Not at the time, at least. To me, the sight of girls crying in school was nothing new. Relationship problems were everywhere in Angel Valley. Also, one important note about yours truly. When it comes to the drama of my high school peers, I make it a habit of keeping a strict policy of non-intervention. I’m Switzerland, or so the expression goes.

Still, in thinking back on what happened to Melissa, I can’t help but climb aboard the grieving bandwagon of What could I have done instead?

What if, instead of letting her go, I stopped to ask her if she was alright? What if I was there to help her? What if I told her that she wasn’t alone? That she could count on me to make sure she was safe? To help her fix everything she did wrong? To help protect her?

I can’t blame myself for what happened to Melissa. And I don’t. But taking myself back to the night of the game, seeing her right in front of me; I saw someone who was about to die. Only I didn’t know it. All I knew at the time was that she left the boy’s room crying, and I couldn’t help but be curious as to what unholy sight inside might have led to those tears.